Page 80 of The Wedding Menu

Throwing his head back, he snaps, “Settle down, Amelie. You’re ruining dinner.”

“Fine, fine.”

He resumes eating. “So you won’t tell me why your restaurant failed.” He finishes chewing before going back for more. “And you won’t admit you’re terrified of failing again, and that’s why I haven’t seen you cook once before tonight.” Bringing the fork to his lips, he smirks. “Looks like you’re keeping a lot of secrets.”

“Funny you should say that,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee and making it a point not to look away from him. “Because I have a few questions myself.”

“Like what?”

Like what?he says. Setting my cup down, I give him a pointed look. “Like why are you managing the Marguerite if you hate it? Do you know how hugely hypocritical of you that is?”

“Hugelyhypocritical?” he asks with an amused smile.

“Hugely. You pestered me for half a year about standing up for myself—you called me a coward just a few days ago—and now it turns out you work a job you hate?”

His lips press together as he looks down at his plate. When he glances at me, he nods. “All right. Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

I don’t even pretend to consider it, since I have about a billion questions to ask him. “Fine. Go on.”

“Yeah, right. I fell for that once already.”

With a groan, I sit on the stool on the other side of the islandand absentmindedly trace the rim of my cup. I can’t tell him much about the last few months of my life, not without involving his father, but I can own up to my fears. “I’m not afraid to cook, Ian. I know I’m a great chef, and I’m not here because of my father. Sure, being Hammond Preston’s daughter makes me privileged, but I’m a talented cook regardless of him.”

“Is that what the article said?” he asks in a soft, worried voice. “That you’re just your father’s daughter?”

“Yeah. Among many other things.” It’s like the words have been burned into my brain. “Sometimes you just have to accept you failed and move on. Clinging to a collapsed fantasy doesn’t magically fix it.” When he gives me a sad smile, I straighten and square my shoulders. “I don’t want to cook professionally anymore. That’s it. Only for me and, well, for you.”

He smiles down at his pasta and, leaning forward, takes hold of my wrist and squeezes gently. The gesture sends my heart into a frenzy. “Amelie, you’re not—”

“No, no,” I say, stopping him. “I showed you mine. Now you show me yours, remember?”

With a sigh, he pulls his hand back. “Right. Hmm…” He rubs his shoulder. “Where to start.”

“Start from the beginning,” I say as I gather the butter, fruit, and sugar I used to make macarons.

He inhales deeply, his jaw tense as he fidgets with the fork in his hand. “Okay. I told you about my mom and her stupid-ass plan to get me to reconsider marriage.”

Sure. She left him only half of his inheritance and stipulated he’d get the rest if and when he got married. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well”—his eyes dart to the stick of butter—“her inheritance is the Marguerite.”

My mouth hangs open as I piece it all together. Ian said his mom died about ten years ago, and the Marguerite was opened only a year before. “The Marguerite was your mom’s?”

“Mm-hmm.” He picks at a piece of pancetta. Then, suddenly, there’s a look of disgust on his face. “Ugh—the smell.” Using a napkin to wrap the butter, he looks around, places it in my bag, then pushes it toward me. “Oof. Much better.” When I roll my eyes, he continues. “So you already know my dad used to work as an accountant.”

Oh, I know. It’s one of my go-to insults for him.

“My mom was the cook. She didn’t come from a long line of geniuses like the Prestons,” he says with a teasing smile, “but she was talented. Her family was well-off, so she never worked. We would often cook together for family and friends.” He eats a forkful of pasta and sighs. “Eventually, she decided to open the Marguerite. My dad quit his job to help her manage it, and the dream was that one day I’d cook alongside her.”

“You?” I can’t help my surprise. “Cooking?”

“Well, don’t sound so fucking shocked, Amelie.” He balls up another napkin and throws it at me. “Damn chefs. I swear to God, only doctors are as self-important as you guys.”

“Hey!” I half-heartedly pout, then add, “Yeah, you’re right.”

“Anyway,” he says with a reprimanding glance, “I sucked. I was just… terrible. Anything I touched turned into inedible, carbonized shit, and my mom would tell me comforting lies. How I’d improve with time and one day I’d become the best chef in the world.” Smiling regretfully, he shakes his head. “I lost interest after she died. Maybe I just grew out of it; maybe it wasn’t fun once she was gone. I don’t know. I was still basically a kid.” He takes a sip of water, then sets the glass down. “When my mom passed, my dad took over. Hired a bunch of chefs to teach him the ropes and help us keep the business going, and it obviously worked.”

I manage to hold back my snarky comment, and he must notice, because he chuckles, his tongue darting over his bottom lip. “The point is, I lost interest and turned to management. I love my job, Amelie. I wouldn’t do it otherwise.”