Page 81 of The Wedding Menu

“But you hate French cuisine,” I insist.

“I do, but I love the Marguerite. I love working with my dad every day, and I love seeing my mom’s dream coming true.” He inhales deeply. “It became our thing, you know? The Marguerite is my and my dad’s dream. Every time I enter the restaurant, well…” He tilts his head. “I gag because of the smell. But then I see my mom in everything. In the floor tiles she chose, in the dent she made on the counter when she dropped a whole box of champagne bottles.” He chuckles, his sad eyes glistening. “And since I won’t make herotherdream come true, I’m happy I found a way to work at the Marguerite.”

Her other dream. Him getting married.

How awkward.

He must feel a similar way, because he looks down at his plate and cheerfully adds, “But I have to say, Amelie, I’d be happier to get to work every day and smell this. It’s so delicious, I’m regretting the ‘Everything’s butter with butter’ tweet.”

I stand so abruptly my stool nearly tips back. “You?” I gasp. “You were behind the tweets!”

“I—” He glances away as he sets his fork down. “Y-yes. I assumed you figured it out.”

“Stop assuming I know things, Ian!”

“Sorry, sorry!” He chuckles, raising both hands in defeat. “Iimmediatelyknew it was you. As soon as I found out who you were.”

My shoulders rise and drop, my heart beating fast in my chest as I think of all the times I wished my secret Twitter enemy would get instant diarrhea. “Oh my God,” I shout as I stomp around the island. “Valentine’s Day! We got hate messages for a month, you horrible—”

He stands, too, taking a few steps back as he cackles. “Well, shit, sorry. I didn’t know it was you at the time. You have to admit, it was pretty fucking funny, though.”

My nostrils flare.

With his smile deepening, he bites his lower lip. “If you’re going to punch me again, that’s how you hold your fist, beautiful,” he says, showing me the front of his clenched hand. My eyes meet his, my anger evaporating in a second, and maybe that’s when the realization hits him, too, because he lowers his hand as his smile dies. “Oh, I…Amelie. I meant… Amelie.”

I tentatively walk closer, his chin tilting down as he keeps his eyes on mine. I’m pretty sure everything in me is screaming at him to kiss me, but his pain peeks through so clearly I can feel it reflected inside me.

He’s never going to move past how much I hurt him, is he? What can I do to earn his forgiveness?

I gently hold his wrist, my finger tracing the shape of the daisy tattooed on his left forearm.Marguerite.First one petal, then the other, then the one after that. Goose bumps break out over his skin, and once I look up, he stares at my lips with his jaw flexed.

My fingers part from his skin, though it’s the very last thing I’d like to do, but before I can fully withdraw, he rubs the palm of his hand against my knuckles and leans forward.

Everything’s eerily silent, so much so that I’m afraid he might notice the way my heart is beating out of my chest, and despite the defeated look in his eyes, he’s definitely in agreement. I rise on tiptoes and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth to test the waters. He exhales. I do it again, and again, and I receive no answer but a puff of hot air. When I touch his cheek, he takes a step back and holds a hand over his eyes. “Amelie…”

“I’m sorry… sorry,” I rush to say. I walk to the sink, grabbingmy cup on the way, and begin washing it. I’m pretty sure my skin is melting from the humiliation. It’s agonizing.

“No, it’s not your fault,” he mumbles. “But I should probably go.”

Oh, fuck this.

I slam the cup on the counter, then turn to him, tears pooling in my eyes. He keeps pushing me away, then pulling me closer. Push and pull, push and pull. “Yeah, maybe you should.”

“What—you’reangry?” he snaps.

“Yes,I’mangry. You keep sending me all these mixed signals, Ian. You look at me as if there’s nothing to save between us, you get hard for me, you let me kiss you.” Tears run down my cheeks, and I quickly brush them away.

“Oh, am I frustrating you because I can’t make up my mind?”

I roll my eyes at his scornful tone. “You know it’s not the same thing.”

He steps closer, his shoulders squared and a cold expression on his face. “You think this shit is easy for me, Amelie? You think I’m not struggling?” he complains. “We didn’t end because my feelings for you changed. I didn’t stop wanting you. Do you think I don’t want to kiss you?”

“Then why don’t you?” I ask, hating how whiny my voice sounds.

“Because everything that happened between us just proved me right, Amelie. I don’t want a girlfriend; I don’t want my happiness to depend on someone else. And if we were to…” He swallows. “It’s not just physical, and I can’t be with you after everything that happened. After you didn’t choose me.” He rubs his forehead as he exhales deeply. “But trust me, I’ve wished I could drag you back to my room since I saw you across the hall of this hotel.” He shakes his head, a frustrated laugh bursting out of him. “Actually,I’ve wished to since I saw you at Barbara’s wedding, and I’ve never stopped. I’ve wanted you for a whole year, every single day.”

When I say nothing, he sighs, then looks down at the floor. “It’s important to me that you know this isn’t a Frank thing. It’s not that I don’t fucking crave you, because I don’t think I’ll ever stop.” With trepidation, he looks up at me. “Okay?”

---