Page 96 of The Wedding Menu

“Barb!” I shriek.

“What?” she shrieks back. “I just want him to be able to bring food should last night’s events repeat themselves.”

“Jesus—Barb!”

“The macarons are in the fridge,” Ian says with a charming smile. Once Barb thanks him and hops up, he turns to me. “I like her.”

“She’s great,” I confirm as I watch her walk away. I’m still kicking her the moment she pops that baby out, though.

“So, hmm… I wanted to say that we can pretend last night never happened. It was a bit optimistic of us to think we could have sex without feelings getting involved anyway.” He pushes his hair back. “And you’re not a one-night-stand kind of person, I get it.”

I cross my arms. “Says who?” When all he does is tilt his head, I continue. “Yes, last night I had a minor freakout. Is relentless Ian giving up after a small hiccup?”

His smile is wide as he looks around, then leans forward. “Is that how you feel?”

“Yes.”

He hums, his hand reaching into the back pocket of his jeans. He takes out his wallet, then the key card to his room. “Fine. I’ll even give you a head start.” Holding the key out for me, he whispers, “Take this, go upstairs, get comfortable. And wait for me.”

Wait for me.

It sounds like a dangerous promise.

I swallow, my chest cavity suddenly empty and filled with rocks at the same time. “Right… right now?”

“Mm-hmm.” His strong hand rests on my thigh. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve waited long enough. In fact, we’ve had the longest bout of foreplay known to humanity.”

Bolting up, I smile nervously. “We have the seminar soon. We should—”

“Barbara and Ella have it covered,” he says as he stands too.

He smiles, calm and unbothered, and, boy, I could hit him in the head with one of those big plastic hammers. He’s testing me, and I’m failing big-time.

When I say nothing, he slips his key back into his wallet. “I’ll see you in class.” And with the usual lovely smile, he walks away.

A Friendly Date

— THREEMONTHS TOAMELIE’SWEDDING—

A white long-sleeved top with light blue flowers and high-waisted, dark blue pants. I love the big silver buttons on the front, and—I turn around and check my reflection in the mirror—yep. They make my ass look great.

What about shoes? Ian is tall, so maybe my white heels? I try them on, but I’m probably overdoing it. I opt for sneakers and put on some red lipstick. It’s one of the perks of going on a date when you know you won’t be kissed: you can wear whatever lipstick you want.

My phone beeps with a text, and I fetch it off the duvet as I hold my tube of mascara aloft.

Ian:

Are you a red roses woman?

Amelie:

I’m an engaged woman.

Ian:

No flowers?

Amelie:

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