Page 60 of The Wedding Menu

“Don’t you?” he asks, the question drenched with such shock I consider not answering.

“Just tell me one. One thing you’ve never done and you really want to.”

There’s a long exhale, which—if I know Ian as I think I do—means he’s frustrated and has some opinions about my sex life. “Okay,” he says. “We’re out somewhere public.”

“We?” I mock.

“Yeah, me and you. Hypothetically.”

I roll my eyes and fight back a smile. Ihaveto stop smiling. “Right. We’rehypotheticallyout somewhere public.”

“Yes. You go to the restroom, and when you come back, you put your panties in my hand. You don’t say anything, only look at me and sit down. But I know you’re naked under your dress. That you’re wet and warm and tight, and that I can reach my hand out and touch you, but I can’t because there’s just too many people around.” His voice darkens, his words coming out slower. “And I stare at your thighs, hoping to see underneath, terrified that someone else will. Unable to think about anything else, obsessing over how ready you are, how close, but unreachable.” He inhales, then exhales slowly. “That would drive me insane. Hypothetically.”

Am I breathing? I think I’m not breathing.

There’s a minute of silence in which my body throbs to life. In which I feel like a woman, a desirable one too. In which my skin heats and feels raw, my throat dries up, and the saliva thickens in my mouth. It’s been months, and I’m—how should I put it?—horny.

I press my thighs together, losing myself in the thought of Ian’s fantasy playing out. My underwear in his pocket, his blue eyes darting to my legs, my thighs slick with—

“Amelie?”

“No. I mean, no—yes.” Heat moves past my cheeks and all the way to my ears. “That sounds—that’s definitely not basic.”

“Nothing wrong with basic if that’s what you like,” he says. “Okay. Your turn.”

“Hmm.” I smirk at the mirror. “I’m not saying.”

“Unbelievable,” he says. “?‘Innocent and angelic’ my ass. You tricked me!”

“I did,” I confirm as I shove the toothbrush into the holder and pick my phone back up. “Considering you deceived me during our first interaction, it’s only fair.”

“That’s fine,” he says, followed by a low chuckle. “I think I’ve got a pretty good idea of what you like anyway.”

“Really?” My brows arch. “And what would that be?”

“I’ll tell you what it’s not,” he says in a cocky voice. “It’s not the lights-off, under-the-blanket missionary sex you’re used to having with your fiancé.”

Out of Business

— TODAY—

I stifle the fourth yawn in a row, the sun filtering through the window of the conference room warm on my skin, then throw a look at my watch. Ten fifteen. I already heard this seminar yesterday, and though I’m not looking forward to learning about the Robertses’ marketing and management techniques, Ian is pleasant to ogle as he explains to his eager audience how to run a restaurant. His dark gray sweater looks so soft, his blue jeans wrapping his ass ever so perfectly.

He gestures a little. Not too much, but enough to keep people entertained. His light brown hair mostly stays in place, but a few lovely strands fall over his eyes when he tilts his head forward, and his ocean-blue eyes squint every time he’s deep in thought.

And his smile. He throws in some grins that he should keep to himself. They’re distracting as hell.

When he turns to me as he walks up and down the room, I avert my gaze, focusing on him again once he looks away. We haven’t spoken since yesterday, when his girlfriend nearly bit my head off.

And I’m happy for him. I’mtryingto be happy for him. Okay, I’m not happy for him at all. There’s not a single reason in theworld I can think of that justifies getting back together with an ex who slept with your best friend. Not one, except the not-so-basic things she probably lets him do to her.

Ella’s sitting on the other side of the room, lazily scrolling through her phone. Her blond hair is perfect—not one single strand out of place—and, God, she has impossibly long legs. No wonder he enjoys keeping them entangled with his own.

A round of applause echoes around the room. It looks like people appreciated Ian’s seminar, though I suspect the most enthusiastic claps belong to women who also appreciated the speaker.

With a light smile, Ian nods in silent appreciation. “Any questions?” he asks, and boy, there are many. People would ask the dumbest things to see him move around a little more, smile a few more times, look into their eyes. Though that could just be me.

“What’s the most important thing you shouldn’t be cheap about when managing a restaurant?” someone asks from the back.

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