Page 141 of The Wedding Menu

“Why aren’t you—” He breaks off, then rubs his chin. “I mean, if you’re not married, then are you… engaged?”

Well, if it isn’t my favorite topic of conversation. “Hmm… I was engaged for a while, but things didn’t work out.”

“Why not?”

Lord, he will not let this go, will he? And after refusing toshare any details about my restaurant or my father, then freaking out at his next question, I feel weird telling him to mind his own business. “We broke up.”

“What happened?”

Clearing my throat, I meet his gaze. Why is he being so damn invasive? I’m obviously being vague on purpose. “William, I’m afraid there’s been some sort of misunderstanding. I’ve agreed to have dinner with you because I’d love to—what was it you said?” I ask, not giving him time to answer. “Hash out our differences. Start fresh. But whether I’m married, or engaged, or one of eight sister wives, should be of no interest to you.” Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders. “We’re not friends, and you’re making me uncomfortable.”

He seems to remember himself, and as the waiters set a plate of salmon and another of entrecôte on the table, he rubs his hands together and studies me with an apologetic smile. “You’re right. I’m so sorry. I guess… you’re wearing a ring around your neck and… it’s peculiar.”

I stab my salmon, my annoyance growing with his insistence. I refuse to acknowledge it, though. I’ve given him all the answers he needs.

“So did you leave him? Or did he leave you?”

God!Why does he keep insisting?

I set my fork down, knowing there’s one answer that will get him to drop the topic immediately. “He left me at the altar, okay? We were having problems for a while, and I tried really hard to fix them, but it didn’t work out.”

“Hmm. So sorry to hear.” His gaze narrows as he cuts a piece of his steak, his charming demeanor now only a distant memory. He looks… annoyed, for some reason. “Are you still in love with him? Is that why you’re wearing that ring?”

“I’m not in love with anyone,” I mutter through gritted teeth. It’s a lie, of course, but there’s no way I’m telling him the ring I wear around my neck is from another guy. The guy I should have ended up with.

Blowing out an annoyed breath, I try to compose myself. “If this is what you’ll want to talk about for the rest of our dinner, then I think we should end it right now.”

He distractedly nods, his jaw clenched. Quickly, he grabs his phone, throws it a look, then turns to me. “I’m sorry, Amelie, but it looks like we’ll indeed need to call it a night. Something came up that has to be taken care of right now.”

With my fork and knife still in hand, I study his expression. He’s clearly not joking, but this makes no sense. The guy came to my restaurant to ask me to bury the hatchet, then questioned me about Frank, and now he’s getting rid of me? “What—”

He stands. “Thank you so much for coming. Do you know how you’re getting back home?”

“Y-yes.” I stand, too, just as he motions to the waiters to come over. They take away our plates of nearly untouched food, and once I grab my bag, William walks me to the door in complete silence. The tension is so palpable, it can’t possibly be because of the ring. Because of my personal life. Is he annoyed because I didn’t answer all his questions? Because I dared to defy him? Maybe my dad was right all along, and he’s just an arrogant douchebag.

We reach the entrance of the restaurant, and when I throw a questioning look at him, he smiles politely. “Apologies for cutting our evening short. You’ll hear from me sooner than you expect.”

I open my mouth to say something, but I’m possibly less interested in all of this than he is, so I just nod, plenty aware that I won’t hear from him at all. Thank God.

I guess the hatchet remains anything but buried.

The Truth Isn’t Yum

— TODAY—

Leaving Barb in the room, I walk downstairs. Ian has a couple of hours of work to do, and I miss him. I miss him so much, it makes me wonder what exactly awaits me after tomorrow, once the ICCE is over and we go back to our hometowns. We haven’t properly discussed it besides his brief attempt at making me spill the truth about his dad, but we’ll need to make some decisions, possibly a compromise or two, sooner than later.

I walk through the hall, filled to the brim with people, then along the small corridor and into the kitchen, immediately halting as I notice wide shoulders, dark hair, an even darker aura around him. WilliamfuckingRoberts.

He turns around, his brows slightly rising as he takes me in. “Amelie.”

“I’m just—” I take a step back. “I’ll come back later.”

“Please, come in. We’re bound to have a conversation anyway, don’t you think?”

Are we? Can’t we just never talk? Never look at each other again? Can’t we simply pretend the other doesn’t exist and go about our lives?

No, we can’t. Because of Ian. And though I hate this man, I love Ian more.