Minus the last one, anyway.
“Bakeries are a dime a dozen in the Midwest, man. What makes this one so special?” Gerard didn’t really want to know; he wanted to stall. But Peter would tell him anyway.
“I mentioned the blonde.”
Gerard glared. “Not interested.” They couldn’t all have perfect marriages like Peter and his wife, Cynthia. She was a rare find, and Peter knew it. At least they were proof that all marriages weren’t doomed.
Just most.
“I’m kidding.” Peter set the ball back on his desk, then shifted his weight against the side of it. “It’s like this. Apparently the feedback from our last few issues wasn’t stellar. Sales are down—significantly down.”
“Is Trek in trouble?” His heart stammered a beat. If that was true, he might have more pressing problems on his plate than dealing with some silly old women in small-town America.
“Not yet.”
Gerard sank into the chair by Peter’s desk, knowing the movement indicated a white flag on his part, but he couldn’t muster the fight any longer.
He ran his hand down the length of his face. His stubble scrubbed his palm, which was still calloused from that mountain bike excursion he’d written about two weeks ago. Racing bikes on a Pacific cliff required a death grip on the handlebars.
He’d rather do that again, blind and barefoot, than write about some old ladies playing Cupid.
Which reminded him . . . “Did you really refer to the bakery women earlier as love angels?” He winced.
“That’s the YouTube commentary, not mine.” Peter grinned.
“How bad is the magazine doing, for real?” He needed to know, needed to send his mom another check at the end of the month. “Just between us.”
Peter met his eyes, which let Gerard know he was telling the truth. His friend—and boss—had zero poker face and never, ever bluffed. “The magazine is holding its own, and our digital sales are still trending up. But there was enough of a sales dip last quarter, combined with the reader feedback, that corporate was prompted to make some suggestions. They say readers want ‘relatable.’” Peter leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “And, unfortunately, most readers can’t relate to racing bicycles around cliffs or skydiving in the Amazon or deep-sea fishing in Alaska.”
All recent stories Gerard had written. “I see what you did there.”
“Look, this isn’t about a bakery in Kansas.” Peter leaned forward. “I’m trying to help you out, man.”
Gerard set his jaw, wanting to believe that. Peter knew him better than anyone else outside of his family. Knew about his mom. And knew how Kelsey ripped his heart out in her cold, manicured hands three years ago. He also knew that it had taken Gerard a year of extra assignments to pay off the ring she never wore but decided to keep anyway. “How is that, exactly?”
“By giving you a chance. If the big, exotic stories aren’t selling, and you’re the one writing the big, exotic stories . . .” Peter’s voice trailed off, and he leveled his gaze at Gerard. “If you won’t write this feature on the love-lock wall in Kansas, then I’ll find someone who will.”
CHAPTER
THREE
I still can’t believe we’re getting featured in a global magazine.” Mabel poured her second cup of coffee, then surrendered the carafe to Bri’s waiting hand. “Who would have thought? Little ol’ Story, Kansas!”
Bri poured the steaming brew into her favorite mug, the one with the pink Eiffel Towers. “Not just Story, Mabel—the Pastry Puff, specifically. Us.” Unbelievable didn’t quite cover it, although she supposed less worthy causes had gone viral on the internet before. It only took a few cat videos to realize that.
“What’s that thing they discovered us on, again?” Agnes stirred creamer into her mug, then tapped the spoon twice against the side as she always did before sitting down at one of the black iron tables. “View-a-Tube?”
Bri tried to hide her laugh. “It’s YouTube, Agnes.” A week after Casey and Nathan had strolled out of the Pastry Puff, loaded down with macarons and cinnamon coffee, little cartoon hearts pulsing between them, Mabel made a comment about wishing she could have been a fly on the wall on their first date. Bri remembered her earlier thought about how if she’d filmed the sisters’ matchmaking tactics, they’d have been an internet sensation. So, she got permission from Casey to document her and Nathan’s developing story.
That led to going back and getting quotes from all the couples Mabel and Agnes had successfully matched over the years and filming them standing by their love locks that hung all around the gate in the café’s backyard—the gate Bri had incorporated at the bakery years ago, before city officials had shut down the famous love-lock bridge in Paris.
Her plan to generate more business for the bakery and dissuade Charles’s annoying requests for the sisters to sell had worked like a charm. Business had picked up the past few weeks—along with the matchmaking requests. They had been approached by everyone from mothers dragging their gamer sons in by the ear to ol’ Mr. Hansen, who until now rarely left his perch at the checker table outside Johnson’s General. But he’d bought six petit fours in three days and kept eyeballing Agnes like she was the next dessert on the menu.
Bri took her cup to Agnes’s table and pulled up a chair. Mabel joined them, and they all stared into their mugs, processing the impossible. Bri wished her parents were there to see her success. They’d been gone almost a decade, but on days like this, it felt like mere weeks. The pain pinched fresh. Her mom got her start at the Pastry Puff, too, and she’d have been so delighted to see what had developed on her home turf.
“When is the reporter supposed to come?” Mabel asked.
Good question. They hadn’t been given much information on the phone, and Bri had been so blown away, she hadn’t thought to ask for any additional specifics. “The editor from Trek only said he was sending someone this week.”
“Well, I hope she’s nice.” Mabel propped up her chin in one hand, pursing her hot-pink lips.
Bri eyed their overflowing display case. “I hope she likes macarons.”
“I just hope she’s a good writer.” Agnes frowned. “This could go south on us if she’s not.”
“Come on, now. Haven’t you ever heard there’s no such thing as bad publicity?” Bri playfully tapped her arm. “What could go wrong?”
Mabel agreed. “She’s right, Agnes. I doubt they’re sending a reporter all this way just to say bad things about us.”
“I beg to differ.” Agnes lifted her chin, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of a motorcycle revving past the bakery. “We have no idea of their agenda. The media can be very shady.”
The motorcycle revved louder.
“Media? It’s a travel magazine.” Bri grinned. “Hey, I bet Mr. Hansen will read the feature.”
Agnes bristled, a deep red working its way up her throat. “I wouldn’t know anything about his reading habits.”
The door chimed, and Bri swallowed back the next tease threatening to leave her lips. The bubbling laugh died in her throat as a tall, dark-haired man stepped into the bakery, sober-faced, his broad shoulders stretching taut the fabric of a navy T-shirt. He had a leather bomber jacket draped over his arm and a tan backpack hitched on the opposite shoulder. A tattoo crawled out of the sleeve of his shirt and stretched halfway down his arm.
Definitely not the average Story tourist. At least that explained the motorcycle cacophony.
“Afternoon, sir.” Agnes pinned him with a stare that clearly expressed how she expected him to ride his motorcycle through the front door—and that she was absolutely not okay with it. “You needing directions?”
Surely. No way was he there for a petit four. Still, maybe they could sell him something before he hit the street again. She stood, attempting to soften Agnes’s words with her best smile. “Or maybe a cup of coffee?”
His dark eyes darted between the two of them, and he set his backpack in an empty chair a few
tables away. “Maybe. Is it any good?”
Bri’s smile faltered. “I like to think so.”
“Just you?” He laid the jacket on top of his pack, and Bri felt her mouth threaten to unhinge.
She crossed her arms over her apron instead, gathering her composure. “No, not just me. Apparently so do the other customers who have tried it.”
“Ah.” His voice held a trace of an accent, but not one Bri could immediately place. A little bit of Yankee, a little bit of southern drawl . . . where was this guy from? “I can see business is booming.” He cast a doubtful glance around the empty establishment.
Bri lifted her chin, her need to defend the bakery burning strong. “It has been. Perhaps you’ve heard of the Pastry Puff Matchmakers on YouTube?”
“That’s right. We went virus.” Mabel beamed proudly, seemingly oblivious to their customer’s rudeness.
“Viral. We went viral.” Agnes barked the correction with a shake of her head. “She hasn’t gotten that right a single time yet. Though I still don’t fully understand the doohickey on the computer myself.”
“Viral, virus, tomay-to, tomah-to.” Mabel waved her hand dismissively. Then her eyes widened. She reached toward the stranger, who took an automatic step back. “We’re not sick, though, don’t worry.”
He raised one eyebrow.
Mabel gestured eagerly between her and Agnes. “We’re the love angels.”
“Stop it.” Agnes pushed her sister’s hand down with a huff. “I told you that was a ridiculous name.”
Mabel sniffed. “It is not. It’s cute. And catchy.”
“I’ve heard of you.” His deep baritone interrupted the pending argument.
Mabel stuck out her tongue at her sister. “See?”
Bri, mind racing, reached for the still-warm carafe. He’d actually heard of their café? He didn’t seem the type to sit around watching videos about small-town romance. But hey, he was still a guy—maybe he just really liked baked goods.
She tried to start over, ignore his sarcasm. “So, coffee?”
“I guess.”
She hesitated, looking up for confirmation. He was edging closer to the display counter, and the closer he came, the taller she realized he was. At least six-two, maybe six-three. And those muscles.
His dark eyes met hers, and she gripped the handle of the carafe tighter as a blush heated her throat. Hopefully he hadn’t read her thoughts.
She stammered to get them back on the matter at hand. She lifted the carafe. “How do you take your coffee? If you’d rather, I can whip you up a latte or a cappuccino or a cinnamon mocha—”
“Black.”
Of course he drank it black. She had half a mind to pour some sugar in it when he wasn’t looking, just to see if it would sweeten him up a bit.
Her shoulders stiffened. It wasn’t often people didn’t respond to her friendliness with friendliness in return. The often-cranky Mayor Hawthorne always cheered up when she presented him with a smile and a macaron after stressful town meetings. And once when Charles’s ex-girlfriend came into the bakery in a jealous fit over a misunderstanding, Bri had talked her down with a latte and a hot mini-donut.
Her half-fake smile went into full façade. “For here, or to go?” Hopefully to go. She really didn’t see any reason for him to hang around, not with that attitude. She automatically reached for the stack of paper to-go cups.
“For here.”
She yanked her hand back, and the stack of cups tumbled and fell in a heap on the counter. “Really?” The word blurted from her lips before she could censor it, and she quickly pressed her glossed lips together as she gathered the spilled cups.
“You love angels always this friendly to your customers?” A smirk lifted one corner of his mouth, which she couldn’t help but notice was surrounded by what seemed to be a permanent five-o’clock shadow. As if even his facial hair had a stubborn will of its own.
She straightened the stack of cups. “I’m not a love angel.” That was Mabel and Agnes’s self-proclaimed title—she was no matchmaker. But she sort of had a feeling clarification wasn’t what this stranger was after.
“That’s for sure.” His first smile since he’d walked in the room.
“What is that supposed to mean?” She set the carafe down harder than she’d intended, and coffee splashed onto the counter. She reached for a paper napkin.
“Hey.” He tapped two fingers on the counter. “You’re wearing an apron.”
She tossed the soiled napkin into the trash can under the counter and smoothed the front of her pink, lacy apron. “I’m aware.” Captain Obvious. She felt proud that the term didn’t verbally dart from her mouth. At least she still had some self-control in front of this sullen stranger.
“Are you?” He leaned one elbow against the glass countertop, the one she’d just cleaned a few hours ago, and drew closer. The scent of evergreen wafted over her. “Then why didn’t you use it for the spill?”
That was such a man thing to say. “Why on earth would I use my apron when there’s a perfectly good napkin right beside me?”
“So, it’s a costume, not a functioning apron.” He tilted his head, dark eyes narrowing as they assessed her. “That doesn’t make me very confident in the quality of your coffee.”
Her cheeks flushed hot. “Then why are you still standing here? Go drink it and find out for yourself.”
“You still haven’t given me any.”
Oh, for the love of—
She poured his coffee into a mug, purposefully choosing the one with red hearts just to irk him, and set down the carafe. “There,” she said, sliding the mug across the counter.
“How much do I owe you?” He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a wad of bills.
She fought the urge to roll her eyes. Not shocking that Mr. Motorcycle didn’t carry a wallet like a grown-up but instead fisted Hamiltons in his pocket like a teenager with lawn-mowing money. “It’s on the house. In fact, it’s on that end of the house, to be exact.”
She pointed to the table farthest away from her, throwing a quick glance at Mabel and Agnes. Couldn’t they see she was desperate for backup here? Agnes especially had to be steaming right now at his demeaning attitude . . .
Nope. Both women were staring with wide eyes and cat-ate-the-canary grins, chins braced on their palms. Mabel whispered something to Agnes, who nodded intently and murmured back.
Oh no. No way. She knew that look.
Mr. Motorcycle slowly backed away from the counter and raised one eyebrow again. She hated how much the feat impressed her. “You trying to get rid of me?”
“Finally, we’re speaking the same language.” Bri folded her arms around her middle, determined to get her message across to both this rude customer and the love angels. Back off. In fact, she’d step it up a notch, for all their sakes. “And for the record, if you’re trying to flirt with me, you’re doing a horrible job.”
Mabel gasped. Agnes’s mouth dropped open.
The corners of Mr. Motorcycle’s lips twitched. “Glad to hear it.” He glanced down at the counter and nodded twice, as if processing her proclamation. “I appreciate the clarification. That’ll certainly make writing this article easier.” He picked up his coffee.
Her heart slid down into her stomach. “Article?”
He smiled, revealing even, white teeth. “Perhaps you’ve heard of Trek Magazine?”
Her stomach began to churn into her sinking heart. This wasn’t happening. No. This was a dream.
She closed her eyes, hoping all of this had been a really bad nightmare, and she would open her eyes, and there’d be a nice woman in a pencil skirt and really cute shoes breaking apart a petit four and gushing over how adorable the café was.
Three, two, one . . .
But no. She opened her eyes, and there he was, their feature writer—the one she’d just insulted in about ten different ways—saluting her with his heart-decorated mug. “Cheers.”
CHAPTER
/> FOUR
Gerard had worked with—and dated, before realizing it wasn’t worth it—his share of women over the years. But never had he seen one pale to the point of making Casper look tan.
When Bri had realized who he was, she’d stammered some strange apology, something about free petit fours and pencil skirts that he hadn’t quite grasped, before finally offering her name and another cup of that awful coffee.
It would have been humorous if this whole assignment wasn’t still so grating. He’d tell Peter and have a good laugh—later, anyway, after this initial annoyance wore off.
Assuming it did.
He flipped his kickstand down and hiked his duffel on his shoulder as he peered up dubiously at the three-story frame house before him, covered in stretching vines and trimmed in gingerbread. Dainty flower boxes lined each window, while wooden stakes decorated to look like lollipops peeked out of the landscaping. A swinging sign on the picket fence boasted the name of the bed and breakfast in elaborate pink cursive.
The Gingerbread House.
He was going to kill Peter.
When his boss assured him the lodging in Story was sufficient for the assignment and his assistant would handle it, Gerard assumed he’d meant clean sheets and free continental breakfast. Not a B&B torn from the pages of a children’s book.
He glanced back at his bike. He could leave now—roar away, forget the love angels and their mediocre coffee and this silly love-lock wall. Forget the assignment altogether.
An image of Bri’s welcoming smile filled his mind, and he shoved it away. He could forget that too. Pretty blondes were a dime a dozen.
And she was pretty, he’d give Peter that one.
He didn’t, however, want to forget the paycheck or his one opportunity to become a lead writer at the magazine’s sister publication, Traipse Horizon. Everything in him needed to provide content beyond summer vacation prospects. He wanted to write about the government’s dealings in Pakistan and the latest drug raid in Colombia and the economic statistics in Guam. He wanted to write something that mattered—a byline he could be proud of. That his mom could be proud of.
The Key to Love Page 2