“I love you so much,” she says, clinging to me tighter. “You’re perfect. You’ve always been perfect. It’s me who—” She stops herself, burying her face against my shirt.
I pull back just enough to look at her tear-stained face, more confused than ever. “Ma belle, please—”
“I can’t lose you,” she whispers, fresh tears welling in her eyes. “I just can’t.”
“This is about Maman, isn’t it? What did she do this time?”
Meesha stops abruptly.
“This has nothing to do with your mother,” she says, but there’s less conviction in her voice.
“Bullshit. Ever since she showed up with Fréd, you’ve been on edge.” I loosen my grip on her but don’t let go. “What happened? Did she call you again about the menu?”
“It’s not—” she starts, then stops. “Yes. She did. She called the caterer directly and tried to change our selections.”
I sigh, running my free hand through my hair. “I’ll talk to her. Again. I promise.”
“It’s not just that.” Meesha’s shoulders slump. “It’s everything. The dress, the caterer, the flowers... I’m drowning in all of this, Connor.”
I pull her into my arms, feeling her resist for just a moment before melting against me. “I’m sorry, ma belle. I’ve been trying to catch up with work from the past month, but I’ll step my game up.”
“Thank you,” she mumbles against my chest, her words muffled. “We have the cake tasting next week.”
“I’ll be there, ma belle.”
“This is too sweet,” Maman says, making a face as she samples the lemon cake with raspberry filling. “Connor has never liked overly sweet desserts.”
I close my eyes briefly, counting to five in my head. We’re thirty minutes into our cake tasting at Delectable Desserts, and Maman has criticized every sample Meesha has shown interest in.
“Actually, I love this one, ma belle,” I say, placing my hand over Meesha’s on the table. Her smile looks brittle.
Meesha leans in close to me. “Babe, how did your mother know we were here? I thought this was just going to be us.”
I grimace. “My secretary told her when she dropped by the office looking for me. I’m sorry, ma belle.”
“I see.”
“In Québec, our wedding cakes are much moister. These are a bit... dry, non?” Maman adds.
Elise’s smile tightens. “We can adjust the moisture level to your preference.”
“Perhaps we should try the chocolate with hazelnut next,” Meesha suggests, reaching for the sample.
“Oh, but Connor has always preferred vanilla to chocolate,” Maman interjects before I can even taste it. “Ever since he was a little boy.”
“Franchement, Maman. That was twenty years ago,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. “My tastes have changed.”
Meesha slides the chocolate sample toward me, her eyes challenging me to contradict my mother. I take a bite, the rich flavor melting on my tongue.
“This is excellent,” I say truthfully.
“Are you sure?” Maman raises an eyebrow. “What about the orange and vanilla? That would be much more sophisticated.”
Meesha gripped her fork. The past week has been tense between us. Since that day in my office, she’s been alternating between clinging to me and pushing me away. Something is definitely wrong, but every time I try to bring it up, she changes the subject.
“Maman,” I say firmly, “this is Meesha and my wedding cake. We’ll choose what we like.”
“I’m only trying to help,” she says with a wounded look. “After all, most of the guests will be from her side. If we don’t weave in our preferences, we’ll have contributed nothing.”
