Lulu was shaking, but it wasn’t from fear. “I know exactly who he is. He flirts, but he doesn’t act on it. And you, of all people, should know that because he’s just like you. He’s the life of the party, but he’s also loyal and just as protective of me as you are.”
“God, Lulu.” Stella was almost shouting. “You’re only seeing what you want—”
“No.” Wrenching her hands free, Lulu took a step back. “Your job as my maid of honor—as my sister—isn’t to tell me what’s right or wrong. Your job is to stand beside me, and if things go sideways, you can hand me a pint of chocolate fudge ice cream, a spoon, and a box of Kleenex. But I’m telling you right now, if you can’t support me, then you won’t be standing with me at the altar tomorrow.”
Lulu turned away from them, making a beeline for the kitchen.
“What is your problem?” she heard Gigi say.
“How can you stand here and let her make the biggest mistake of her life?” Stella said. “Why is everyone acting like this wedding is okay?”
The back of Lulu’s neck prickled, as though the eyes of everyone in the restaurant were on her, pitying her. As if they all knew something she didn’t about Trace.
But it wasn’t true. She did know him.
He was a football player who’d dreamed of playing professionally since he was a little boy. Obviously, he was enamored with her dad, loved hanging around him and getting career advice. What was wrong with that? She wanted him to be close to her family. And he flirted with everybody—the bus driver for away games, the security guard at the mall.
That’s just who he is.
Unused to high heels and tight dresses, she grew self-conscious and wished like hell she’d been born with a tenth of Stella’s confidence and style.
But she hadn’t been, so she sought the comfort of the one place on earth she felt like her best self. As she pushed through the doors, the heat hit her first, followed by the scents of grilled meat and chopped herbs. Nothing soothed her like being in the beating heart of a restaurant, with the steam rising, oil sizzling, and everyone busy at their workstations.
Here, she felt competent and in control. She felt beautiful in the only way that mattered to her—she created dishes that made people sigh with pleasure.
Jonny Lee James, the owner and executive chef, spotted her. A big grin cracked his rugged features. Wiping his hands on a dish towel, he opened his arms and came towards her. “My sweet girl.”
She fell against him, breathing in the scents of caramelized onions and sautéed garlic embedded in his chef’s jacket.
“Have you come to boss me around?” Tipping his head, he grinned. “Make my béchamel sublime?”
But she didn’t feel like joking, so she nestled in, comforted by his embrace. He got the message and held her instead of talking.
She should be happy. She should be on top of the world.
But she didn’t think she could do that without Stella’s support. In fifth grade, when Lulu had a crush on Danny Keene, Stella had invited him over for a playdate. Stella had been eight years old.
When Lulu didn’t have a date for the junior prom, Stella surprised her with a weekend in Seattle. They’d had an absolute blast, posting pictures on social media, so everyone would think she couldn’t make the dance because of a trip with her mom and sister—not because no one had asked her.
So, for Stella to not like Trace—to not trust him—it meant something. She didn’t want to choose between her husband and her sister. She shouldn’t have to. But if Stella couldn’t accept this marriage, this relationship…how would that work? Every time her sister and Trace were in the same room, would Stella accuse him of hitting on her? Would she start avoiding them?
Lulu needed her sister. Couldn’t bear the idea of them growing apart.
“There she is.” Her mom’s voice rose above the kitchen noises. “I knew I’d find you here.”
Chef Jonny pulled away to greet the tall, slender, and beautiful Joss Montalbano, a former supermodel who’d passed her poise and confidence on to all her daughters, except one.
Me.
“One day, she’s going to get this place a Michelin star.” Her mom beamed at her with so much pride, Lulu almost felt guilty for choosing Penn State over Le Cordon Bleu, as everyone had expected.
She probably should’ve gone to Paris, but she’d wanted so badly to be normal. To have fun and party and go wild. Unfortunately, it hadn’t taken even one semester to accept that she just wasn’t that person.
But she’d found Trace, and that made attending a big university worthwhile.
“Trust me, she’ll do much bigger and better things than The Homesteader Inn.” Chef Jonny squeezed her shoulder.
Lulu shook her head. “If Michelin covered Wyoming, you’d have a star. No question.” People came from all around the world to stay at the romantic inn nestled in the woods of the Teton Mountain Range. A twelve-course meal prepared by Chef Jonny was on bucket lists—people booked reservations a year in advance.
“Well, come on, sweetie, we’re about to do toasts,” her mom said.
“Excellent.” Chef Jonny untied his apron. “Let me find my lovely bride, so she can open the champagne.”
Her mom hooked an arm through hers, and together they made their way back to the head table, where her dad still talked with his friends. Only, Trace was no longer with them. She scanned the dimly lit room.
This restaurant…it was so beautiful. Low, beamed ceilings made the large space feel cozy and warm, and the stucco walls with antique sconces gave it a European feel.
Her love of cooking had flourished right here. When she was thirteen, Chef Jonny had walked into her pop-up restaurant in the center of town, tasted her food, and said, “I didn’t take you seriously. I thought your parents were letting you play restaurant, that you’d be selling hot dogs or grilled cheese sandwiches.” He’d looked her right in the eye. “I was wrong.”
She smiled, remembering the way his eyelids had fluttered closed, the way he’d moaned when he’d tasted her garlic aioli sauce. He’d told her right then and there that one day, when she was old enough, she was going to cook for him.
She’d started the very next summer and had worked in his kitchen every holiday and vacation since. Chef Jonny loved to parade her around the restaurant, warning people to “look out for this one. You’re going to be reading about Lulu Cavanaugh one day.”
Her mom leaned over. “Go get Trace so we can start.”
She didn’t see him anywhere, so she reached out to her dad. “Do you know where Trace went?”
He spun around with a big smile. Everyone loved Tyler Cavanaugh, not because he was one of the best quarterbacks who’d ever played, but because he listened to their stories. He cared.
He was such a good guy.
“No idea.” He glanced at his wife, who held up a champagne flute. He gave her a nod, then reached for Lulu, enfolding her in his arms. “Okay, but before we do toasts, let me just say one thing. Tomorrow, I’m symbolically giving you away, but you’ll always be my little girl. You know that, right?”
She nodded against his chest. When he was about to pull away, she looked up at him. “Do you think I’m making a mistake marrying Trace?”