Page 68 of The Wedding Menu

“And that’s how you prepare a baguette,” Ella says as the audience claps. “As you can see, it’s not complicated at all.”

“Humph.”

“Ames,” Barb scolds, but I quickly raise my hands in mock surrender. I have no intention of fighting Ella, not after what happened yesterday at Ian’s seminar. Though itisfascinating to see how I disagree with almost anything she says. Every time she opens her mouth, it’s like nails on a chalkboard.

Ian stalks closer, looking splendid in a mustard-yellow sweater. He wears it over his usual cotton shirt, the hem of it peeking out over his light jeans. I know why he’s here. He’s monitoring me, protecting his girlfriend and chef. As the person who was previously on the receiving end of his attentive care, I know how that feels. It doesn’t make me like Ella any more.

“I’ve never seen a baguette prepared with warm water. What’s the reasoning behind it?” someone from the audience asks.

I can’t help another humph, which immediately causes Ian’s eyes to flick toward me.

“That way, the dough rises faster. You should also prepare it ina warm room,” Ella says in her entitled voice. “It’ll quicken the fermentation process.”

“And reduce the flavor,” I say under my breath.

“Amelie,” Ian warns. He’s sitting beside me now. I turn to him, expecting to find him scowling. Giving me a look that says,I’ll physically drag you out of this room if you dare to disagree.Instead, he’s fidgeting with his phone as he patiently smiles. Almost as if he’s amused. A little frustrated, too, but mostly amused.

“Slowing down the fermentation process results in a complex flavor and improved taste,” I say, keeping my voice low so that Ella won’t hear as she answers the next question. “She’s telling them to rush it and compromise on the quality—”

“Amelie.”

With a sigh, I look down at my feet. Fine, I won’t say anything. Even if it means teaching a hundred people an approximate, incorrect way to approach French cuisine. Even if she’s the very last person who should teach this class.

Ian’s leg bumps mine, his lips pouting dramatically as if he’s calling me a big baby. God, he’s so handsome, especially when he’s dorky. With his eyes squinting, his bottom lip starts wobbling as he brings his fists to his eyes and sniffles.

“Stop it.”

“Wah-wah. French baguettes. Wah.”

“French baguette is redundant. There’s no Austrian baguette.”

He shrugs. “I have a baguette that’s not French.”

Snorting out a laugh, I roll my eyes. “Technically, it’s half-French.”

“Fair.” His brows bunch up. “Wait, did I tell you my mom was French? How do you know?”

Holy shit. Deep dark eyes flash before mine, but, trying to keep my nausea at bay, I shrug. Seeing as Ian knew nothing about thearticle, my restaurant,orits failure, it’s fair to say that his father didn’t tell him much about what went on between us in the past six months, and I won’t be the person to break his heart. It’s not my place, not when we’re hardly even friends. “I read it online.”

He pretends to gasp. “Stalker.”

“You’re such a child.”

“Me? You’re all bent out of shape over nothing. It’s just bread.”

With an annoyed look, I say, “Stop trying to piss me off, Ian.”

His eyes widen. “Stop making it so easy, Amelie.”

I focus on Ella, set to ignore him. He really is a handsome idiot. In two seconds’ time his leg is pressing against mine obnoxiously. I throw him a look, and there’s a teasing smirk on his face that makes him look so fucking sexy. He’s nothing like most men I’ve dealt with in my life. He’s never taken anything seriously, always smiling in spite of everything. Always happy and positive and good.

His expression softens with affection when he notices mine. Since the day I met him, Ian has had the power to turn my mood around no matter the situation. I love that it’s still true today.

My leg presses back, and once again his smile changes. His eyes dart to our legs pushed together, then back to me. Now his lips are slightly open. Every version of him is better than the last, and this one doesn’t disappoint. It’s so good, in fact, that my hand itches to touch him, to travel up his thigh and see his breath catch. To see how that makes his face change, his eyes darken. To see how he looks when he wants me.

When his gaze dips to my mouth, my chest heaves. I have to remind myself we’re in public, in front of his girlfriend, and—regardless of her being a princess or a witch—this isn’t going to happen if he’s with someone else.

When there are no more questions, it’s time for my take on baked French products. I tackle the croissant, and, God, it takes me forever.