Page 73 of The Wedding Menu

“Ha!” comes out of my lips before I have any way to stop it, and his frowning round face turns a shade redder. “That would be the first time ever.”

Motionless, he stares at me. He always does this, and it has the power to frustrate me to madness. He watches me intentlywithout saying a word, as if he’s dealing with an unreasonable child who isn’t worth explaining the rules to.

I endure a minute—maybe a little less—of intense eye contact before I break. “I’m not even supposed to be dealing with Twitter, you know? If I recall correctly, my very first words about this were ‘Hire a social media manager.’?” Rushing to stand, I grumble, “I’m a chef. That’s what I do: I cook.”

“That’s what you do right now.” He hunches over a thick pile of papers. “When you inherit La Brasserie, that’s not the only thing you’ll be doing.”

“Will I inherit the restaurant?” I ask, my voice pregnant with sarcasm. “I assumed one day you’d announce your imminent death and explain that every chef in here has the same chance to inherit the business.”

As I stalk toward the door, his stern words hit me in the back like an axe. “Throwing a fit because I didn’t give you the position yet? You know how old I was before I was made head chef, Amelie?”

“Thirty-eight,” I say without missing a beat. I know that and every other detail pertaining to his career. His recipes have been my bible since I was able to read, his work what I aspired to, knowing I’d never achieve the same greatness. Of course I know.

“Right. Because my father never handed anything to me.” He swings lightly on his dark red upholstered chair. “He always said that La Brasserie would take priority over anything else, and I’d get the job when I excelled at it.”

“Okay. You win,” I say with a dull voice. Why am I even fighting for a job I’m not sure I want? Why do I always give him the satisfaction?

He chuckles as if this is all a joke. It probably is to him, but it’s also my life, and it’s starting to feel like he just wants me here, waiting. Stuck, not going forward or backward. I’m a grown woman, a competent chef, yet he still treats me like I’m an emotional child.

“You know, other restaurants would be happy to hire me as their head chef.”

“Would they, now?” He stands, walks to his liquor cabinet, and fills a glass with his most expensive rum. “Did you inquire?”

I drag a hand across my face. I’d be flattered by his obvious displeasure, but I know it has nearly nothing to do with me. How very humiliating would it be for Hammond Preston if his daughter were to work for some other restaurant?

“Moretti has been after me for years, Dad,” I point out. And his restaurant, La Fattoria, is much more in line with what I like to cook.

“Yes.” He smiles, bringing the glass to his lips. “And I know you’d sooner cut your hands off than work for thatblaireau.”

My eyes narrow. “I’m competent enough to be a head chef, and Moretti might be a…blaireau, but he knows that. You don’t.”

“Hmm,” he says distractedly. “Maybe you’re right. Or maybe I’m not sure being my head chef is the right step for you.”

To him, I’ll never be ready. I’ll never be enough. And, God, I’m done trying to please him. “Well, thanks for the chat, Dad.”

“Fix the Twitter thing as soon as possible. I don’t have time to worry about your messes.”

My shoulders tense, my teeth grinding so hard that they might just turn into dust. “Maybe I will take that job for Moretti, then. So you won’t have to worry about me at all.”

“Really?” He laughs, the sound more evil than joyous. “That’s what you’ll leave La Brasserie for? A mediocre restaurant?”

“It wouldn’t be mediocre if I was the head chef.”

With his smile gone, he stands and walks to the window. “I didn’t raise you as a fool, Amelie.”

“No,” I agree. “You raised me as a chef.” Yanking the door open, I throw him one last hateful look. “Everything else I am, I did by myself.”

I walk out, not even bothering to close the door, and head into the parking lot just as my phone pings.

Ian:

Dan texted me to say thanks. Apparently, you booked the band. It was a knife to my heart. What about the Almighty Lumberjacks of Death?

Amelie:

Is that the name of your band?

Ian:

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