Page 153 of The Wedding Menu

“I’m so sorry, Ian.”

“Me too. I really thought… I thought he was a better man. I hope one day he will be, but until then I can’t have him in my life. I just can’t.” He clears his throat, as if he’s decided he’s done with sadness. I’m afraid that won’t be the case. “It’s time for new dreams anyway, don’t you think?”

As his arms wrap around me, I rest my ear against his chest. “New dreams?”

“A restaurant by the beach, maybe? One where people feel at home?” Whispering, he continues, “One with no sticky, smelly French cheese?”

“Maybe one where food is mostly eaten with your hands.”

“Really?” His jaw drops. “And no vegetables and no water?”

“No, Ian. We’d still need people over the age of four to come in.”

He nods. “Fair enough. We can figure it out on our honeymoon. But the point is…” He turns serious again. “I spoke to my lawyer. It turns out when youonlyown fifty percent of a restaurant, you can’t dispose of it as you please.”

Our conversation about his mother’s will comes back to me. “You need to get married to access your inheritance and sell the restaurant.”

He nods but says nothing.

I inhale. Then blink. Then exhale as the idea fully settles.

I expect it to come all crashing down on me. All my fear of rejection and my abandonment issues and all the billion problems I can thank my parents for. I wait for the paranoia to take over my brain. To tell me that he’s rushing it because he needs to and not because he wants me to have a perfect wedding. That he wouldn’t get married at all if it weren’t for the restaurant. But there’s only a thrilled excitement coursing through my veins. Only a hugeYEStattooed on my heart. Ian’s proven more than once that he’d do anything for me. Most recently yesterday.

If he says he wants to marry me, I have no doubt that’s the truth.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” he asks. “You don’t… have questions or need me to—”

“No. I only ask that you take some time to think about the Marguerite. You’re angry and hurt, and I don’t want you to rush into any decision.”

“Sounds fair.” His smile widens. “So, are we really doing this?”

“I think so,” I say. With an exhilarated giggle, I wrap my arms around him as his own arms circle my waist and pull me to him.

We stand like that, embracing, for a long moment before he gently pulls away, raises my hand, and kisses my new engagement ring. “Let’s go get married, Amelie.”

“Well, isn’t this a whole different picture from last time,” Barb says, entering the room. Martha sobs—that’s all she’s been doing for the past half hour—and though I can’t because of the makeup, I feel a new wave of overwhelming emotion every time she sniffles.

Turning to look over my shoulder at Barb, I smile as she puts a hand to her mouth and screeches a loud “Oh my God.” Her eyes close, and waving her hand frantically, she turns around.

“I can’t. I cannot, Ames—I can’t.”

I know. It’s perfect. My beautiful dress, with the floral lace appliqués I love so much, the illusion plunge bodice, and a soft skirt that follows all my movements. My light nude makeup, my hair, curled at the tip.

My smile. The light in my eyes. And the jitters in my belly? Those are amazing too. They’re the expectant kind that bubble up your throat and explode out of you with giggles. The ones that make you warm, that can’t keep you still or steady. The ones that make you shake with adrenaline and not fear, the ones that make your stomach shut because food is no longer your sustenance, not when you’ve got those jitters. They only feed themselves, turning you into a giddy, fluttery, warm burst of happiness.

Everything’s perfect, but I’d rather take a little less perfect if it meant I get to marry Ian sooner.

“How’s Ian doing?”

Barb comes to stand beside me and holds out a glass of champagne. “He’s with Trevor and Ryan, and I honestly think if he tried to bail, those two would pin him to the ground and force him to marry you at gunpoint. But it’s hardly necessary. Your fiancé keeps tearing up. I think he can’t believe his luck.”

I accept the glass and notice that in her other hand, Barb has a small bowl of cheese nachos. Biting my lower lip, I grab both. “I can’t believe mine.”

Martha perks up on the couch beside me. “He’s so hot, Ames.”

Barb turns to her with a gasp. “And you haven’t seen his tattoos.”