Page 64 of The Wedding Menu

Maybe a date would help us rekindle our romance a little. Maybe being at the Quinns’ wedding would make him see the beauty of it all, and he’d care about ours a little more.

Amelie:

Will do. Thank you, wedding planner.

Ian:

Of course, Bridezilla.

Amelie:

Two more hours before I’m off.

Ian:

Time to show your dad how it’s done.

Text me when you’re home safe.

After making my way through a loud crowd that smells like perfume and champagne, I find the small table reserved for me to the left of the large outdoor space. Not what I expected for a November wedding, but the Quinns were awfully nice, saving me the table, so I’m hardly complaining.

I place my coat on the chair next to mine. Finding another one would prove impossible, because the entire venue, filled with clear plastic chairs, long wooden tables, and white lanterns, is peppered with groups of people drinking and dancing to the music of the DJ. Not that I’m expecting anyone else, seeing as Frank never made it back to Creswell for the weekend.

Must be busy doing who knows what with who knows who.

The stage in front of me is empty except for the instruments, but I can see some people with headphones messing with a soundboard, so the band must be about to start.

When the waiter approaches, I ask for a glass of white, then turn to the stage and realize someone’s standing beside me. I never took the coat off the chair, but they must want to sit. “Oh, sorry, I forgot—”

Light brown hair. Blue eyes with even deeper blue flecks. A soft cream sweater with a white square pattern. Ian smiles in that dashing way I’ve spied countless times in photos and video calls, then looks down at the chair with a mock scowl. “Frank, I don’t want to fight you for this spot, but I will if I have to.”

“Ian?” I ask, my heart stuck in my throat. My skin tingles as a fluttery feeling awakens in my stomach. “How—what—”

I know it’s him, of course. While I haven’t seen him in the flesh since Barb’s wedding, there’s no mistaking that flirty grin, the perfect line of pearly-white teeth peeking through, his gorgeous hair,shorter at the sides and longer at the top of his head. But he can’t be here, can he?What is he doing here?

“Whoa, whoa,” he says, stumbling backward as he glares at the empty chair. “What did you say about my mom?”

I can’t believe he’s here. “What—what are you—”

“You said you’d come with Frank, Amelie. You’re…” His posture relaxes as he snaps his fingers. “What’s the word I’m looking for?” He smirks. “Is it… cunning? Dishonest? No, that doesn’t sound right…”

Shock prevents me from feeling the slightest bit of shame at being caught red-handed in a lie, and a hysterical chuckle bursts free. “How are you here?”

“…Distrustful? Mendacious? Disingenuous?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were in town?”

“Specious? Fraudulent?”

I stand, and even with the chair between us, he’s as close to me as he was when we danced at Barb’s wedding. “Deceitful. That’s the word you’re looking for. And you’re deceitful all right!” I playfully swat his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d be here?”

The right corner of his mouth curls upward, a lovely warmth settling in his eyes and making them look a shade darker still. “Hi, beautiful Amelie.”

“Hello, deceitful Ian.”

“May I?” He points at the chair, and when I nod, he holds my coat as he sits. He makes a gesture at the waiter and turns to me as I take my seat next to him, his focused, unwavering gaze making me squirm.

Ian and I have been growing close over the past few weeks; it’s undeniable. But only now does it hit me justhowclose we’ve gotten. How he’s quickly become the most present person in my life. One of my favorite people in the world. But is that how he feels?Or is there more? Why is he sitting in front of me right now, a long drive away from home?

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