Page 100 of The Wedding Menu

“So what you’re actually saying is that you stole this from Martha.”

“No. I’m saying I paid for it.”

“For a dress that wasn’t yours.”

“It’s mine now that I paid for it.”

I sigh, pressing my fingers to my forehead in frustration. I’m pretty sure Martha has no idea her dress isn’t waiting for the next fitting anymore. Days before her wedding.

“Well, though I appreciate the thought, you have to give it back.”

He snorts, dropping on the couch. “As if.”

“As if?” I cross my arms. “Ian, you can’t steal someone’s wedding dress.”

“Sounds like advice Martha could benefit from.”

He holds my stare, the decided look in his eyes telling me he’s ready to die on this hill. Knowing it’s for my own good should sweeten the bitter pill, but it does not.

Of courseI want my dress. Only knowing it’s right next to me is enough to bring me to tears. I wish I could skedaddle to the backand put it on and then twirl in it and look at it for the rest of our date. But I can’t. It’s just too much hassle, and I’ve made up my mind already.

Rolling my shoulders back, I try to assume a power pose he’d be less likely to fight. “Really, Ian, this is so sweet of you, but—”

“Let me tell you the truth, Amelie.” He crosses his legs, then hooks his arm behind the love seat. “I don’t understand half this drama. I mean, so what if you have the same flowers? The same centerpieces or band or menus? You’ll still make it yours, somehow, and it’s not like the ceremonies will take place next to each other.”

“But—”

He raises a hand. “But you say it’s not an option, so fine. Not an option.” He leans forward, then clasps his hands. “Let Martha have the rice paper menus and hire the Sound of Time and get the red roses bouquet. Like millions of people will have before and after her wedding.”

I nod, knowing there’s more to his point.

He stands, walks to the dress, picks it up, and walks back to me. “But this, Amelie, is one-of-a-kind. Made for you. You chose every single detail, and no other dress like it will exist before or after your wedding.” He sets his jaw. “If she getseverything else, all the details that are so important to you, you get this one thing.” He grabs my chin. “You get theonlything nobody else will ever have. It’syours.”

His eyes hold mine, my heart beating so slowly, I wouldn’t notice if it stopped. The amount of peace he can infuse into me with his presence alone is something out of this world. It’s enough to make me hesitate instead of giving him the negative answer I know I have to deliver.

As silence settles and time stands still, his eyes leave mine and travel to my lips. The slow beats turn into loud, quick thumps in my ears, the shift so abrupt that it makes me flinch.

I should move away; I know I should. He looks like he’s about to kiss me, and though I’ve been confident so far he’d never do it, I’m not at all certain right now. Not when he doesn’t let go of my chin, his eyes remain on my mouth, and his breaths fan over my skin. This moment might be even more intense than a kiss, and I have no power in me to stop it.

“Unless,” he whispers, his eyes still hooded and focused on my mouth, “unless you’ve reconsidered—”

“Okay,” I interrupt him. I grab the dress, jerking my chin back to free it from his hold. “I—I’ll think about it. The dress. I’ll think about the dress.”

He swallows, smiling mildly. His hands rest on his hips, and silently he studies me. Can he read the fear in my eyes? Because I’m terrified.

He’s always made jokes. Flirted, given me his full attention, his endless kindness. But he said he didn’t want a relationship and he knows I’m engaged. Things have always felt safe. Now they don’t.

I finally recognize the way he looks at me. It’s like that couple at the Quinns’ wedding looked at each other. With the same intensity. The same drive. Like he’s looking at everything he’s ever wished to have.

I know he’s going to say something, and it will inevitably cause a cascading series of events that will, one way or another, ruin my life.

John enters the room as he clears his throat. Neither of us turns to him, and instead we remain in the worst staring contest ever.

When John sets something on the table and walks away, Ian smiles at him, then goes back to studying my eyes. “Don’t think about it. Wearyourdress atyourwedding and, most importantly, do what makesyouhappy. Humor me, Amelie.” He points at the white coffee table between us, and with a glance, I notice John has brought us champagne… and cheese nachos. “I will always humor you.”

Are We Friends?

— TWOMONTHS TOAMELIE’SWEDDING—