Page 62 of The Wedding Menu

As he throws a look at the crowd, he chuckles, unbothered by my tantrum. “Amelie, have you ever even eaten at the Marguerite?”

I open my mouth, then close it. To him, it probably looks like he’s won this round—and he has, but by default. I’ve eaten at the Marguerite before, though I can’t share that with him.

When he smirks, I know I have to say something. “The Marguerite is a French fast-food joint, Ian!”

Ella gasps, quickly standing. “How dare you give your unwanted opinion on the Marguerite after you couldn’t keep your own restaurant afloat for four months!”

I swallow, my mouth instantly going dry as my heartbeat thunders in my ears. It’s like the whole room has gone dark, and the only light is shining down on me, exposing my rawest parts for everyone to judge. Showcasing each and every one of my failures.

“Amelie?” Ian asks in a questioning voice.

I straighten my shoulders. My restaurant may have failed at the speed of light, but it doesn’t change the truth. “The only reason the Marguerite is successful is that you serve people-pleasing, simple recipes.” I glance at Ella’s hateful glare, then turn to Ian. “You have a standardized twenty-dollar menu. You work with frozen, low-quality ingredients. You microwave precooked food, for Chrissake.”

As I catch my breath, I swallow. I’m making a scene in front of a hundred people, but I don’t care. It seems all I’ve been doing for the past year has been humiliating myself anyway.

When I’m met with stony silence, I grab my bag. I need to getout of there. “I’m sorry, but… Actually, I’m not sorry. You are both living off the vulgarization of French food. Of food in general. What is art to me, you treat as mere business. I—” I take a step toward the door, then turn to the audience. Most of them are staring at me, wide-eyed and in complete silence. “Sorry. Business advice? You’re in the right hands. But if you treat your food as art”—I point at Ian and Ella—“this isn’t what you’re looking for.”

The wine is fresh on my tongue, rich and sweet and accented by fruity, ripe flavors. Cabernet, about ten years old. Setting the glass down, I turn to the counter as I pull at my necklace with my finger. The bar is open only to lecturers and other people working at the event, and even so, the dimly lit space is almost filled to the brim except for the seat in front of me.

I close my eyes and tilt my head back, exhaling deeply. But even with my eyes closed, I sense him coming to stand beside me. It must be his smell, or maybe the shadow his body casts over me. Whatever it is, I’m equally eager and terrified to open my eyes.

But I do, and Ian’s looking down at me, as handsome from my upside-down perspective as he is from every other angle. His nose, straight and pointy, his shapely jaw, the lovely curve of his chin. And he’s smiling. God, how I constantly miss that devilish smile. “I got you another glass.”

“Oh, thanks.” I pull myself up as he takes a seat in the chair next to me. Silently, he studies me, every muscle and organ and bone in me squirming under his inquisitive gaze. “I should… I should probably apologize for what I said.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He waves me off.

I can feel my brows scrunch up. Is he feeling bad for me after my scene, or does he really not care?

“So you opened a restaurant.”

As heat blossoms on my cheeks, I nervously fidget with the hem of my shirt. “Spoiler alert,” I say in a dull voice. “It failed.”

“I’ve gathered.” Looking away, he shrugs. “Doesn’t matter, though, does it? You still took the leap.”

Yeah, and landed face-first on cement. I usually love Ian’s contagious positivity, but itdoesmatter. It’s what matters the most. Certainly, my restaurant failing is what got me here, with no money, no job, and no hope of having a successful career as a chef.

“But it does make me wonder…” After setting his glass down, he rubs his jaw. His eyes roam from left to right, as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “How… how did it happen exactly? How did Amelie Preston open a restaurant and fail?”

My throat tightens as I try to swallow.

“I mean, you’ve been a chef since, hell, probably since before you were a fully formed adult.” He smiles lightly. “I’m sure your dad taught you all the ropes. That he has the right contacts and gave you plenty of guidance throughout the years.”

Shifting uncomfortably in my chair, I turn my gaze away. I can’t tell Ian what happened after the wedding. I just can’t. I’d love to tell him the truth: he’s the only person who can possibly make me feel better about any of this. But I remember our conversations about his father. They’re not just close: with his mom being gone, William is all Ian has. And if his son knew what happened between us last year, William would lose him. And Ian would lose his father.

After stalling with a sip of wine, I ask, “How come the manager of one of thebestFrench restaurants in the country doesn’t care about the quality of his food?”

Leaning back against his chair, he studies me, his soft, gorgeous sweater stretching over his wide chest and revealing the white shirt underneath as he takes a deep breath. “Smooth change of topic, Amelie.”

“Location?” I ask, throwing my hands up in the air. “That’s what matters in a restaurant? Entertainment? How about extra-virgin olive oil and vegetables in season? How about grass-fed livestock and authentic—”

“I never said all of that wasn’t important. I said—”

“You said food was the least relevant thing, Ian.” I cross my arms. “How can you think that?”

“Results speak volumes,” he says with a cheery smile. “One of us at this table is the owner of a successful restaurant. The other one…” He shrugs. “Well, I don’t know the details yet, but she isn’t.”

Wow. I’ve always appreciated Ian’s honesty. He says what he thinks, and no sugarcoating it. Only now I realize what a double-edged sword that can be.