The Wedding Menu (Love & Other Recipes)

Chapter 1 It Starts with a Wedding

It Starts with a Wedding

— O NE YEAR AGO —

A petal falls off the daisy at the center of the table, bright and yellow as the sun even among the many colorful flowers in the bouquet. Leaning forward, I grab it and rub my finger on the velvety surface. With the loud bass beats pulsing through my body, my bones rattle, my heart matching the daunting pace—though that could be the work of one too many margaritas.

Setting my drink down, I take in the crowd of people in cocktail dresses and tuxedos chatting around me. We’ve danced since dinner, and my social battery is drained. I’m done for the day, and grateful that my table is empty.

Martha hasn’t been around for hours, so she must be somewhere with her fiancé, Trevor. And because I refuse to be the target of the unaccompanied gentlemen at this wedding, I’ve kept my awkward moves to a minimum and my drinking to a maximum.

Someone sits beside me, and I expect it to be Trevor or Martha. As the closest friends of the bride and groom, we share the table next to the one reserved for parents and siblings of the newlyweds. Instead, it’s one of them . The single guys. The ones who scout the room with ever so much interest. Most people stick to their dates or their friends, but not them.

Sleek, smooth jaguars, prowling and stalking their prey.

He looks innocuous enough, but I’m not interested in testing my theory, so I offer him an apologetic smile. “Engaged.”

As he tilts his head, his deep steel-blue eyes lighten up with amusement. “Congratulations, but I’m just looking for a seat. A woman stole mine, and she looks like she might need it more than me.”

He points to the right, to Barbara’s grandma. I see what he means, since Mrs. Wilkow uses a wheeled walker and offers everyone butterscotch candy.

“Oh, sorry,” I say to the stranger, a hot prickle of embarrassment spreading across my cheeks. “Didn’t mean to be presumptuous. Just a long day.”

“We’ll sit in silence, then.” He leans back and smiles down at his drink, barely masking the width of his grin. He looks like a high schooler who’s been sent to detention and can’t take it seriously.

“Friend of the groom?” I ask.

His eyes meet mine, long lashes framing his ocean-blue irises. “I thought you didn’t want to talk.”

I didn’t, but it’d be awkward to sit here in silence. We might as well entertain each other. “I’m Amelie,” I say as I give him a tiny wave.

“Ian.”

“The bride and I work together.”

Lowering his gaze, he unbuttons the sleeves of his white shirt and rolls them over his forearms like he knows what he’s doing. “Isn’t it weird?” he asks as he uncovers thick wrists covered in black tattoos. My eyes follow the hypnotic movement, every other noise fading away for a moment as I force my gaze back to his face. “How, when you meet people at weddings, the icebreaker is: what the hell you’re doing there. Does it establish a certain hierarchy? Like, if you’re a friend and I’m their contractor, does it mean you’re better than me?”

A light chuckle bubbles out of me, and with a shrug I say, “It’s what me, you, and every other person in this room have in common. We know either the bride or the groom, and we’re here to celebrate them.”

The ice cubes in the honey-brown liquid in his glass click as he brings it to his lips. “I’ve never met the newlyweds. I’m sure they deserve to be celebrated, but”—he looks around—“I don’t even know what Bianca looks like.”

“Barbara.”

With a snap of his fingers, he nods. “Right. Barbara.”

My eyebrows shoot up. He doesn’t even know the name of the bride? “Why are you here?”

“Our dads are friends.” He points at an older man chatting with Barbara’s dad and wearing yet another dark tuxedo. He stands with his back to us, only his salt-and-pepper hair visible above shoulders as wide as his son’s. “He dragged me along.”

I nod, noticing the annoyed undertone in his voice. He’s definitely not happy to be here, and I’m reminded of Barbara’s freakout a few months back when she found out her dad had invited a lot of his acquaintances, turning her wedding into a “networking event.” “Well, at least the food was great,” I offer.

“Oh, yes. Worth the long-ass ceremony.”

Chuckling, I hold my glass up. “The margaritas too. Life-changing.”

“Yeah, looks like you loved those.” He gestures to the several empty long-stemmed glasses surrounding my plate, then asks, “What has you in such a foul mood? You’re not up for socializing; you’re drinking your sorrows away…”

My gaze lingers on his high cheekbones for a while before I avert my eyes, my fingers grazing along the white linen covering the table. He’ll regret this question if I answer it. He’s at a wedding seemingly against his will, and he’s sitting here because someone else took his spot. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“Actually, you’d be doing me a favor. It’s either this,” he says, pointing his long finger between us, “or give into the not-so-subtle interest of the only single bridesmaid, and I’m pretty sure she’s a minor.”

I glance at Barbara’s cousin Alyssa, squeezed into a tiny purple dress barely covering her ass, who turns to Ian every couple of seconds with a coy smile. “She’s twenty-one. You’re fine.”

“Oh.” He snaps his fingers. “Too bad. I have a rule against sleeping with people a decade younger than me.”

“Unreasonable.”

“I know. I’m impossible to please.” He leans forward, the lemony scent of his cologne overpowering my senses for a second. “Come on, entertain me. What’s wrong with your life?”

I let out an unsteady sigh and feel the backs of my knees start to sweat. Truth be told, it’d be easier to discuss nuclear physics than the tangled-up mess my life is. But if he’d like a dose of my problems instead of a young, gorgeous woman wrapped around him, who am I to disappoint?

Leaning against the back of my chair, I resign myself to the truth. “My best friend is the worst.”

“Wonderful.” With a pleased nod, he takes a sip. “Hit me.”

“Martha. She’s here somewhere.”

“I hate her already. What’s wrong with Martha?”

His expression is one of total focus, as if his ultimate goal in life is to hear about my drama. But I want to offer him an out, so I ask, “Are you sure you want me to tell you?”

His head slowly bobs up and down. “I’m deeply invested.”

“All right: your loss.” Straightening, I clear my throat, as if I am about to deliver a lecture on the meaning of life. “Martha and I were born one week apart in the same hospital. Our families were neighbors. We went to the same schools, and—”

“Dated the same guys and practiced the same sports and—wait. Are you engaged to the same man?”

The pulsing lights paint his face pink, and, with a cocked brow, I ask, “Do you want me to dump my problems on you or not? Because I can call Alyssa over.”

“You wouldn’t dare. Proceed.”

“We’re very different, but we also went through many of the same things at the same time. Graduations, birthdays, first boyfriends, first time. Don’t,” I say when the left corner of his mouth quirks up. “Same things, same time, not together.”

Stifling a chuckle, he says, “It’s bound to get competitive.”

“It never was. She always won, but I didn’t mind.” I drain my margarita and set the glass down. “She had the best grades, chose a higher-paying career. She got all the guys, the bigger apartment, and I never resented her for it. I always celebrated her success as my own.”

“Did you say she got all the guys?” he asks, tipping his head to the side.

“Yeah, she’s gorgeous.” I straighten my dress. “Men always go for her.”

“Where is she?” His head turns left and right. “If she’s prettier than you, I definitely want to meet her.”

Fighting a smile, I click my tongue. Though he’s obviously messing with me, that’s been my whole life. I’ve always been the friend who men approach to find out if Martha is seeing anybody. “She’s engaged too.”

His eyes fill with understanding, a low hum vibrating out of his throat. “Oh, I know where this is going. You’re getting married on the same day, aren’t you?”

With a half-hearted chuckle, I shake my head. I wish that were the problem. “I’m crazy about weddings.” Fidgeting with the stem of my glass, I continue, “Martha? Not so much. She always said she was going to have an extravagant ceremony. In a casino or an amusement park. She’d arrive on a horse and wear a short red dress—not white, because white’s associated with virgins, and…” I chuckle, waving the thought off. “She has a lot to say about that. No veil, lots of drinking games and dancing. The party of the century, you know?”

He gives me an appreciative nod, and I know Martha already won him over. “And you? What do you picture?”

“Simple. On a beautiful farm, with white flowers and fairy lights and floating candle centerpieces. Hydrangea and ranunculus, a white dress and a beaded veil.”

“No idea what most of that means, but it sounds nice. What’s the problem, then?”

“I’m getting there.” He motions at me to proceed, so I cross my legs and look around. “Things changed when she got engaged. All of a sudden, Martha no longer wanted her crazy Vegas wedding. No, sir. She wanted the complete opposite.”

“Oh.” His expression shifts to one of concern. “She’s stealing your wedding.”

“All of it. The flowers, the photographer, the band. Every. Single. Detail.”

He huffs his disapproval. “Jesus, Amelie. You can’t let her.”

I wish it were that easy. Resting my chin on the palm of my hand, I look down at my empty plate while yet another lock escapes my hairdo. “Well, I can’t really say anything because I’m not…” I venture a look at him, and he’s watching me so intently, it makes me wonder if he gives his undivided attention to everyone, or if there’s a deeper reason for his interest. “I’m not engaged engaged.”

His eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

“I’m technically… Hmm, I guess you could call it ‘pre-engaged.’?”

His gaze moves to my hand, probably to confirm there’s no ring on it. “So you have a boyfriend.”

I press my lips together. “ No. I’ve had a boyfriend for fifteen years, and he’s going to propose soon, so I’m pre-engaged.”

“Yeah, that’s not a thing.”

“It’s a thing,” I snap, catching his smile widening.

“All right. It’s a thing. So why aren’t you engaged yet after fifteen years?”

Looking around the table, I search for my most recent margarita and take a sip, then I set it down and gesture broadly at the empty glasses. “Funny you should ask, because I’ve been playing a really fun game tonight where I take a drink every time someone asks me why Frank and I aren’t married yet.”

His lips open in a tight O before he manages a soft “I see.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“So you can’t say anything to Martha, because technically you’re not getting married yet.”

“Technically,” I admit, and when his eyes light up with a twinkle of amusement, I point my finger at him. “No, no. I’m still right. You see, my boyfriend doesn’t get it, either, but there’s an unspoken agreement. I chose a bouquet of red roses when I was ten and a dark green off-shoulder dress for my bridesmaids when I was fifteen. They’re as good as booked, Ian.”

“Of course. I get it.” He nods as he rubs his chin, his gaze intently set on mine. “It’s important to you, and your friend is being careless of your feelings. That’s not cool.”

“Thank you,” I say in agreement. It’s liberating to have someone take my side for once.

He shifts in his chair and turns my way, bringing his hand to the side of his neck as his blue eyes fill with a kindness I’ve never experienced before. Right then I realize I like Ian. He’s definitely one of the good guys. “You said your ‘preancé’ doesn’t agree?”

“Oh, we’ve had an entire season of fights lately. The latest episode aired today, in fact.”

“A whole season, huh?” He leans forward, his interest piqued again. “Well, if I’m binge-watching, we’re going to need more drinks.”

He stands with a smile, then walks to the bar. His back is wide and inviting, and with each stride the muscles of his thighs flex under his suit pants. His broad chest stretches his white shirt to its limits, and his thick hair falls in a thoughtless manner over the sides of his face.

A few eyes follow him as he sets his elbow on the counter and talks to the bartender. Ian is the type of man who would attract the attention of the gentler sex, for sure. Plus, he’s got the attitude thing figured out. There’s a cocky but casual quality to his movements, his expressions—loads of self-confidence, humor, and wit. He might be one of the good guys, but if he’s single, it must be because he wants to be.

He drops himself into the chair next to mine a few minutes later, a margarita and a glass of something that looks like whiskey in his hands. “So, is that why he’s not here? Your boyfriend?”

Lips pinching, I nod. I’ve had to justify his absence with a sudden fever to a billion people already, bride and groom included. “His company asked him to move to manage one of their offices, and he wants to go. It’s only temporary, six months. But my job is here, so…”

“Long-distance?”

That’s Frank’s plan. Which is not ideal, but I’m willing to do it for a while. The fight was actually about him accepting the job without even talking to me about it first. To be honest, it felt like he couldn’t wait to get away.

Barbara walks toward us in a fluffy white princess dress, holding her new husband’s hand and waving my way as they leave the dance floor. Soon, that’s going to be me, I hope, and I wish I were more excited, but the upcoming separation from Frank and the drama with Martha have sucked out all the joy.

With a long sigh, I take another sip.

“Okay, I have the solution to your wedding problem,” Ian says, standing and buttoning his gray suit jacket over his crispy white shirt. Only then, his arm reaches out, his hand open and waiting for mine. “And it starts with a dance.”