Page 78 of The Wedding Menu

As I hold out the macaron and walk up to him, he steps back. “No, I’m all right.”

“Why not? Eat my damn macaron, Ian!”

“I don’t want it.”

“Why the fuck not? Don’t you like blueberries? There’s—”

“It’s not about the blueberries.”

“Take a strawberry one.”

“I don’t want it,” he insists, his chin jerking back as he keeps his distance from the blue macaron in my hands.

“Then a mango one!”

“Amelie, I said no.”

I stomp my feet. “Why not? Why?”

He draws a hand through his hair as if he’s fighting to hold something back. His neck muscles tense, and as he turns to me, it’s like the lid pops off. Releasing a breath, he barks, “Because I hate French food!”

Hewhat?

He lets out an exhale, then shakes his head. “I don’t like French cuisine. In fact, I hate it. It’s disgusting. Everything tastes like butter or onions. And what’s with French cheese? Why does it smell so fucking bad?” He widens his arms. “Huh? Tell me, what’s so good about Brie? It smells like feet and tastes like nothing, Amelie. Like nothing.”

He takes one of my macarons and studies it. “And you want me to eat macarons? They’re terrible. A sugar crust filled with more fucking butter.” He drops it onto the tray and turns to me, wiping his fingers on his T-shirt. “Plus, I…” He averts his eyes and shyly admits, “I’m lactose intolerant.”

We stare at each other. That’s why he didn’t know who I was before we met here. How he never saw the article. Because he doesn’tcare.

He doesn’t research French cuisine, doesn’t study the competition, and has no qualms with my father either. He didn’t know about my restaurant, didn’t know I wasn’t working at La Brasserie—didn’t know anything at all. Because he doesn’t like French cuisine, and therefore, he doesn’t care.

“You…” My chest deflates with an exhale, and as he rubs his forehead, he chuckles. I do, too, my necklace clinking against the counter as I bend forward. “YouhateFrench cuisine.”

His hand cuts through the space between us in a decided gesture. “Hate it.”

“But… bouillabaisse? Coq au vin?Confit de canard?”

He grimaces. “Yeah, and snails, frogs’ legs, pork feet. Oh, and foie gras.” With a tremble, he brings a fist to his mouth. “Disgusting.”

Holding on to the counter, I laugh so hard, my entire body shakes and my chest spasms. I can’t even keep my eyes open, but as I peek through my lashes, Ian is smiling down at me.

“How can you not like fine dining? You work at the Marguerite, Ian. That makes no sense.”

“I just don’t.” He gives me a casual shrug, then glares at the stick of butter on the counter. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

“Sinceyesterday?” I shriek. “Why not?”

“Because Ella pissed me off right before lunchtime, and when we sat down for dinner, they served us steak tartare.” He waves as if just speaking of it is making him nauseous. “Raw meat. Atrocious.”

I can’t help another burst of laughter, and the way he gently scolds me with his gaze makes my heart flutter. “If I cook something for you, will you eat?”

His shoulders tense. “Something French?”

“Nothing French,” I reassure him with a gentle smile. “It’ll surprise you to know that’s not all I can cook.”

He gets up and follows me to the fridge to scan the fresh ingredients. Even just the color and smell of fresh vegetables make me smile. “How do you feel about pasta?”

“One of the few dishes you need a fork for that’s just as good as cutlery-free food.”