CHAPTER
SIX
Gerard’s feet hung off the red bed by two inches.
He rolled onto his side and shifted his cell phone to his other ear, simultaneously weary and hyped up. He definitely wasn’t used to drinking that much coffee in one day. “You’d love this place, Mom. It’s right up your alley. All home-cooked comfort food and desserts and obnoxiously decorated inns.”
His mom’s familiar voice, soft and permanently tired, filled his ear. “Maybe I’ll come through town for a macaron one day.”
Fat chance. His mom never traveled, despite his former attempts to help pay for her to do so over the years. He’d even tried to give her a free cruise he’d won once, and she’d refused. She’d never held a job with paid time off or many benefits, and she claimed it wasn’t worth it to be out of money when she got home.
“Maybe I could mail you some. If the Pastry Puff ships.” He’d have to check into that fact for the feature, regardless. Readers would want to know. He one-finger typed a note on the open document on his laptop. FIND OUT ABOUT SHIPPING OPTIONS. Mom would love those frilly-looking purple ones he’d glimpsed in the display earlier.
“That’d be nice. Always looking out for me.” She coughed. “Son, you know I hate to ask, but . . .”
“You need money.” Something he was short of until he got paid for this feature. The downside to freelance work—one had to be good with budgeting. And he’d splurged on his new laptop and sent his mom a pretty good-sized check just last month.
He wouldn’t ask her where it went. He never did.
“I’m just a little behind. They cut my hours at the diner, but Frankie says they’ll get me back on my regular schedule next month.”
Frankie was her boss, and one of the biggest jerks Gerard had ever met. Well, excluding the men who’d dated his mom. He was overly gruff with his staff, including his mother. But Frankie was big, burly, and didn’t take anything from anyone. Gerard had personally witnessed him grab a guy twice his size by the collar and haul him into the street when he’d gotten fresh with one of the other waitresses. It was the only reason he hadn’t made his mom quit a long time ago—he knew she was safe.
He stretched out his legs, then pulled them back onto the bed. His ankle dangled over the edge of the mattress. “What’d you do to make them cut your hours? They catch you stealing apple pie?”
“Now, that was one time, and I thought it was leftover.” Her voice pitched with defense.
Gerard pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mom, I’m kidding.” Good grief. Had she actually done that?
“Oh.” She let out a hoarse laugh. “No, they just said business slowed.”
Her vague tone made him doubt the validity of that, but he wouldn’t pry. He never did.
Gerard pulled his wallet from his pocket and flipped through the measly bills. He doubted those two soggy tens were going to help her for long.
She coughed again, muted this time, as if she’d tried to cover the phone. “If it’s too much, son, don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.”
She really needed to quit smoking. “What time is your shift tomorrow?”
“Early.” Her voice cracked and she paused, then swallowed, as if taking a sip of water. When she spoke again, it was a little clearer. “Six a.m.”
Gerard squeezed his eyes shut. “Go get some rest, Mom. I’ll figure something out, okay?”
“You always do.” Tenderness filled her voice, and a band tightened around his heart. A band of obligation. Responsibility. Love.
No one had ever wanted to take care of her long-term. He was the only one.
He’d go to his grave making sure he did.
“Good night, Mom.” He dropped his phone onto the bed, eyeing his depleted wallet, and sighed. There was only one thing to do, and he hated to do it even more than he hated the red dripping off the walls around him.
He was going to have to ask Peter for an advance.
The attic loft of her little townhouse smelled the same as it had when she first purchased it seven years ago—musty cedar and pine.
Bri dragged her mom’s trunk from its revered designated spot by the tiny circular window overlooking the front yard. She used to consider keeping the chest in her bedroom, but it took up too much of the limited floor space. Besides, some days it made her sad to see it—a physical reminder of her official orphan status. She didn’t need that greeting her first thing in the morning. Grief was raw and unpredictable enough.
So, in the attic the trunk remained. Besides, coming up here made reading the letters more of an event, like visiting with old friends. She got to peek into her parents’ past with these crisp old notes—glimpse briefly into a time before she was born, where love reigned fresh and dripped in all things Parisian.
Unfortunately, her parents would never know the inspiration they were to her.
Outside, the dusky sky faded slowly from periwinkle to pewter. Faint stars began to peek through the evening curtain. Bri stared into the coming night. Maybe somehow, they did know. She liked to think they did.
She set her steaming mug of tea next to the faded beanbag chair she’d hauled up there last year and opened the cedar chest. The stack of letters, tied with a lavender ribbon, were on top of a stack of shoeboxes and quilts.
She gently picked them up. When had she come up here last? It’d probably been four months, at least. Maybe six.
The letters were scrawled in English with plenty of French endearments scattered throughout. French. She’d translated the French long ago and stuck a typed copy of the translations with the letters for quicker reading. Her father was born and raised French, her mother American. He’d learned English for her.
Was there anything more romantic?
Bri wasn’t quite fluent yet, but she’d been practicing off and on over the last few years. She knew enough to get by for a vacation to Paris—if she ever made it there.
She pulled the next letter from the stack and tugged it free of its envelope.
Dearest love,
I can’t wait to see you again. To tuck your hand into mine, to feel your slim fingers threaded through my rougher ones. To watch your joy as you gaze upon the Seine. To witness the wind caress your hair, each lock dancing to its own rhythm.
I miss dancing with you.
Your beauty takes my breath away. Even when you are not with me, I feel you here, and that’s enough. For now.
From Paris, with love
The words washed over her, a breath of fresh air from Gerard’s bitterness and Charles’s greed. There were good men in the world, men capable of love and chivalry, as evidenced by her father in these notes. It existed at one time, so surely it still did. Her prince would come.
Maybe he’d even have an accent.
She read the second letter in the stack, then the third. The words, familiar yet never old, soothed her weary heart like a balm. Somehow, connecting with her parents this way made her feel like things would be okay again. Charles wouldn’t prevail over the bakery. The love-lock wall would live on, and the Pastry Puff would thrive. Mabel and Agnes would continue matchmaking and grocery shopping in shawls.
Nothing else would change.
She glanced at her watch. Almost 8:30, and she still had to deliver those desserts to the B&B. She reluctantly slid the last letter into its yellowed envelope, then tucked them back inside the trunk.
The nostalgia sat a little heavier tonight than usual as she climbed back down the attic stairs into the hallway. Or maybe it was just because she knew she was about to see Gerard again.
Maybe she could just leave the desserts with Mrs. Beeker at the front desk.
She picked up her keys and the box of pastries, a strange mixture of compassion and irritation welling inside. Irritation at Gerard’s grumpiness and general apathy toward her favorite things—the Pastry Puff, romance, the love-lock wall—and compassion, because she’d learned over the years of peddling desserts and discounting coffee that people weren’t permane
ntly grumpy without reason. Even Disney villains had an old wound and a backstory.
What was Gerard’s?
CHAPTER
SEVEN
He’d been in this hole-in-the-wall town for one day and was already addicted to bad coffee.
Gerard opened his door and squinted down the hallway, lit only by an oddly shaped nightlight plugged into the wall. Surely Mrs. Beeker wasn’t still downstairs in the front lobby . . . and surely some coffee was. He probably needed decaf—it was already almost nine o’clock—but he still felt oddly exhausted and wired. He couldn’t get the Pastry Puff out of his mind. Or Bri.
Which meant he must be really tired.
The phone call with Peter hadn’t helped.
Gerard rubbed his hand down his jaw, the stubble prickling his calloused palms. This particular writing gig wouldn’t be calling for any fresh blisters, that was for sure. He missed the adrenaline rush of flying over a multi-terrain trail, parasailing over crystal-clear waves, taste testing exotic cuisine.
But if he didn’t nail this assignment, boring as it was, then he wouldn’t have the opportunity for any future blisters. Peter had made that clear on the phone twenty minutes ago.
Gerard bit back the frustration rising in his throat. He really shouldn’t have asked, but he couldn’t get his weary mother’s voice out of his mind. He was almost thirty, and he hated that he wasn’t able to help her the way he should be able to.
He peered down the hall. The last thing he wanted currently—or ever—was to get stuck making small talk with a stranger. Which begged the question—who else would be visiting Story in the first place? Another love-lock hopeful? A traveling tourist wanting to check the Pastry Puff off their bucket list? He was, unfortunately, going to need to interview a few locals to complete the piece.
He wondered if there was anyone those two goofy love angels had failed to set up successfully who might be bitter about it. That’d be one way to show Peter the “fresh angle” he demanded. Apparently the write-up they’d initially agreed on wasn’t going to be sufficient. It was bad enough he had to write about this mess in the first place, but now he had to find an additional slant to make it more interesting.
The fact that Peter—or corporate, rather—was afraid it wasn’t interesting enough should have told him something right there.
Gerard checked one more time in both directions. Mrs. Beeker was nowhere in sight. Come to think of it, a small, cottage-style house sat behind the main structure—he’d seen it from his window earlier. Maybe she lived out there.
Enough debating. Coffee won. He needed something to wash away the bitter taste Peter had left. He’d had the nerve to call Gerard a flight risk. No feature, no paycheck.
Then Peter made it worse by caving halfway and offering Gerard the advance once he turned in a solid rough draft. Better than nothing, maybe, but the worst part was realizing Peter didn’t fully trust him with this one. So why had he even bothered to assign it to him? And why had he peppered him with so many useless questions about Bri?
Nothing about this assignment—this place, this town, this B&B—made sense.
And yes, that was a red candy cane–shaped nightlight shining in the hall. Of course it was.
He attempted to tread lightly down the spiral stairs, but his anger built with each tentative step. Anger at Peter, for being practical instead of giving him this one as a friend. Anger at his father, for bailing on their family decades ago. Anger at the parade of men who had put his mom in this position in the first place, cosigning loans with her and leaving her with loads of debt and bad credit.
Anger at God, if he was honest, for the weariness his mother couldn’t ever shake, for the joy that always seemed right out of her reach. She deserved love. Real love, not some love-lock fairy-tale mess, but someone who really wanted to be there for her.
He didn’t need it, but she did. She always believed it was possible—as for him, he stopped looking the day Kelsey packed up her diamond and went home.
By the time he reached the end of the staircase, he was stomping much harder than he had initially intended. He winced at the consequent creak of wood and froze. This was his life now—creeping around some old B&B in middle America, avoiding talkative women with bad dye jobs, and begging his boss for money.
He flexed his blisters. Too bad he couldn’t spike that coffee. He’d given up alcohol several years ago, for myriad reasons, but a dash of whiskey wouldn’t be entirely unwelcomed right about now.
The door to the B&B was unlocked, like most doors on any given night in Story.
Bri turned the handle, half expecting chipper Mrs. Beeker to greet her from the front desk and half expecting a silent tomb of a foyer.
She got the latter and breathed a sigh of relief. If Mrs. Beeker wasn’t at her post, then Bri didn’t have to explain why she was there or risk any assumptions about Gerard. That was the last thing she needed in the midst of this love-lock feature—additional small-town gossip. That was one perk to having come so late. Now she could just place these treats in the kitchen, write a quick note of explanation, and wish them all a happy breakfast the next morning.
Bri tucked the pastry box on her hip, grabbed a yellow sticky note and pen from the lobby desk, and headed into the kitchen.
She ran smack into a brick wall.
She grunted and jerked backward, fumbling with the dessert box to keep from dropping it. A strong grip steadied her and she gasped.
Nope, not a wall. She squinted into the dim lighting as her eyes adjusted. A chest. A broad chest, hard as a board—and belonging to one Gerard Fortier.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed, adrenaline spiking through her veins. She hated adrenaline. Hated roller coasters, hated horror movies, hated tripping over shoes in the middle of the night.
Hated that the memory of his touch would most likely be forever branded on her forearms.
Gerard let go of her and crossed his arms over his chest—the chest that had ricocheted her like a ping-pong ball and was currently covered in a soft-looking T-shirt. “I’m staying here, remember? The better question is, why are you breaking and entering?”
“First of all, it’s technically impossible to break and enter anywhere in Story, since no one bothers to lock their doors.” She set the box down on the kitchen island with a thud. “And second of all, I was bringing these to you.”
“To me?”
That sounded way more personal and intimate than she’d intended. Probably exactly what Agnes had in mind. “I meant to the B&B.” She flipped on the light. That would solve that problem. Hard to take anything intimately under fluorescent lighting.
Gerard blinked and scrunched his face at the sudden change. “At nine o’clock at night?”
“I got hung up.”
“On what?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I thought you were a feature writer, not an investigative reporter.”
“Zing.” He drew a checkmark in the air with his finger and grinned. “You got me again.”
Ugh. “Why do I keep doing that?” Good gravy, the man drove her to her last nerve. Her breath still caught from the scare, and she inhaled deeply to calm her racing heartbeat. “I just need a minute.” He was in pajama pants. Black ones. She looked away.
“Not an adrenaline junkie, are you? Might want to rethink your crime spree then, Cupcake.” Gerard casually opened the box on the island, then shut it and nudged it away.
Dismissed, just like that.
She glared. “Try one.”
“Bossy.”
“Try one?” She turned it into a question, biting back the second sarcastic remark begging for release. She had a mission here.
He crossed his arms, the sleeves of his T-shirt pulling taut. “I’m not hungry.”
“People don’t eat desserts because they’re hungry, silly.”
Gerard leveled a stare at her, one that clearly stated he had never been, and would never be, silly.
“Come on. One petit four won�
��t kill you.” She nudged the pastry toward him.
“I was coming down here for coffee.” He pointed to the Keurig sitting on the counter by the sink. It wasn’t even turned on.
“As it so happens, coffee and petit fours go perfectly together.”
He leaned one hip against the island. “Maybe some coffees, anyway.”
She leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the countertop by the box. He was just baiting her. She refused to bite. She scooted the box closer to him. “Try it. For the feature.”
His gaze met hers, and she held it steady. Talk about an adrenaline rush. What was wrong with her stomach? Regardless, he wasn’t budging. Stubborn.
Whatever. She wasn’t going to beg. She straightened just as he leaned forward and snagged a petit four. “Fine. Just one.”
He took a bite while she watched. Then he rolled his eyes. “Staring at me isn’t awkward at all.”
“Only if you chew with your mouth open.” She grinned.
He pressed his lips together, green icing dotting the corner of his mouth.
She couldn’t wait any longer. “So? How is it?”
“Better than your coffee.” He wiped his mouth with his wrist.
Such a guy move. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She searched through two of the cabinets by the fridge until they produced a mug—a solid black one. Peace treaty. She grabbed a pod of decaf and flipped on the machine.
She felt his eyes on her back as she worked, so intensely she had to cast a sidelong glance. He leaned against the counter, watching her.
There went her stomach again.
“Such service. And hey, with a smile too.” He theatrically tapped his chin with his finger. “Too bad there’s not a bakery around here that offers both of those.”
And just like that, her butterflies ceased. She snapped shut the lid of the Keurig and faced him fully. “It wouldn’t kill you to be genuine just once, you know.”
“Wait, is this the Bri who can’t help but insult me talking or the Pastry Puff chef determined to make a good impression talking?” He imitated writing on an invisible notepad. “I want to get my quotes straight.”
The Key to Love Page 5