Page 139 of The Wedding Menu

“Amelie.” William enters the dining room through the swinging doors of the kitchen, a warm smile on his face as he cheerfully walks toward me. In his gray suit, he looks even better than he did yesterday, and I’m suddenly self-conscious about my unimpressive jeans and shirt.

Ian didn’t receive today’s pickup line either.“Are you French? Because Eiffel for you.”It was stupid anyway.

I guess I should give up, but he didn’t when we met, and I won’t now, even if we’re strangers again.

“Come. The chef is cooking a special dinner for us.” William gestures to me to follow, and we stop in front of the only set table in the room, the one right under the large upside-down candelabra hanging from the ceiling. With two lit red candles, colorful plates on white linen, and light pop music coming out of the speakers, this place couldn’t be more different from La Brasserie. “What do you think?”

“Hmm?”

He gestures toward the decor as he pulls my chair out for me. “About the restaurant. It’s your first time here, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yeah.” He pushes my chair in after I sit, then settles down in front of me as he unbuttons the cuffs of his jacket. “It’s really gorgeous.”

And a little flamboyant.

“I’m afraid I can’t take the credit for it. My wife did most of the design.”

“Your wife?” I search my brain for any piece of information I have about this man. I know he has a son who’s not a chef. A wife, though? I don’t remember anything about a wife. “You’re married?”

“I was, a long time ago.” He smiles stiffly. “Marguerite.”

“French?”

“Parisienne.” Clearing his throat and resting his forearms on the table, he smiles wider. “She was the family’s French cuisine fanatic. She’s no longer with us, I’m afraid.”

I immediately feel more confident in my decision. To this day, all I’ve known about William Roberts has been about his mediocre cuisine and more than awful attitude. Now he’s a man who’s losthis wife, and I can sympathize with him a little more. “Sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Amelie.”

Two waiters come out of the kitchen, and instead of the stuffy tuxes my father’s staff wears, they’re in black T-shirts with the Marguerite’s logo and red jeans.

Also flamboyant.

They set two wooden trays on either side of us—on one, a selection of French cheeses and charcuterie, and on the other, a sampling of appetizers that’s fairly familiar. Pissaladière, smoked salmon canapés,socca, and more well-presented delicacies in small portions.

With one quick look, I can tell this isn’t going to be a good meal, but I smile and force a “Wow” out.

“Please dig in. I’m dying to know your opinion.”

He’s really not.

I grab one of everything and set it on my plate, slowly making my way through the amuse-bouches. They’re anything but amusing, though, and if there’s one thing I hate, it’s forcing down bad food. “Delicious,” I comment after a bite of the canapé.

“Oh, Amelie, I can’t see you suffer like that.” He laughs, dabbing a napkin over his lips. “Please don’t eat whatever it is you don’t like.”

When my apologetic look meets his, he scoffs. “Nothing?” Shoulders sinking, he points at the board on his right. “Not even the cheese? You know we just cut it, right?”

I study his expectant expression and, deciding he’s definitely more of a good sport than my dad, I point at the salmon. “See the dark coloration there? It’s because it’s frozen. Fresh salmon has an even, lighter color. And the socca… it’s dry. As for the canapés, you should tell your chef they were done about two minutes before they actually served them, and the pissaladière is… basicallya pizza. The dough should be about this much thinner.” I show him my thumb and forefinger almost touching. He mostly looks entertained, so I turn to the cubes of cheese. “As for this… that’s not how you cut cheese. It should be in slices.”

“Huh.” His brow furrows as he studies the food around him.

“Sorry. I’m pretty sure that’s not how one is supposed to bury the hatchet.”

Laughing, he shakes his head. “No, no. I asked. Or, er, well, I didn’t. But I wanted to know, and if you weren’t about to open your own restaurant, I’d hire you.” He throws a look at the door leading to the kitchen. “I’ve been waiting for an excuse to get rid of my current head chef.”

I force out a laugh. One would think mediocre cooking skills would be enough to fire a chef.

“I must admit I’m somewhat curious,” William says, taking a bite of a canapé. “What happened between Amelie Preston and her father to cause such a deep rupture?”