Page 135 of The Wedding Menu

Yes, it was.

As if brushing the thought away, he focuses on me again. “And if I’m not mistaken, you suggested that my restaurant offers a low-quality imitation of your father’s work.”

Right before the journalist asked if I was afraid of William Roberts.

“You also said you’d only be afraid of me if I came after you with one of the items on our menu and asked you to eat it.”

Pressing my lips together, I try not to let out a laugh. I can’t say I don’t believe those things, but telling them to the man’s face—especially when he’s being so polite—must be torture for something I’ve done in a previous life.

“It’s all in the past,” he says, straightening his tie. “That’s precisely why I’d like to invite you out for dinner. Now that you’re opening your own restaurant, maybe we could bury the hatchet.” Leaning forward with a sly smile, he winks. “What do you think, Amelie?”

That it’s ridiculous. That there’s nothing he could say to make me change his mind about him. But I guess the less I need to concern myself with William Roberts, the better, and if having dinner together will get me off his radar, then subjecting myself to his company is what I’ll do.

“Considering you’re no longer a chef of La Brasserie, is it safe to assume you and Hammond had a disagreement?” he asks in a suggestive tone.

“You could say that,” I mutter as I think of when I told him I’d open my own restaurant. All he said was “Congratulations.”

“Then let me add that your dining with me would be a great ‘Fuck you’ to your old man too.”

I laugh, watching as his eyes lighten up and his head tilts to the side—the same expression as a connoisseur savoring a sip ofa fabulous wine. Though he’s joking, I fight even harder to find a good reason to say no.

Only more reasons to accept.

“Yes. Okay.” Pushing myself off the railing, I smile. “Let’s bury the hatchet.”

Buffet of Betrayal

— TODAY—

I rush up the stairs. Unsurprisingly, Ian follows. That’s it. I’m pretty sure his dad is the devil himself—a handsome Hollywood version of the devil with too much savoir faire and not a shred of conscience.

“Amelie?”

No. I can’t talk to Ian. Not before I understand. Roberts definitely knows about my past with his son, but did he know at the time he came to my restaurant? And if so, what sort of sick game is he playing?

“You know me well enough to have gathered that I won’t let this go,” he says, following me through the corridor. “So how about you stop running away and tell me what’s going on?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. My heart is beating so fast, it’s hard to walk in a straight line. He can’t know what happened between his father and me. I’ve known it since the moment I figured out Ian was actually Ian Roberts. This is something I’ll have to bring to the grave. More than that, I’ll have to actively work for him to nevereverfind out.

I need to pull my shit together and protect him, the way he’salways protected me. I won’t let him lose his father after he’s lost his mother already.

“Really?” Ian asks as I halt by the door, then grab my key. “You need more proof of my persistence?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” I attempt a smile, but it’s obvious he doesn’t buy it for a second. Opening the door, I enter the room, where Barb is packing up.

“Hey!” she says cheerfully, then, noticing the expression on my face, her smile falls. “What’s up?”

I throw her a desperate look just as Ian comes to stand in front of me, and, catching on to my silent plea for help, she addresses him. “Oh, Ian, do you mind? I need to take a shower and—”

“Sorry, Barb, but yes. I mind.” He gives her an apologetic smile, then turns to me again. “What’s going on, beautiful?”

Fine. There’s no escaping this. Turning to Barb, I ask, “Can you give us a minute?”

“Of course. I’ll shower later. I’m kind of hungry anyway.” She moves past us and, with a questioning look at me, leaves the room.

Once she’s gone, I focus on Ian. He’s done so much to keep me sane. To protect me, to make me feel special and loved.

If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll protect him from this.