Page 77 of The Wedding Menu

— TODAY—

Someone enters the kitchen, and as my eyes meet Ian’s, I quickly turn away. He’s not wearing one of his sweaters tonight, just an old black T-shirt and gray joggers I want to quickly erase from my mind. We haven’t talked in over forty-eight hours, since Baguette Day, and it’s been miserable. If there’s anything worse than not knowing where he is, with whom, doing what, it’s knowing he’s close, with Ella, just out of my reach.

“Sorry, I—” He points at the cabinet. “Ella wants tea.”

“Go ahead,” I say, staring at the oven.

“What are you doing?”

My brows pinch. “As the manager of a French restaurant, you should be able to recognize—”

“Whyare you making macarons?”

“Barb had a craving.”

Utensils clink as he scavenges for tea inside the cupboards. I know where it is, but I’m not too inclined to help. If Ella wants tea, how about she comes and makes it for her damn self? “What flavors are you making?”

“Strawberry white chocolate, mango buttercream, and blueberry mascarpone.”

He walks to me, looking inside the oven with a thoughtful expression. “Damn. How long have you been here for?”

“A few hours. I’ll need as many to finish and clean up.”

Settling by my side, he fidgets with the bag of flour. “Ella’s macarons are highly regarded by our customers, you know? Maybe we should make it a competition. You guys can let your egos battle and get it over with.”

My eyes move to his. “I’m not sure, Ian. I wouldn’t want to humiliate you.”

“Wouldn’t you?” he asks with a sly smile as his gaze drops down to his crotch.

“I’ve done nothing to humiliate you. I’m not responsible for your…” I point downward, then realize Ishouldn’tpoint downward and tuck my hand in my pocket. “Your baguette.”

“It got just the right amount of crunchy, didn’t it?”

“Ian,” I say, a giggle making its way out despite my best attempt at holding it back.

“You’re right.” He waves me off. “It was as hard as stale bread.”

“The point is”—again I try to stifle my laughter—“I don’t think I’m to blame here.”

He groans, hiding his face in his hands, and I watch him with a big smile straining the muscles of my face. I’ve been dragging myself around for two days, and in the span of a minute, look at the state of me!

“If you wait a minute, I’ll give you some macarons to bring Ella with the tea.”

He glances at them, then at me, his eyes brightening with amusement. “Are they poisoned?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you take a bite?”

Tilting his head, he gives me a look. A “Quit antagonizing me” look. It would be easier if he hadn’t just rejected me a couple of days back.

“No, they’re not poisoned. They’re delicious and made with the correct recipe, which I’m sure Ella isn’t familiar with.”

“Right. Fast food and all.” He lazily waves his hand around and walks back to the cabinet. “Don’t you tire of banging at the same door?”

No, not really. Not until he admits I’m right. The Marguerite serves mediocre food, and mediocre food makes for a mediocre business. “Why don’t you try one?” I ask, grabbing the piping bag and pushing some buttercream onto the blueberry shell. “Eat a proper macaron made with fresh blueberries and real European butter. Done to perfection. Eat it in this kitchen instead of one of your premium locations by the beach and tell me cooking is about entertainment.”

“No, thanks,” he says while distractedly digging through cabinets.

No, thanks? “Come on, eat it.”

---