Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
"I have a lot to coordinate!" I stammered.
"Emma." Lily's voice softened. "The wedding is practically planned. You're just using it as an excuse."
“A wedding plan is a living, breathing thing. It’s like a sick patient, and it needs constant care and supervision. The moment I look away, it’ll turn over and croak on me. Is that what you want?”
“I want my big sister to be happy and enjoy this like I am. It doesn’t have to be perfect, Em. I’m marrying the man of my dreams. It could rain on us. Birds could poop on my dress.” She smiled and shrugged. “It’ll just make for a funny story we can tell our friends until they get tired of hearing it. Our crazy, unique wedding. Or it’ll be perfect. Who knows, and who cares? I’m getting married, Em!” She did a little hopping dance that made the seamstress scowl. “I’m too happy to care about the details.”
I smiled, but I couldn’t quite let her words sink in and register. “Well, that’s great. But I should really go check on the florist. Some of the flowers they sent still weren’t good enough, and the replacements should be getting delivered—”
"Tomorrow afternoon," Lily finished. "Which you know because you've triple-checked everything. Stop running."
I made another excuse about checking with Chef Antoine and fled anyway, because apparently that's what I did best these days.
The resort's halls were quiet, with most guests out on the ski slopes or taking part in various amenities around the building. Some were probably still sleeping in, too. I found myself wandering toward the kitchen, where Chef Antoine was supervising final menu testing.
"Ah! My favorite wedding planner!" He gestured me over with a flour-covered hand. "Try this."
He held out a spoon of something that smelled divine. I took a bite and nearly moaned.
"Good?"
"Incredible. What is it?"
"The sauce for the duck breast. Though..." He frowned at the pot. "Perhaps it needs more thyme."
"It's amazing," I assured him. "But I can stick around if you want to test more ideas. You know, just to be sure."
He laughed. "You cannot hide in my kitchen forever, chérie."
"I'm not hiding!"
"No? You try to tell me I do not know the look of troubled love? I, a man who understands the recipe of love in a way only a chef can? I, who—”
“Okay, okay,” I said, laughing slightly as I slumped into a chair. “Why is everybody trying to give me relationship advice today?”
"Because you are a wonderful woman who people cannot help but respect. And today, your face has trouble written all over it.” He rolled some fresh thyme leaves and expertly cut them into small pieces, then stirred them into the sauce. "That man of yours, he looks at you like you are the most exquisite dish he has ever seen. And you look at him the same way. So why do you run? Why are you not with him right at this moment?"
"It's complicated."
"Bah. Love is always complicated. That is what makes it interesting." He tasted the sauce, added a pinch of something. "Did I ever tell you how I met my wife?"
I shook my head.
"I was working in Paris, very serious about my career. She was American, visiting for a cooking class. She spoke terrible French, burned everything she touched, and somehow set fire to a bowl of cereal."
I laughed despite myself. "How do you set fire to cereal?"
"She just learned how to flambé, and imagined she was going to be the genius who discovered its uses in the world of breakfast cereal. She wanted to ‘caramelize the oats,’ she said. Can you even imagine? She was terrible in the kitchen. The worst student I ever had." His eyes went hazy with memory. "And I fell madly in love with her. My family said I was crazy. Her family thought I was just after a green card. But sometimes..." He shrugged. "Sometimes the heart knows what it wants, even when the head says no."
"And you lived happily ever after?"
"Of course not! She still cannot cook to save her life. She could not put her shoes in the shoe bins. She sings terribly, and often. But she makes me laugh every day, and that is worth more than perfect soufflés, no?"
Before I could respond, one of his sous chefs called him away. I sat there thinking about his words until my phone buzzed.
Maggie: Did you talk to him yet?
Me: I'm working on it.
Maggie: That's a no. Stop being a chicken.
Me: I'm not being a chicken. I'm being cautious.
Maggie: Bock bock bock!
Her last text was followed by a few chicken head emojis. Jerk.
I pocketed my phone with a groan and headed for my next meeting. The resort's event coordinator wanted to review the reception layout one more time.
I was so lost in thought I nearly crashed into Marcus coming around a corner.