Page 70 of The Wedding Menu

“You don’t wear a ring.” He gestures at my hand. “At first I figured it’s because you’re a chef. Barb wears hers around her neck, and you have a necklace too.” His eyes soften, his brows lowering. “But then… then the other day you leaned down to point at Barb’s fingers when she was showing… something.”

“Bâtonnet?”

“Whatever. And the necklace slipped out of your shirt. You were too entranced with what you were saying to notice.”

With my fist tightening around my necklace, I swallow. “You saw it.”

“I did.”

“Do you… want it back?”

“No,” he says firmly, and his eyes squint as if he’s absorbing an invisible hit to his stomach. “But I’m happy you held on to it.”

He says nothing more, and neither do I. If he knows I’m not with Frank and hasn’t said a word about it—if he’sseenmy necklace—it can mean only one thing. Ella wins.

We’re not friends; not rivals either. We’re definitely not lovers. We’re just strangers who share a few memories.

Forcing my legs to move, I walk past him and say something about needing the toilet. Though he calls my name, I keep walking until I’m on the other side of the bathroom door. My heartbeat’s erratic, embarrassment creeping up at me at the realization that I’ve just been rejected. Not in so many words, but that’s what happened. Ian doesn’t want me. He knows I’m single, he knows I want him, but he doesn’t want me back.

I came to Mayfield knowing there was a big possibility this would be the outcome, and now I can’t believe it. Is his part in my story really over?

It feels like I’ve come down with the flu. My body trembles, my throat itches, my chest tingles. It might be a panic or heart attack. I’ve never had either, but I’ve never felt this way before.

Holding myself against the cold tiles of the bathroom wall, I breathe in and out. I focus on what I can see, touch, smell, and taste, until eventually my heartbeat settles. The adrenaline wears off, leaving in its place a peaceful sort of resignation. I don’t think it’s anxiety or a physical condition. I think it’s heart-break.

I try to tell myself it’s for the best. Surely, it is. With the hugesecret I’m keeping, involving none other than his father… this is the simplest outcome.

None of it works to distract me from the awareness that while my restaurant failed, I lost my best friend, my wedding, my fiancé, my career, my father, and so much more,thisis the moment when my heart finally breaks.

“Your restaurant is only as good as your best chef!” I say.

Ian chuckles and rolls his eyes, then he raises a finger. “A business model”—two fingers—“a marketing plan”—three fingers—“an operations plan”—four fingers—“a financial analysis—”

“Oh my God, give me a break,” I groan, running a hand through my hair as I turn to the audience.

I’m not sure how we got here. It started when he said the worst mistake one could make is to read online reviews of their restaurant. To which I countered that this attitude is as good as asking to fail. If you don’t listen to your customers’ complaints, then how can you get better?

It escalated from there.

“Not looking at the business side of owning a restaurant is a mistake.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “If I’m to guess, that’s the mistake you made, Amelie. The Marguerite—”

“Your fast-food joint,” I interject.

This time I see rage cracking him open and taking over his brain. He might have forgiven me for saying that the first time, but twice must be his limit.

He takes a step toward me until his nose is a few inches from mine, his blue eyes now so dark that they resemble a galaxy. “Onefucking seminar, Amelie. One,” he whispers. His breath on my lips is pure oxygen, like he’s infusing life into me even with how furioushe is. “Why can’t you stop being such a pretentious, annoying—”

With a loud clack, the lights go off—all of them—and with the blinds closed for Ian’s presentation, I can’t see him, even though he’s closer to my face than he’s been in a really long time. People begin talking and chairs loudly scrape against the floor as I hold out a hand to find the desk beside me.

“Calm down, everyone. It’s a power outage. The lights will be back on in a second,” Ian announces. As noise and chatter cover his voice and people begin walking out of the room, I feel his arms wind around me.

“What are you doing?” I half-heartedly protest, the anger over our argument dissipating as his chest crashes against mine. It’s so broad and warm and comfortable.

“Making sure no one tramples you to the floor.”

I rest my cheek against his sweater as he walks back, dragging me with him to one corner of the room as people flash their phone lights around and scramble to exit. “Ella? You good?” he asks, but I can’t hear her voice over the crowd. “Ella?”

Hugging him as he calls another woman’s name isn’t nearly as nice as only hugging him, so I lazily push myself off his chest. “Go find your girlfriend,” I mutter as I take a step back.

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