Page 84 of The Wedding Menu

“Another thing you constantly complain about.”

“And let’s not forget Martha,” he says. “Not many friendships would survive her selfishness, and yet you—”

“These are all things you said I should stop doing!” I shriek.

“Yes, Amelie. You need to stop putting everyone else’s needs and wants above your own,” he says. “Still, there’s no denying your patience, your good heart, and your strength. You, beautiful Amelie, are the most resilient person I know.”

I bite my lip, my eyes filling with happy tears.

Before I can thank him, his voice comes through the phone again. “But just because you carry it all, it doesn’t mean it’s not heavy.”

God, it feels so good. For my efforts to be validated, to have someone acknowledge that I’ve been strong. Even if every ounce of strength I have comes from Ian. Without his comfort, I probably would have given up or gotten here feeling a lot emptier than I do right now.

Passing my hand over the dusty counter, I try to shake my emotions off. “It’s your ‘Fuck it’ attitude. It spreads like a virus.”

“Damn right. Fuck it.”

Well, I still have to discuss it with Frank. As my fiancé, he has a say in the matter of our finances. “I haven’t made up my mind about this, Ian.”

His boisterous laugh makes my face light up, and in the seconds of silence that follow, I fall deeper in love with every detail of this place. The white windows, the beautiful sandstone counter, the glass double doors at the entrance.

“Haven’t you, Amelie?”

Turning around and taking in a 360-degree view of my new restaurant’s interior, I bite my lip. I guess I have.

I set my phone down with a loud “Ha!” and cross my arms, pleased by the number of likes and shares of this morning’s tweet.

Since the Marguerite used our Valentine’s Day initiative from last year to throw us under the bus, I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to return the favor. Imagine my joy when I learned abouttheir “Buy one, get one free” promotion on crème brûlée. So damn tacky.

When the door rattles, I light up the two candles on the table and stand. Frank is back for the weekend, and there’s a lot we need to talk about. “Ames?” Frank calls from the entrance, and a minute after I shout back, “Kitchen!” he joins my side, his eyes roaming over the table set with plates filled with cannelloni. With an apprehensive look at the meatloaf in the oven, his forehead furrows. “Are we expecting guests?”

“No, don’t worry.”

He heaves a sigh of relief as he takes his cap off. “Then what’s this?”

“For you.” I move his chair back with a grin. “I wanted to talk about something.”

With a suspicious expression, he takes off his jacket. “So you sweeten me up with my favorite meal. Solid plan. Let me just change this?” he asks as he pinches his sweatshirt.

Once he’s left the kitchen, I take out the documents I’ve prepared and set them by the side of my plate, then release a nervous breath. Though the money I’d invest in the restaurant is technically mine, we’re about to be married. I can’t ignore his opinion… despite what Ian says.

“Okay, here I am.” He appears at the kitchen door wearing an old T-shirt and a tired smile. “Ready to listen.”

I point at his chair, and he takes a seat. “First, food. Or my plan isn’t going to work.”

“Of course.” He cuts a piece of his cannelloni, then brings it to his lips and closes his eyes with an appreciative sigh, waving his fork up and down. “My God, this is delicious. I haven’t eaten anything since this morning.”

My heart fills as he goes for a second bite, then a third. Thisparticular joy is something I can hardly describe with words, but it never gets old. Ever since the first crêpes I used to make with my father as a child, seeing people enjoying the food I prepare is the best feeling in the world.

Which gives me more confidence for the next step.

I set a stack of papers in front of him and say, “Considering you’re such a fan of my food, I’d like to present you with a proposition.”

“How formal,” he jokes, grabbing the papers as he goes for another forkful. He reads the first page, eyes narrowed, his chewing becoming slower and slower, until he sets his fork down on the table. “A business plan?”

“Yes. A business plan for—” I shrug. “Well, keep reading.”

“Your restaurant,” he breathes out, his lips parting. His eyes move left to right as he swallows, and a few seconds later he’s stroking his chin and observing me with a stern expression. “Ames…”

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