Chapter 40 Cease the Activity
Cease the Activity
— T ODAY —
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, I just… I know you won’t be able to look past this, and you’re so close to your dad. I just…”
Still no movement except for his chest heaving, so at least I know he’s breathing. But his eyes are still slits focused on the carpet. His fists are still clenched on his thighs, and there’s not a hint of the good, patient man I know left in him. He’s furious. Is he mad at me too? Is he planning a murder? I have no idea.
“He blocked your number on my phone,” he hisses after a while. Before I can ask how he figured it out, he forges on. “He drove with me to your wedding, and the whole time he kept trying to dissuade me. Said it was a mistake, that I would end up getting hurt. When I called and you didn’t answer, I left my phone in the car and came in.”
My mouth hangs open, a fresh wave of rage taking over my brain. Of course it was him. I should have realized it before. He’s gone to such extremes to protect his son from me that blocking my number is really the tamest of his interferences.
“How did he know?”
“What?” I ask.
“That you were you. I told him about us, but I never mentioned your name. He’s been known to overshare during interviews, and with you being engaged I was very careful. So how did he figure it out?”
I shake my head, thinking of the day of my wedding. “After I missed your call, I called you back immediately. He must have seen my contact and—” Even before I finish my sentence, I remember the screenshot Ian sent me the night we met. “Beautiful” with a red heart. He didn’t use my name to save my contact. So maybe… maybe it was during that night at the Marguerite. He did flip out at some point, but why?
My eyes widen as it comes back to me. “He saw the ring. Your—the ring he got for your mom.” I pull it out of my shirt and show it to him. “And midway through our dinner, after seeing it, he kicked me out.”
He exhales deeply, as if the information only fuels his anger. We’ve been sitting here a while, so I’m pretty sure William and my father are already giving their lecture, and missing it might be the one perk of this whole situation. But then again, if Ian breaks up with me now, everything else will pretty much disappear in comparison.
He might, right? Sure, he said I’m the most important person in his life, and with everything that he’s given and shown me over the last year, I believe him. But William is his dad. I guess there is a chance that, despite his actions, Ian will choose him.
Or maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll find a way to forgive his dad and be with me, and I won’t need to pretend I like William for the rest of my life.
Maybe. But not knowing is killing me.
“Do you want to—”
He leaps to his feet and, without a word, strides out of the room in a fury. If I’m to guess, looking for his dad, and if I’m to be even more specific with my guess, to strangle him.
“Ian!” I barge out of the room and along the corridor after him. “Ian, wait. They’re giving the seminar. The whole world is there. TV. Newspapers. Don’t make a scene right now or you’ll sink your mom’s restaurant. Please.”
He ignores me, his bloodshot eyes focused on the goal, and rushes down the stairs. My begging does nothing to slow him down, and once we arrive at the hotel hall, I step in front of him and reach for both his arms.
“Ian, please wait.”
“Amelie, let me go.”
“I know you’re angry, but—”
“ Angry ?” His eyes meet mine, and I know angry doesn’t adequately describe his emotional state. Maybe… murderous . “I’m way past angry, trust me. My father ruined your life. He killed your reputation. He knew you weren’t married—that you were wearing my ring, even—and didn’t say a word to me. He let me suffer for months, thinking you were married to that asshole.”
“I know, but your restaurant! Your mom’s restaurant!”
“Do you think my mom would have wanted this? That she would have approved of it? If she’d known all of this would happen, she would have burned the Marguerite down herself.” He walks past me and toward the largest conference room. “Now watch me burn it to the ground.”
Panic strangles me as he opens the doors to the conference room, and a few interested eyes meet mine because of the commotion. William is on the small stage, talking into a microphone about market trends, and my dad is scowling behind him.
With the glances I steal at the audience, I notice three of the well-known critics who reviewed my restaurant, journalists from Yum magazine with their cameras rolling, head chefs and owners of some of the biggest restaurants in the country. There must be hundreds of people in here, and among them most of those who count in the industry.
“ Ian ,” I whisper-scream. “ Ian, wait. ”
But he doesn’t, instead hopping onto the stage without a pause until he’s facing William. His father looks confused for about a second; then his son’s clenched fist crashes into his nose and he falls back with a loud thump.
The collective gasp is as deafening as the one people had for me when I announced my wedding wasn’t going to happen—and, if possible, just as painful.
Ian reaches down, grabbing his father by the collar of his suit. I rush onto the stage, and my father steps in front of me to keep me away from the commotion. “Ian,” I beg as I try to get past his imposing figure.
William’s face is smeared with blood, his hands clinging to his son’s shirt as Ian pulls him up. There’s a confused look in his eyes, which I’m sure is only the result of the punch he took, because he must know what this is about.
“What did you do to her?” Some people have stormed the stage in order to separate the two of them, but Ian has lost all control and is close to growling as he tries to free himself from the arms that are holding him back. “You ruined her life. For what, huh? What was your goal? Revenge?”
William’s eyes slowly refocus on his son as someone hands him a tissue and someone else calls for water. Everyone in the room is talking, moving, speculating. All of it in front of cameras and journalists. This is a damned disaster. A clusterfuck of epic proportions.
“She…” William moves toward his son as he dabs his bloody nose with a grimace. “She hurt you, Ian, and—”
“She hurt me?” Ian lunges at him again, but the people standing between them keep him back. “You don’t know her. Don’t know shit about what she went through.”
“It doesn’t matter,” William insists.
“No, you’re right. It doesn’t. Whatever she’s done to me will never justify what you did to her.”
William shakes his head, copious amounts of blood spilling from his nose to his trembling lips. “I wanted to make sure you’d never have to see her again, and I knew if she stayed in our shared business, you eventually would.”
“All I’ve wanted for months was to see her again!” Ian shouts.
God, I want to reach him. I want to hug him and make it all better. If I can’t, I want to at least be there for him, hugging him in silence as he cries out all the tears I’m sure he’s holding back.
“Let’s talk about this in private,” William says, gesturing toward the door.
“Why?” Ian tries to take a step forward. When the middle-aged man in front of him holds a hand to his chest, Ian spreads his arms. “What’s there to keep secret? You don’t think everyone should know the truth?”
With his dark eyes narrowing, William removes the tissue from under his nose. “Think about your mother’s restaurant before you do anything you’ll regret, Ian. Especially for some meaningless girl.”
“ Meaningless ,” Ian grinds out. “You think I care about the Marguerite more than I care about Amelie? I love—” He turns around, looking for me. When his eyes meet mine across the crowd of people on the stage, they soften. “I love you, Amelie.”
My lips tremble for a second, tears falling down my cheeks as soon as I blink. “I know,” I whisper. “I love you too.”
He smiles for just as long, his blue eyes even bluer now that they’re coated in tears. I’m not sure if it’s pain over what happened, anger at his father, or happiness at hearing my words—though probably it’s a mix of all three.
Focusing back on William, he continues, “You know what the restaurant means to me. It’s all we have left of Mom.” His voice breaks, but he shakes his head as if telling himself he’s not allowed to break down. “But I love Amelie more than anything else. She’s alive; she’s here. She has emotions and feelings and dreams, and you squashed them all, you fucking psychopath.”
William’s jaw sets as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks around the room, then turns to his son again. “Ian, you are good. Too good. These women almost killed you with how much they hurt you. And then I find out a Preston broke your heart? I wasn’t going to stand by and—”
“I don’t care!” Ian shouts. “You were all I had left, for fuck’s sake.” With one quick twist of his upper body, he frees himself of the men’s hold. “I’m good. I’m not going to hit him again.”
He turns to the crowd, pulling down his sweater, which has run up his chest in all the commotion. Dragging a shaky hand through his hair, he inhales, then steps up to the microphone. “Hello, everyone. Sorry to interrupt your seminar.”
“ Ian! ” I shriek.
What his father did is illegal. Unethical. It’s the death of the Roberts name and their restaurant. He can’t tell the whole world.
“Most of you know about the idiotic feud between the Robertses and Prestons. Well, it ends today. I have not one single issue with Hammond Preston’s professional life and the way he runs his business.”
“Ian, stop,” William insists, but when he tries to reach his son, he’s held back.
“Most of you also know about Amelie Preston’s recently failed venture, thanks to Yum magazine.” He trains his glare on the journalists and cameramen whose devices bear the magazine’s logo. “With their display of unethical journalism and media bullying, they made sure her professional and personal life were dragged through the mud.”
The murmurs in the room grow, and, feeling all eyes on me, I move behind my dad a little. Probably not the best place to look for protection, but here we are.
“What you don’t know is that my father is responsible for her failure,” Ian continues. “That he used his contacts in the world of fine cuisine to sink her business. And that this industry is permeated by nepotism, corruption, sexism, and all sorts of exhausting shit.” He shakes his head. “Maybe you do know but you don’t care.”
The room is now uncomfortably silent, the occasional squeaking of chairs the only interruption.
“Anyway, I’m done with it. I’m done with all of you, with butter and disgusting fucking cheese, and most of all”—he turns to his father—“I’m done with William Roberts.”
He faces me for just a second, and I wish there weren’t as much pain in his eyes as I see. That I could take some of it away. Then he turns his attention to the silent audience again and takes a deep breath. “The Marguerite is, from today onward, closed.”
My jaw drops, and it’s safe to say the same thing happens to most of the other people in the room. Did he just say he’s closing down the restaurant? Given how upset he is, I’m sure he doesn’t want to work with his father—or see him, for that matter—but can’t we find another solution? Take a moment to think about it?
The room explodes in a cacophony of voices as Ian abandons the microphone and, without one single glance at his father, comes over to me. As the audience members talk excitedly among themselves, the journalists in the room start shouting questions about our relationship and ask for proof of what Ian just revealed. William repeats Ian’s name. My father launches into one of his monologues of French insults. And through it all, Ian drapes his arms around me.
It’s like nothing else exists beyond our hug, and if something did, Ian wouldn’t notice. His face sinks into the crook of my neck, his body shaking against mine, and I’m not sure if he wants to comfort me or needs comforting himself, but I hold him as tightly as I possibly can, not wanting to ever let go.
“I love you,” he whispers. “Let’s leave Mayfield and Creswell. Your father and mine. The restaurants. Let’s leave it all behind together and start over somewhere else.”
“Yes,” I answer without hesitating. I don’t need to think about it, don’t need to consider it or wonder or worry. It’s the easiest yes of my life.
Ian leans back, kisses my lips, then lets me go, the hauntingly sad expression still on his face. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Fucking hell, this baby better be cute,” Barb says, shutting the door of the cab. “I can’t believe I missed a literal smackdown because of a headache.”
The Kent Farm stands before me, the endless fields on my left and right as familiar as they are painful. Stepping on the gravel, I straighten my forest-green dress. “It was quite the show. Of course, not if you’re involved in it.”
“What happened then?”
We approach the entrance of the venue. “Ian wanted us to leave, but you were still there, and with Martha’s wedding today…”
“So where is he?”
“I don’t know.” He said he needed to go and that he’d call me, but he hasn’t yet. He sent a text last night saying that he loves me and that he was settling things with his lawyer and dealing with sponsors and journalists and curious friends. The web’s already filled with articles, and people keep contacting me to hear my side of it, to give an interview or make a statement. It’s even bigger than the Yum magazine ordeal.
Once again, my life’s on everybody’s lips, and I’m loving it as much as the first time: not at all.
“I asked him to come today, but I’m not sure he will. He didn’t answer, and if you knew him, you’d know that’s concerning at best.”
“He can’t be in a good place right now.”
No, he’s most definitely not. His dad and his business—that’s what he lost yesterday. And with that, he lost his best friend, his job, his reputation, his mom’s dream. Wherever he is and whatever he’s doing, he can’t possibly be doing well, and as soon as my responsibilities today are dealt with, I’ll be by his side. I’ll pick up the pieces one by one and put him back together.
“And how are you dealing with all of it?” My eyes meet Barb’s compassionate gaze as she pats my back. “It can’t be easy for you either. All of that plus all of”—she looks around—“this.”
I smile, delighting in the Kent Farm, which I dreamed would be my own wedding location for the longest time. “I’m surprisingly fine. If anything, last year taught me to deal with high stress levels.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
With a chuckle, we enter the barn. The location is mostly empty, apart from the people working here, setting up the bar and bringing flowers to the other side of the property.
“There you are,” Martha says, coming out of a corridor to our right. She’s still in her regular clothes, no makeup, her blond hair in a messy bun. The wedding won’t happen for hours, but shouldn’t she be getting ready? “How was the trip?”
Barb and I exchange a look as Martha distractedly fidgets with her engagement ring, her eyes moving around the room behind us.
“It was… good. Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. No. Yeah.” She smiles briefly, then gently rests her hand on mine. “A coworker sent me an article about you and your restaurant. It’s insane—everything that man did. Will you be okay?”
All right, something’s definitely wrong. It’s Martha’s wedding day, she’s had a full thirty seconds with us, and she’s still not talking about herself.
This is freaky. I hate it.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Where’s Trev?”
“Somewhere around here. I don’t know.”
“And the makeup artist? The photographer? The hairdresser?” Barb asks, her eyebrows knitting together.
“Yeah, yeah. They’re here.” Martha’s eyes meet mine. “I wanted to talk to you before we start with all the wedding craziness.”
“Sure,” I say, tentatively. Barb says she’ll go outside and call Ryan, and once she’s gone, Martha and I settle at a small table by the side of the room. “What’s up?”
Biting her lower lip, she looks down at the table. Her foot taps against the floor, nervous energy bouncing off her as she hesitates. “So there’s a lot I need to cover, but…”
My muscles stiffen, my mood worsening by the second. “What happened?”
She rubs the side of her neck, her green eyes lowering. “Nothing… well, not nothing. I just… Look, this isn’t the wedding I want, okay?” She drags a hand over her face. “You know I’ve always dreamed of something much different. But… but then Trev’s mom…”
“Trev’s mom?”
“Yeah,” she whispers. “I know she’s dead, and she’s my fiancé’s mom, but that woman was an absolute bitch.”
“Martha, I’m not following. What does Trev’s mom have to do with anything?”
“She wasn’t okay with my Vegas-inspired wedding. With upside-down keg drinking and Jell-O shots and fireworks. ‘It’s not classy,’ she said.” Her lips twist, her eyes rolling. “As if her son were the king of England or something. She loved your taste, and I wanted to impress her, and… and I fucked up.”
Oh. Well, that makes much more sense than Martha in a white wedding dress, for sure.
Releasing a breath, I ask, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because!” Her head drops forward but she quickly pulls herself back up straight. “I was embarrassed. Plus, it’s not like it changes anything. What I was doing was so fucked-up. I just couldn’t take her constant nagging, and one day she asked to see your location, and…” She shrugs. “And after that, it all got out of control. She stopped with her constant criticism, and I let it… happen.”
I nod, her visible discomfort filling me with sadness. I guess I should have figured something was wrong, because although she’s definitely self-centered and overbearing, she’s never been mean. During the last year? She was evil.
“Anyway, I know it’s not that great of an apology. The truth is there isn’t much to excuse myself with. I behaved like shit, and I hurt you.” She presses her lips together tightly, blinking again and again. “Since finding out about what you were going through with Frank, I can’t stop thinking about the fact that I put you through all that while you were struggling. Then the restaurant happened, and I…” She pulls her hair up. “And I had no idea! I should have noticed, Ames. I should have said something. I should have—”
“Martha,” I say, pulling her fingers apart when she clenches her hands together. “I appreciate your apology. I understand better than anyone what the pressure and stress of planning a wedding can do to your head.”
“Yeah, it can definitely do a number.” She chuckles bitterly. “It’s kind of ironic, though. I stole your wedding, and we both end up with weddings we hate.”
“Why didn’t you plan something else after Trev’s mom passed?” I ask. It hurts to think she hates her wedding. I know it could have been me, but it wasn’t, and the thought of settling for less than what I want seems unrealistic today.
“Because most of the deposits were already paid. They let us change the date because of the circumstances, but we would have lost too much money if we’d just withdrawn.”
Thinking of all the money I lost with my non-wedding, I nod. “I’m sorry, M.”
“Don’t be. I’m not getting married today.”
My jaw drops. “Come again?”
“I’m not getting married.” She stands, and with the same fidgety attitude she looks to the right. “This wedding has always been yours, and it wouldn’t feel right.”
If someone’s making a study on runaway brides, I’d like to see the numbers. It can’t be as common as it is in our happy little group. “Okay, but… does Trev know? Are you guys okay? What about the guests? Have they been informed, or—”
“Yeah, yeah,” she says distractedly. Trevor comes out of the side corridor, then gestures to her to come. Holding my arm, she pulls me to my feet and begins walking. “Let’s go.”
“What? Where?” I ask. If the wedding isn’t happening and she’s okay, I kind of have somewhere else to be right now. Which is wherever Ian is.
“I need help packing all the makeup and the dress and the shoes and—” She reaches a door, then opens it and smiles. “I know this doesn’t make up for everything, but I hope it’s a start.” She throws herself at me and squeezes me, and after a kiss on my cheek, she gently pushes me forward. As I turn to what looks like the bridal room, my breath catches. It’s filled—filled with flowers. I’m no expert, but they look like daisies, and there must be hundreds of them. Beautiful, long-stemmed yellow daisies in transparent vases scattered all around the room, the scent of spring and grass so intense, I can almost taste it.
And standing in the middle of the room… “Ian,” I whisper as I take a step closer. God almighty, I might faint. He looks perfect in a linen jacket and pants, with a crisp off-white cotton shirt and a dark green tie. His hair is styled back, his beard freshly groomed, his smile still the most beautiful thing about him. That, and the tattoos I can’t see right now. “What are you doing here?”
His grin looks genuine. I don’t know how it could be with what happened yesterday, but he looks excited, and it’s like a balm on burned flesh: soothing and fresh, and boy, do I want to kiss him. “Hi, beautiful.”
I turn to Martha, who disappears into the corridor with a giggle. I look around the room again, then walk toward Ian. “What’s… what’s all this?” When I reach him, my lips find his for a kiss. Then another. And another. “God, I’ve missed you.”
“So have I.” He presses his nose to my forehead and breathes in. “Sorry I vanished like that.”
“It’s completely fine.” My hands snake over his shoulders, and with my arms on each side of his neck, I look down at his linen suit. “How are you doing?”
“I’m…” His hands rub my arms. “…working on it, I guess. But if it’s okay with you, I don’t want to talk about my father right now.”
“Taboo topic?”
He chuckles. “Just for a minute or two.” Leaning backward enough so that he can look into my eyes, he whispers, “Amelie, you have something of mine.”
When his eyes dart to my chest, my fingers close around the ring hanging under my dress. His eyes follow the movement, and with a devastatingly gorgeous smile he whispers, “May I?”
All I can do is nod. He reaches out and fumbles with the clasp of my necklace, unable to see what he’s doing as he looks into my eyes, his face only a few inches from mine. The smell of his aftershave is so comforting, I could just melt against him, and that’s even truer as he withdraws his arms, having successfully unfastened the necklace, and sweetly kisses my cheek.
My hands shake as he leans back and his fingers lace with mine, his mom’s ring in his hands. I’m not exactly sure what’s going on, but he might be proposing. Ian. Proposing .
He slides the ring off the thin chain, then inhales, holding it between his thumb and index finger. “All right. Look, I know this ring is horrifying, but I’ll get you another one. A normal one. Whatever you want.”
Shaking my head, I look down at the ring that’s been my only connection to Ian for so long. “Unpopular opinion. I love your mom’s ring. Yes, it’s a little…” I study the white diamond sitting at the center. “It’s peculiar. But it’s your mom’s. It reminds me of her; it reminds me to be more like her.”
“More of a ‘Fuck it’ attitude?”
“Yeah, fuck it.”
He brings my hand to his lips. He kisses my knuckles, then the top of my hand, and smiles. “Amelie, I should have proposed to you at Barbara’s wedding.” He shakes his head. “I lost so much time with all my nonsense about marriage. My mom was right.”
A smile curves my lips. “Well, we’d just met back then, and I was engaged to someone else. I probably would have said no.”
“Then I should have proposed to you when you texted me for the first time. Or when you called me by mistake. Or when we checked out the band at the Quinns’ wedding. Or at that bridal shop.” He exhales deeply. “I should have proposed to you every time I talked to you until you said yes.”
“Yeah,” I agree, brushing a lock of his hair off his forehead. “It’s definitely in line with your style.”
Huffing out a laugh, he looks down at the floor. “I’m not sure how—Do I get down on one knee? Or is that—”
“No, you’re fine.”
“So do I just… ask?”
“I think you should have planned this before.”
He nods, looking left and right. “You’re probably right. Wait.” He reaches over and grabs some daisies out of one of the vases. He shakes them up and down, getting rid of most of the water dripping from the stems, then offers them to me. “I’ve been trying to give you flowers for a while.”
“You gave me a flower the night we met,” I say as I accept them from him.
“I want to give you flowers every day.”
Ignoring the drops falling on my shoes, I bring them to my nose, inhaling the scent of spring. It makes my heart flutter, goose bumps taking over most of my skin as a single tear rolls down his cheek. This moment—all the moments that will come after this one—they make it all worth it. William Roberts, my restaurant, my father, Martha, Frank… I’d do it all over again. I’d take any path, no matter how painful, as long as it brought me here. To Ian.
For a brief but thoughtful moment, Ian looks around the room, taking in all the daisies, then turns to me, a dazzling smile lighting up his face. “Amelie, will you come to my wedding?” Before I can tell him I’m pretty sure that’s not how he’s supposed to ask, he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Because I’m definitely going to need a bride.”
My hand covers my mouth, joy exploding out of me like tiny fireworks.
That is the cheesiest pickup line in the world.