Page 143 of The Wedding Menu

“If you touched my daughter—”

“Dad,” I squeal. “Aprofessionaldinner is what he means.” If it’s in the celestial plan that I should die of a stroke, I can’t think of a better moment. Unfortunately, nothing happens as my face reaches the temperature of burning briquettes. “And anyway, if he did touch me, you’d know, because I would have scrubbed myself raw.” I turn around. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

My phone beeps and, after taking it out of my pocket, I glance at the screen.

Ian:

Come to my room, beautiful?

Saved by Ian again.

Releasing a pent-up breath, I set my tea down and leave the kitchen. I don’t feel like Earl Grey now anyway; maybe whiskey. Whatever solution Ian and I settle on for our future, it’ll have to be far away from his father, or I’ll end up giving myself an ulcer.

Pushing the thought to a remote corner of my brain, I climb the stairs and glance down at my phone. The two hours he needed to take care of work might just be worth seeing his name on my screen again.

God, how I’ve missed it.

The hotel is as busy as always, even more so today, with the guest lecture William Roberts and my father will bestow upon us in half an hour. Maybe there’s a way I can avoid it altogether without Ian getting suspicious.

When I knock on his door, he shouts that it’s open, so I quickly make my way in. He’s sitting on the armchair by the window, his eyes hard as he studies me with a less than pleased expression.

My heart skips a beat.

“Hey…” I tentatively step forward, stopping after a couple of steps. “What’s up?”

“What happened between you and my father, Amelie?”

I swallow, bile rising up my throat as I try to keep a blank expression on my face. He caught us. He knows what’s going on, and now he’ll lose everything. His father, his restaurant, and eventually me.

“Nothing,” I whisper as I sit on the bed. “Wh-why do you ask?”

“You know my father. You’ve met him before today.” He stands, then walks up to me. He’s the most serious I’ve ever seen him, though also strangely calm, while there’s sweat running down my back and a whole herd of horses in my chest. “Do you really think I haven’t noticed how distressed you were when you met him? Not hateful, not angry, not hostile. You were afraid—more than that, you were terrified.”

“No, Ian—” I attempt, but he raises his hand.

“Spare me.” His neutral expression shifts to anger. “You were terrified. As you were after talking to Ella. And as you are every time I ask you about your restaurant’s failure.”

My head spins, and he turns away as he walks to his open suitcase on the luggage rack. He grabs something out of it, and when he drops it on the desk, my heart stops.

Yummagazine. The glossy cover with a picture of me and my restaurant stares back at me, familiar and disturbing, as heat creeps up my neck and cheeks.

“I asked Ella for her copy.” He crosses his arms and stares at me for a few seconds. “Imagine my surprise when she mentioned she cooked dinner for you and my father about four months ago.”

Oh, fuck.

My heart beats out of my chest, sweat dampening my upper lip as my hands shake. I’ve seen Ian upset before, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to deal with the shitstorm that’s about to hit me.

I stand, the muscles of my legs shaking with adrenaline and fear, and go to him. Grabbing hold of his arm, I whisper, “Ian, whatever she said—nothing happened, okay?”

“Nothing?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I repeat slowly, staring deep into his eyes. It looks like the dinner is all he’s aware of, and if I keep it that way, then my deal with William stands. I can still protect Ian. “He wanted to bury the hatchet. We had dinner. That’s it.”

“Are you surenothinghappened?” he asks, and this time uncertainty makes my head spin. He knows more than what he’s telling me—but how?

Stepping to the side, he grabs the magazine and sits down. He scrolls through the pages, then folds it and clears his voice. “?‘Amelie Preston, daughter of Hammond Preston, has failed in her first business venture. The thirty-year-old woman, who’s been working for her father, arguably the biggest chef of fine French cuisine in the country, is now closing down Amelie’s Bistro after merely two months of activity.’?”

“Ian…” I whisper, my fingers trembling as I grip the desk.