Page 75 of The Wedding Menu

“Oh, Ian, I don’t want to bother you during—”

“Amelie, come on.” His eyes squint, the different shades of blue in his irises bright with the sunlight hitting his face directly. “If by the end of this call you’re not smiling, I won’t be able to focus on work. And then I’ll get fired. And I’ll lose my apartment and starve. No pressure.”

When I chuckle, he points at the screen, joining in. “That’s what I’m looking for. Come on, spit it out.”

“But, Ian—”

“Amelie,” he insists. “Don’t make me beg.”

“No, don’t beg.” It’s bad enough that this man is at my beck and call for whatever emotional crisis I’m going through. I don’t need him to beg for me to vomit my issues on him. “My father is playing me.”

He nods. “Mm-hmm.”

“He refuses to give me the promotion, although he knows I’m much more qualified for it than any of his other employees. I’ve worked for it much harder than they ever could.”

His jaw squares as he angrily stares away. “You’ve been waiting for months, Amelie. You’re right to demand recognition for all the work you’ve done.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” I whine, dropping the cigarette onto the ground and putting it out with the ball of my foot. I can’thelp my relief. He sees it as well. I’m not crazy. “And I’ve been offered the same position elsewhere, better money too.”

“But? Why do you want to stick with your dad?”

“I don’t know.” Lies. Idoknow. Looking in the distance, at the rows of cars in the parking lot, I twist a lock of hair with my fingers. “To prove to myself I can? To prove him wrong?”

There’s the ringing of a bell, and he enters what looks like a deli. After he tells me to wait, he orders a sandwich. From where his phone is, I can see his Adam’s apple, his chin, the curve of his smile. He winks down at the phone, his unbuttoned collar letting me see just a hint of the golden skin of his chest. I wonder if he has tattoos there like he has on his arms.

They’re so hot.He’sso hot.

“Okay,” he says, leaving with his order a few minutes later. “Amelie, what’s the end goal?”

“The end goal?”

“Yeah. Your dream.”

I shrug, unsure of what he wants me to say. “To get the promotion, I guess? To take my father’s place in his business?”

“Youguess?” He sits down on a park bench, shrubs taking up most of the background as the sun highlights his ash-brown hair. Unwrapping his food with one hand, he looks at the screen. “Why is that your dream? What’s the appeal?”

“Well, it’s—” I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Hmm. One would think that’s a question you’d know how to answer.”

Clicking my tongue, I pick at my nails. “I know how to answer. I want to be successful. My dad is the best at…” With a smile, I bite my bottom lip. “At what he does.”

“So, if you were a contractor, you’d want to be the best contractor.”

I study his relaxed blue eyes. “Yeah, sure, but what does—”

“That’s not a dream. That’s ambition.” His jaw works for a while as he observes me. “Why is your dream to work for your dad and not as a contractor?”

“I can’t use a hammer, for one.”

“I’ll teach you.” Bringing the phone closer, he narrows his eyes. “Amelie, where do you see yourself in ten years? What’s the passion that gets you out of bed in the morning? The imprint you want to leave on this world?”

I watch Ian’s face fill my screen as he brings a napkin to his mouth. I guess thereisa dream. Something that I used to fantasize about before falling asleep when I was younger. My own restaurant—nothing like my dad’s. With simple food, a cozy atmosphere. The type of place where people would feel comfortable having dinner in a simple T-shirt and jeans. Back then, I dreamed of a place that specialized in Italian cuisine. Today I’d probably wish for something different. Maybe an intimate place by the beach that serves whatever the local fishermen catch daily. Maybe a rustic restaurant in the countryside where the food is farm-to-table.

“Ahh. Thereissomething,” Ian exults with his usual excitement. “Come on, I want to know. What is it?”

“Well… at some point, I wanted my own thing.” I stare down at the ground, carefully choosing my words not to betray the nature of my occupation. “Open my own…place.”