Page 92 of The Wedding Menu

I fidget with the stone on my engagement ring. “Yeah. I mean, I can’t take days off right now, but—”

“I’ll come there.”

My brows shoot up. “But—”

“I’ll drive. It’s fine.”

“Ian, youdoget it’s only a friendly thing, right? There wouldn’t be any… funny business? Just dinner or a drink?”

“Is Frank coming?”

I fight really hard not to laugh. Frank? No. Frank isn’t coming. Frank will be informed of this date the moment we agree to it, and he will most definitely not be aware of the “friendly” addendum.

Of course, Ian won’t get the full truth either. I don’t trust what he’d do if he knew I’m technically allowed to sleep with him. If he dials up the charisma a notch, I’m afraid I just might. “No, I don’t think he’d want to come.” My eyes narrow. “But hecanif he wants to.”

“I get it. No funny business, just dinner. Afriendlydate.”

My body tingles with adrenaline. I can’t believe he’s serious about this, but he seems considerably more chipper than he was before, so who am I to argue? “And you won’t go on a date with Ella?”

“I’ll cancel on her right now.”

I can’t help but smile. Though there’s certainly some jealousy at play, I mean it. If he were with a good person—a woman who loves him and deserves him—I’d be the first one to cheer them on. I know I have no claim on Ian. But Ella? I’d be a bad friend if I didn’t do everything in my power to stop him from getting hurt again. “Okay. We have a deal.”

“Next Friday.”

“NextFriday?” I shriek.

“Yes, next Friday. Until then, I have work.”

“Ian—”

“No funny business, just a friendly date. I promise.”

“Okay.” I have to cover my mouth with my hand to conceal my broad smile. “Friday.”

“Great. I’ll see you soon, then.”

“You’re crazy.”

It sounds as if he’s smiling as broadly as I am as he says, “Text me when you’re home safe.”

Don’t Slip on the Butter

— TODAY—

“Amelie? What was that noise?” The handle of the door rattles. “Are you okay?”

I wail, the throbbing pain in my shoulder only second to the gut-wrenching awareness that I can’t get up. I’m stuck in a bathtub, in only my panties, with one leg shaved, the other one hairy, and the lower half of my body buttered like French toast.

“I—”

“Amelie?”

I groan, holding a butter-slick hand over my eyes. “I’m fine! I’m—I’m not fine but I’m… fine.”

“Can you please open the door?”

Oh, God. The door is locked. The door is locked! Ian can’t help me, as humiliating as that would be. He’s going to have to call someone from the hotel. Hell, they might have to call the fire department. How much more pathetic will I look when they find me and I’m bawling?