Page 4 of The Wedding Menu

— ONE YEAR AGO—

Ian’s hand against the small of my back is innocent enough to keep me relaxed as we swing lightly on the spot. Though there’s nothing wrong with dancing with a stranger at a wedding, the moment his hand slides an inch south or there’s less than an appropriate space between us, I’m out of here.

To Ian’s credit, he’s kept it respectful.

“So did you like the ring?”

I tilt my head and grip his shoulder, enjoying the feel of the tequila swishing in my stomach and loosening my muscles. His hand gently holds mine as he leads us in a few basic steps. “The ring?”

“You said you know your preancé is about to propose.” He twirls us around. “I’m assuming you found a ring in his sock drawer?”

“Oh.” I smile, excitement pooling in my stomach. “I didn’t, but he left his computer open the other day, and I saw an email from a jewelry store.”

He rubs his lips in thought. “Hmm.”

“He’s not a jewelry guy, so it’s definitely about a ring.”

“Well, Amelie, not to rain on your ‘pre-parade,’ but it sounds like you don’t even know if heboughta ring.” He bites his lowerlip. “It could have been a watch. A gift for his mom. An unwanted newsletter.”

My posture stiffens. “The subject was ‘The pleasure of rings,’ and the first line said ‘Thank you for your purchase.’?”

His smile falls and his steps freeze. With a shocked expression, he studies me, his blue eyes wide and his forehead creasing. “?‘The pleasure of rings’?” he repeats.

“Yeah.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it. Gripping my hand, he continues swinging on the spot. “And what was the name of the jewelry store?”

“Le Love Bijoux.”

With a nod, he lets go of my back and grabs his phone from his pocket. He opens a new window and types away while I wait, my foot nervously tapping on the floor. When he’s done, he hisses through his teeth as he sets his phone back. “Ugh. God, I hate it when I’m right.”

“Right?” My heart quickens. “Right about what?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he mumbles, “I don’t think I have the heart to tell you.”

“Well, come on, now,” I insist. Whatever he saw obviously wasn’t good. What the hell could it be? “You know I can just check it myself.”

“Nope.” He avoids looking at me, his lips pressed tightly, as if he’s trying to stop himself from laughing. “I don’t want you to cry at your friend’s wedding.”

“I won’t cry, Ian.”

At my annoyed tone, he looks down at me. He hesitates for a few seconds, and when I prompt him to speak, he says, “?‘The pleasure of rings,’ Amelie?”

“What about it!”

He leans closer as if we’re about to share a secret. “Well, I’m going to assume you know what a cock ring is?”

Oh, Lord. Did he saycock ring? I open my mouth, and without making a sound, I shake my head.

“No?” He hums. “Solo use, then, huh? Frank sounds like a fun guy.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I whisper.

His eyes soften, every trace of amusement gone from his face. He cups my shoulder, the grip of his fingers delicate and comforting as he says, “Le Love Bijoux is a sex shop, Amelie. And a cock ring is a vibrating silicone ring you put around your—”

“Got it,” I say, raising my hand to stop him.

A sex shop. A cock ring. He was never going to propose to me. Fifteen years—fifteen—and he’s still not proposing. We’ll never get married, will we? I might as well let Martha steal my wedding, because I won’t ever have one.