“This is off the record.”
“I’m not a reporter.”
“Still applies.”
He shrugged, as if she had a point. She had no idea if it actually applied, but she barreled on. “Our service is phenomenal. My coffee isn’t gross. And my petit fours aren’t just decent, they’re amazing. You know how I know that?”
His lips twitched. “How?”
“My mother invented the recipe.” She leaned back in satisfaction.
Gerard moved forward slightly, as if waiting for more.
Apparently her mic hadn’t fully dropped after all.
He raised his eyebrows as the silence stretched on. Finally, he spoke. “What about your mother?”
It sounded rude but couldn’t have been. He looked genuinely confused.
Bri’s mouth opened, then closed as reality dawned. Gerard wasn’t from here. He didn’t know her mother like the majority of the town. He had no idea her mother had won the sweetheart pageants three years in a row in high school. Had no clue she’d learned to bake at the Pastry Puff and gone on to train at a prestigious school in Paris, where she’d met Bri’s Frenchman father—the course instructor’s son—and lived happily for years before moving to the States and starting a family. Had no idea she’d single-handedly set the standard for pastries in Story.
There was too much to say, and not nearly the right words to sum it up. To sum her up. Bri swallowed hard. “My mom was a treasure.”
“Was?”
She nodded, emotion balling in her throat. She hadn’t cried over her parents in a few years—that wound had long since scabbed over. After all, it’d been almost a decade now since the car accident. But reading their letters earlier that evening had stretched the scar.
Gerard’s head dipped. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
She nodded again and picked up a macaron, having zero appetite but needing something to do with her hands.
“Any woman whose kid can simply mention her and readily expect a listener to stand up and recognize must be something.”
Understatement of the year. Her mother’s patience, calmness, and steadiness toward Bri’s not-as-mild-mannered father had stood out over the years. Memory after memory of her mother’s gentle touch on his shoulder, calming his churning anxiety or anger, filled her mind. Presenting him with a hot cup of coffee as he pored over the family bills, whispering words of comfort in his ear when the grief over losing his own father struck fresh and deep.
Tears pricked beneath the surface and Bri focused harder on the macaron, memorizing every crumb. Every ounce of the creamy center oozing between the sugar-dusted layers. Anything to not look at Gerard. His sudden, out-of-character tenderness was going to make her lose it completely.
Gerard reached over and took the macaron from her grip. “Why don’t you let me try that one too. In her honor.”
So much for trying not to cry. The tears slipped over her lids and dripped silently down her cheeks as she surrendered the dessert. Bless him. Gerard acted like he didn’t notice as she frantically dabbed at her face.
“Was she French?”
“My dad was.” Bri shook her head. “Is your mom?”
“My father. Third-generation, so I guess I’m a quarter.” He bit into the macaron, a shadow crossing his face briefly before dissipating. “I’m pretty close to my mom too.”
She didn’t care in the slightest that he was talking with his mouth full. “I’m sure she appreciates that.”
“And I’m sure yours would appreciate the way you describe her.”
“Thank you.” She studied him, the macaron crumbs on his shirt and the corded muscle in his forearm as he raised his coffee mug. Gerard Fortier might be more bark than bite, after all. Who would have thought the leather jacket–wearing, motorcycle-riding guy with a chip on his shoulder had a sensitive side?
And who would have ever thought she’d find it attractive?
He took another sip. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”
Maybe it had been the emotional night, but a tiny piece of her defensive wall chiseled off and dropped to her feet. “You’re welcome.”
She instinctively moved a step closer to Gerard. Met his gaze. She didn’t know what she wanted from him, but she knew she wanted to be closer. She took another step, edging around the island. Her stomach dipped again. Surely, he felt this too. This magnetic connection.
He nibbled another bite of the dessert, looking right into her eyes. “You should tell me more.”
Bri’s heart skipped. He cared. He was being genuine, for once—just like she’d wanted him to. And he was being genuine toward her. Inviting her in. Wanting to know more about her past and her family. “Yeah?”
“For sure.” Gerard finished the macaron and dusted off his hands. “It’ll be a great addition to the feature.”
The feature.
Maybe not that genuine.
Her cheeks flushed, and she backed up several steps. “Of course. Anytime.” She grabbed the bakery box, then remembered she’d meant to leave it. “But it’s getting pretty late. I’ll see you around, I’m sure.”
She backpedaled toward the door, lifting one hand in acknowledgment, trying to ignore the confusion on Gerard’s face as she hurried to escape, heated embarrassment spreading like poison ivy across her chest.
At least he liked the desserts.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
The birds in Story apparently never got the memo that freelance writers didn’t need to get up at dawn. They had started chirping on Gerard’s third-story windowsill with the sun and unfortunately didn’t come with a mute button.
Mrs. Beeker hadn’t gotten the memo either. She’d knocked on Gerard’s door at 6:30 sharp, hollering “yoo-hoo” when he didn’t answer. He had thrown a pillow at the door, but the resounding thump neither confused nor deterred her. “Your breakfast is downstairs,” she’d cooed. “And surprise—it looks like the dessert fairy came last night!”
Dessert fairy. That about summed up Bri.
What Mrs. Beeker didn’t know was that he’d eaten half that box of leftover pastries last night while contemplating what was wrong with Bri to make her run off so quickly. They’d been having a good talk, one full of personal information he could actually use in the feature, and then she’d gotten this weird look on her face and vanished.
Gerard braced his arms on the sink and stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, attempting to get presentable before heading downstairs and facing the redheaded wonder. But all he could think about was Bri. Something had spooked her.
He turned off the running water, deciding to skip shaving. Another day of layered stubble wouldn’t hurt anybody. Besides, the water wouldn’t heat past lukewarm.
Kind of like Bri last night. She’d been so emotional about her mom—to the point he actually felt like maybe they’d connected a little, finally. She’d knocked the chip off her shoulder long enough to open up a little and give him a relatable angle for the article. Peter would love that mushy stuff.
Besides, Gerard could relate. He felt pretty fiercely about his mother too. But when he’d asked Bri to tell him more, she’d claimed the late hour and ducked out. If she wasn’t going to talk more about her mom, then he couldn’t use that to boost the article.
This was why women were so frustrating.
Well, partially why.
He threw on his leather jacket, grabbed his keys and laptop bag, and crept down the stairs, wondering if he could slip outside and bail on the obligatory breakfast. He definitely didn’t want any more pastries—his stomach felt upset from the binge last night. He rarely ate sugar, but just like that, Bri had him munching down half his feelings. There must be some kind of spell on this town that made people vulnerable and emotional.
It was enough to drive a practical man on a paycheck-minded mission insane.
He successfully snuck outside, without Mrs. Beeker spotting him, and shut the door behind him with a relieved sigh. He’d find to
-go caffeine elsewhere and maybe plug in at a local diner or coffee haunt and type up his notes. He needed to make a dent in that rough draft, adding what Bri had told him last night before he forgot the details.
He hesitated at the picket gate. Question was, where was the nearest coffee shop?
“I’m glad you’re here.”
Gerard turned at the sudden voice. Charles. He really wasn’t up for dealing with this guy pre-caffeine. “Didn’t you sneak up on me last time?”
“Better learn to watch your six, then.” Charles grinned and held out his hand.
He didn’t like the look of that grin, and he still didn’t like Charles. But duty called. Gerard reluctantly shook it.
Charles redrew his hand and casually crossed his arms over his starched dress shirt. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by. I wanted to speak to you privately.”
“Privately?” Gerard hiked an eyebrow.
“As in, without Abrielle.”
“Abrielle?” Now he felt like a parrot.
“Bri.” A flicker of humor twitched in Charles’s jaw. “She didn’t tell you her real name?”
“It hasn’t come up.” He crossed his arms too, mimicking the guy’s stance. He wasn’t exactly a fan of Charles and the way he treated women—or smarted off at him, for that matter—but the man could be a source, so he hated to burn bridges too early. He’d learned over the years of digging up information that sometimes it was better to swallow pride and keep your cards close.
“No matter.” Charles plastered on that smile again, the same one he’d worn when dismissing Bri yesterday. “You’re writing the feature on the place, right?”
“Right.”
“Where do you stand on it?”
“On what?”
Charles frowned. “The debate, of course.”
“I’m afraid I’m not aware of a debate.” Gerard played dumb and waited, intentionally not saying more. He wanted to see how much Charles was willing to verbalize.
“On whether or not I should buy out the bakery.”
Gerard shrugged. “Has nothing to do with opinion, mine or otherwise. Either you will or you won’t.”
Gerard held Charles’s inquisitive gaze without blinking. He might have been an attorney, but he was far from intimidating.
“Maybe.” Charles looked away briefly, down the tree-lined street. A squirrel darted across the road, then back into the safety of a nearby leaf-dusted yard. “Or maybe not. Maybe you can help.”
“You’re going to have to be less cryptic if you want my help.”
Charles chuckled. “It’s simple. You have the power of the pen.”
He wanted Gerard to slant the feature in a way that promoted the buyout of the bakery? That was ludicrous. He could just see Peter’s face now. Hey, boss, you know how I’m supposed to market this cozy little family-owned, Parisian bakery and convince readers to travel there? Wouldn’t it be hilarious if it was torn down and replaced with a Starbucks by the time they arrived?
No dice.
Gerard hesitated. But what was interesting was the stand-down between the town’s two influentials. Local beloved baker versus local successful lawyer. That was definitely an angle. If he could keep the feud fires burning, he could up the word count on the finished article—which meant more pay. More readers. More copies sold. He would be a shoo-in for the new position.
Not to mention the article angle would be a lot more tolerable than that lovey-dovey, matchmaking mess.
He squinted at Charles, who wore a self-satisfied smirk. The expression “the enemy of my enemy is my friend” rolled through his thoughts. Not that Bri was his enemy, but Charles was definitely hers, and that left the latter up in the air.
He adjusted his laptop bag on his shoulder. “I see what you’re saying.”
“Excellent. I thought you might.” Charles clapped him on the shoulder, and Gerard shrugged out from under the touch. “I’ll see you around.”
“I’m sure you will.” Gerard probably couldn’t escape the slippery little manipulator if he tried, but that didn’t matter. He’d work it to his advantage.
It would take some finagling to let Charles think he was on his side, without letting Bri catch wind of it. Honestly, he personally couldn’t care less if the bakery was torn down, left as is, or shot up into space.
His mom needed his paycheck, and he’d do whatever he could to make it as big as possible. Get his promotion, write some pieces that would actually gain attention and respect, and move forward in his career. He certainly didn’t need a father—or a wife—to bring him success. He’d do it on his own.
As he’d always done.
It was going to be a good day, and she had worn her favorite pink Wanderlust sweatshirt to ensure it.
Bri pushed up her sleeves and hummed to herself as she stirred the batter for her best cookie recipe. Every now and then, when she got a little antsy, she made a batch of simple tea-cake cookies and decorated them with seasonal icing. Today’s theme was the Eiffel Tower, complete with piped red and orange leaves.
She wasn’t going to let Gerard get to her. And she most certainly wasn’t attracted to him. She’d had a moment of weakness last night, that was all. She’d been emotionally charged after going through her parents’ letters, and Gerard had been in the right place at the right time.
Or rather, the wrong time, depending on how you looked at it.
And that’s how she chose to look at it. Especially since he’d obviously been trying to connect with her for the sake of the article alone. She’d almost made a huge idiot of herself by assuming otherwise.
Thankfully, she’d gotten out of there before he could realize it.
She whisked faster. Besides, Gerard was the exact opposite of everything she’d held out for in a man. Cynical. Sarcastic. Goading. He didn’t have a romantic bone in his body. Whatever heart-tipped arrows Mabel and Agnes had drawn back in their direction the other day better be a misfire—because she and Gerard were the last two people in the universe who made sense together.
The door chimed, and Bri sucked in her breath as she glanced up.
Casey strolled inside, high ponytail swinging. Her cheeks were flushed pink and her eyes sparkled. “Guess what?”
Bri wasn’t disappointed it wasn’t Gerard. No, that feeling flooding through her limbs surely was relief. She sprinkled in the sugar and reached for the almond powder. “You won the lottery?”
“Better.” Casey leaned against the counter and grinned.
“You won an all-expense-paid vacation to Tahiti?”
Casey scrunched her nose. “Better.”
Bri stirred in a capful of vanilla. “You found Justin Timberlake’s home address?”
“Almost better.” Casey winked and held up her left hand. “Nathan proposed.”
“What?” Bri dropped the whisk and grabbed her friend’s weighed-down ring finger. “That’s so beautiful! Congratulations!” Bri tilted Casey’s hand to inspect the ring at a different angle. The light hit the diamond and spiraled in tiny rainbow-tinted rays. “When did this happen?”
“Last night.”
Bri let go of her hand and poured in the flour. “Tell me everything.” She bet Nathan went all-out. There were probably hundreds of bouquets, a starlight sky, soft music, and twinkle lights.
Or maybe he took her to the pond behind Old Man Miller’s farmhouse, where everyone had free access to his two paddleboats and left donations in a rusty tip jar on the dock, and proposed under a canopy of fireworks.
She began kneading the thickening dough. Or maybe he’d taken her to that popular steakhouse up north, where they drizzled dark-chocolate icing around the edges of the dessert plates. Nathan had probably buried the ring in a thick slice of triple chocolate cake and dropped to one knee while she gasped in surprise.
Casey tapped her finger on the parchment paper Bri was using to prepare the dough. “You have stars in your eyes right now.”
“Well, you have little pulsing heart
s in yours.” Bri laughed as she reached for her marble rolling pin. “I can’t help it. I love a good romantic story.” Nothing could have topped her dad’s proposal to her mom in Paris. But for Casey’s sake, hopefully Nathan had tried. “So, tell me already.”
Casey cupped her hands under her chin, her pale pink polish gleaming. “He came over last night for lasagna.”
A home-cooked meal. Nice. “He made it?”
“No, I cooked. He had just gotten off a long shift.” Casey grinned. “It’s his favorite.”
Hmm. “Go on.” Bri started pressing her Eiffel Tower cookie cutter into the dough.
“We were eating with the girls. Evie had just smashed a fistful of tomato sauce into Lexi’s hair, so Lexi threw her milk at Evie in revenge.” Casey rolled her eyes. “Just your typical weeknight.”
Bri could only imagine. She used to offer to babysit before Casey met Nathan, and Casey always resisted. Lately, after hearing so many of her mom stories, Bri understood why. Mental note for the future—ages two and three were apparently difficult ones.
“So, Nathan grabs this polka-dotted dish towel off the oven handle—my favorite one, which is the only one in the entire kitchen that has thus far avoided permanent stains—and begins wiping up the kids, red sauce and all.” Casey shook her head. “I literally burst into tears.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh no.” She could relate. It was sort of how Gerard had expected her to use her favorite apron to clean up coffee.
How did he get into this story? She shoved away the thought. “What happened next?” This sounded more like a breakup story than a proposal story so far, but surely any minute now, Nathan would swoop in and knock Casey off her feet.
Hopefully not literally, the way this was going.
She peeled the excess dough away from the mini Eiffel Towers as Casey continued. “So, Nathan grabs a paper towel then, while I plop Evie, who is dripping milk, into the sink. But the roll snags and the stand falls over, so the entire stack unrolls across the floor. Lexi is screaming because tomato sauce is in her eyes. I’m still crying because I love that dish towel so stinkin’ much and it’s ruined.”
The Key to Love Page 6