Page 69 of The Wedding Menu

Granted, croissants are complicated. If you don’t refrigerate the dough in between each fold, the butter melts. If you don’t let it rest enough, you end up with a cookie instead of a flaky pastry. But I’m pretty sure Ian’s gaze, never once moving away from me, has something to do with my discombobulated lecture. I can’t focus.

He’s not looking at me because he’s interested in anything I have to say about croissants; he’s made that plenty clear. And he’s sitting with one leg thrown over my empty seat, his shoulders relaxed against the chair back, his arms crossed at his chest and his tattoos peeking from the sleeves at his wrists.

Fuuuuuuck.He has to stop looking at me like that.

It’s different from what he did last year, before our fallout. He used to look at me as if I were the most precious thing that had been put in front of him. Now he’s looking at me like I’m breakfast. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad sign, but he’s currently turning my brain into mush, my body is aching so much for him.

A hundred questions later, the audience retreats, and we’re left with two hours to kill before Ian’s class. With a mix of dread and excitement, I grab my bag. After yesterday, I’m worried about another argument breaking out between us, but I’m also looking forward to staring at him for a while. I’m sure he was sitting there being extra sexy on purpose, so maybe I can do the same during his class. Show him a little shoulder or— Wait. No, Amelie, he has a girlfriend. Goodness gracious.

Once we’re back in the conference room, waiting for the next crowd of students to arrive, Ian discreetly nods toward the door, then walks out into the corridor. Ella is writing something down, and Barb is on her phone. Quickly mentioning I’m going to the bathroom, I leave the room and join him by the window. “Hey. Everything okay?”

“Can we try to haveonesmooth seminar?” he asks, his voice velvety as he casts a skeptical eye on me.

I hesitate, turning to the window. “I don’t think you should ask me, Ian. You keep provoking me, and your girlfriend hates me.”

He tilts his head. “No, she’s only a little—”

“If you say she’s passionate again, I’ll lose it,” I warn.

He holds on to my elbow, his touch soft but firm. “One smooth seminar? Please?” he asks. “Pamela has been complaining.”

I can’t pay attention to anything he’s saying, only to his grip. It’s delicate, and the contact sends shivers up my arm and to the rest of my body. My eyes flick to his wrists, the black ink peeking out as a reminder of the Ian he is outside of the conference room, the Ian he is outside of Ian Roberts.

My Ian.

How many times have I wanted to talk to him in the last six months? How often have I imagined hearing his voice again? Seeing his face? Waking up to one of his texts?

Well, now he’s here in front of me, and I can’t let this chance go to waste, because I’m not sure I’ll get another one. He needs to know how I feel. That Frank and I are over, and if I could do it all again, I’d choose him every day.

“Head tables with the bridal party are the worst,” I burst out.

He gives me a blank stare, his eyebrows angled upward.

“Because the plus-ones of everyone in the bridal party end up separated from the one person they know at the wedding,” I explain. “And…” My mind roams, the saliva in my mouth thickening. “And it’s better not to have many bridesmaids, because friendships end and your wedding pictures are forever.” I snap my fingers. “The first dance! It shouldn’t last more than a minute. Nobody wants to watch you awkwardly dance through a whole song.”

Light slowly fades from his eyes as something dark and wounded draws over them.

“The garter toss makes everyone uncomfortable, and the groom not seeing the bride before the wedding is a ridiculous superstition.”

“Amelie,” he whispers, his smile disappearing. “We can’t.”

I study the sad curve of his mouth. “I just—I wanted you to know my unpopular opinions about weddings.”

“I don’twantto know.”

Tears stinging my eyes, I look away. He doesn’t want to know.

People walk past us to enter the class, and he smiles at someone in the crowd before setting his harsh gaze on me. “I’m not doing it again. This thing between us—it nearly killed me the first time.”

I sniffle away my sadness as he walks past me, my mouth opening in a desperate attempt to fix everything. I’m terrified it won’t ever be possible. “I’m sorry, Ian. I know I fucked up, and I know you don’t owe me another chance, but please, I just need to tell you—”

“I don’t want to listen, Amelie.”

“Ian, let me say one thing and then—”

He groans, turning to face me. “What is it, huh? You want to tell me you and Frank aren’t together anymore? Is that what you want to say?” When I stare at him wide-eyed, he nods. “Yeah. I know.”

But… how? He said he didn’t read the article. He didn’t know only a handful of days ago.