The Key to Love

by Betsy St. Amant

  Bri stopped. Swallowed hard. And attempted a fake yet genuine-sounding laugh. “You’re so clever.”

  Gerard stared at her, eyes squinted, mouth half-open. “Okay, what’s in that pie? Someone has clearly spiked your pizza.”

  Had the two of them gotten so bad, she couldn’t even be decently nice without raising suspicion? She shook her head. “I’m just making conversation. Aren’t you tired of arguing all the time?”

  He leaned back in his seat, leveling his gaze at her. “Well, I wouldn’t have to argue if you’d stop being wrong.”

  Her fingers tightened around her napkin. A million retorts danced through her mind, begging to be chosen. She clenched and unclenched her teeth. “Point taken.”

  Gerard leaned forward abruptly, crashing into the table. “Okay, stop it right now. What is your problem?”

  She fought to stay calm, wishing she had more pepperonis left. But she only had the one left for her last bite of crust. She tried to focus. “I don’t have a problem. I’m being nice.”

  “Well, being nice is a problem. It’s weird.”

  “So, I need to be mean, because that’s what you’re used to?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. I’m turning over a new leaf, and you can’t stop me.”

  They stared at each other across the table. Then Gerard reached over, plucked the last pepperoni from her slice, and popped it in his mouth.

  She picked up her crust and threw it at him. It bounced off his nose, and he didn’t even flinch.

  Apparently her new leaf had withered.

  “You’re afraid I’m going to write something bad, aren’t you? That’s what this is about.” He gestured between them.

  That sounded bad. Like she was using him. But wasn’t she? And why would he care, anyway? He didn’t have a romantic bone in his skeletal structure—much less a heart.

  His words from the library rolled through her mind. “Almost. Once.” A pinch of regret flitted through her chest. “I’m sorry I threw that.”

  “Well, I’m not sorry I ate it.” He smacked his lips. “Taylor was right about having the best pizza in town. He’d give some places in Chicago a run for their money.”

  This was a pointless mission. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “I’m not a reviewer, Cupcake. I’m going to make the feature good.” A flash of something resembling doubt flickered in his eyes, but it was gone before she could fully decipher it. “The magazine isn’t going to pay to publish something we’re warning travelers against. That’s a waste of time.”

  She’d never thought of it that way. “But you don’t even like the Pastry Puff.”

  He shook his head. “I never said that.”

  “Yes, you did. Repeatedly, actually, about the coffee.”

  “Then it’s a good thing the feature isn’t on coffee.” He wrinkled his nose. “Unfortunately, it’s on romance and love locks and other wastes of time.”

  She rolled her eyes. “How are you going to make us shine when you don’t even believe in what you’re writing?”

  He averted his gaze to the laptop in front of him, his expression sobering. “I’m working on that.”

  “Can you work faster? I’ve got a lawyer breathing down my neck.” She dropped her wadded-up napkin on her empty plate. “The Pastry Puff needs this feature, Gerard. I need it.”

  He met her gaze, briefly. “I hear you.”

  “So, we have an understanding?”

  There was that flicker again. He nodded once before she could ask. “The feature will be exactly what it should be.”

  Relief flooded through her.

  He let out a dramatic shudder. “Just stop being fake nice to me.”

  “Deal.” That’d be easy enough. She quirked an eyebrow at him. Speaking of lawyers . . . “What were you doing with Charles earlier?”

  “The cha-cha?”

  “Very funny.”

  “Hey, you said I was clever.”

  “I take it back.”

  He picked up his nearly empty mug and looked in it, as if debating the last lukewarm sip. “He was talking about the recent offer he made on the bakery.”

  To Gerard—a man he’d met one time at the love-lock wall? That was a new low, even for Charles. Was he getting that desperate for allies? The thought strangely comforted her. Maybe he wasn’t as confident in the sales pitch as he wanted her to think. “What’d you say?”

  “That he was lowballing. Should offer more.”

  “Whatever. Come on. Was he wanting you to write something about his part in this?”

  He let out a long sigh. “I didn’t want to tell you, but yes.”

  What? Bri’s heart stammered. Charles was going after Gerard to slant his feature? But Gerard had just said he would make the Puff sound good. How could he do both?

  Gerard continued soberly. “He begged me to write a haiku on the coffee. To which I, against all my deeply rooted beliefs about poetry, agreed.”

  Relief quickly doused the spark of emotion. “You did not.”

  “You’re right.” Gerard set his mug on the table. “We done here, Cupcake?”

  “One more question.”

  “I don’t believe you. I think you have at least fifteen left in that brain of yours.”

  She ignored him. “What do you think about my petit fours?”

  He offered a casual shrug as he slid his laptop into his bag. “They’re okay.”

  “Are they?” She leaned forward, ducking her head slightly to catch his eye. “Just okay?”

  He smirked. “Tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me.”

  Oh. She slapped her hand on the table. At least this time the quote wasn’t in French. “Not fair—or accurate.”

  “Fine.” He sighed. “They’re amazing, okay? I wish the entire article could be just on those.”

  “Aha!” She knew it. She had her mother’s touch, thanks to the Pastry Puff. Her resolve strengthened. This was going to work. Maybe not in the way she’d originally intended, but there was hope again. Gerard was on her side—as untraditional as it might look. But she’d gotten his word.

  He stood, shouldering his bag. “See? I’m not too incorrigible.”

  She smiled up at him and mentally reached for a new quote from her arsenal. “Do not consider me now as an elegant female, intending to plague you, but as a rational creature, speaking the truth from her heart.”

  He squinted. “And what does that mean?”

  “It means you definitely still are.”

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  She was brilliant.

  Or her idea was, anyway. Bri hooked her arm through Casey’s and tugged her toward the china display in the local department store. Now to convince her friend of the same. “Let’s look over here, Miss Bride-to-Be.”

  “Sure. I’m always up for a sale.” Casey shrugged and tagged along behind her. They’d come to Johnson’s General to price wedding favors during Bri’s Saturday morning break from the bakery. “I still think I’d be better off ordering bubbles from Amazon in bulk, though.”

  “Probably. But buying local is important too.” Something Bri hoped Story would keep in mind about the Pastry Puff. She ran her finger lightly over a floral-printed salad plate. “How’s the rest of the wedding planning coming along?” Surely Casey would say yes to her idea. She had to.

  “Not too bad, considering it’s in two weeks.” Casey picked up a polka-dotted teapot. “We’re going to register for wedding gifts this weekend. This is pretty cute.”

  Bri couldn’t even fathom Nathan—or any fireman, for that matter—using a teapot. Much less a polka-dot one. She hesitated. “Nathan would hate it.”

  “Exactly.” Casey grinned. “Wish I had one of those scanner guns now.”

  She’d never understand their relationship dynamic. But at least her friend was happy. “Are the girls excited about the big day?”

  “They don’t fully get what’s happening, but they know they get to wear pretty dresse
s, so that’s enough for them.” Casey moved toward the everyday dishes and stopped in front of the ones covered in roosters. “Oh my word, yes. I have to get these too.”

  Bri pulled her away. “What about the solid navy? Or the teal?” Any shade of blue or green was a good neutral—something a man could eat off of and not hate. Bri secretly preferred the pink ones with the gold trim, but she’d never expect Casey’s fiancé to jump on board with that.

  Her memories of handing Gerard all the pink mugs from the Puff jumped to the forefront of her mind, and she quickly tried to shove them out.

  “Those are boring. Dinner should be fun—or at least interesting.” Casey’s lips twisted to the side in thought. “With my kids, though, that’s probably never going to be an issue.”

  They were getting sidetracked. Bri led Casey away from the plates. “Let’s go look for the bubbles. Maybe they have some bulk packages here.”

  “Good idea.”

  They browsed the toy aisle, which offered everything from old-fashioned Slinkies to the latest Avenger action figure. “What else is left to plan?”

  “You’re still doing my cake, right?”

  “One three-tiered petit-four platter, coming up,” Bri promised. “Did you decide on colors for the wedding?”

  “Not yet. Maybe black and gold.”

  “That’ll be pretty.” Bri hesitated. “Of course, it sort of depends on where the venue is.” She held her breath.

  “True.” Casey, wide-eyed, held up a pack of baseball cards. “Look! Did you know they even still made these?”

  Off track again. Bri tried to redirect. “An Autumn wedding would be beautiful outside. It’s the perfect weather right now. Just think, a crisp, sunny Saturday afternoon. Gauzy sleeves. Lightweight suits.”

  Casey mumbled a noncommitted murmur as she thumbed through the various packs of cards. “Man. I don’t know any of these players.”

  She was apparently being too subtle. “You know, a really lovely spot would be that gazebo behind the bakery. By the fountain.” Bri casually cast a sidelong glance at Casey. “And the love-lock wall.”

  There. She’d said it.

  Casey nodded as she tossed the cards back in the bin. “That would be pretty.”

  “So, you’ll do it?” Bri clasped her hands in front of her. Had it really been that easy? All that worrying and scheming for nothing.

  “Do what?”

  Well, maybe not. Bri’s hands lowered to her sides. “Get married at the love-lock wall.” She held her breath.

  Casey shrugged. “Sure. Why not? That’s where it all started.” She winked and nudged Bri in the ribs. “And it’s free, right?”

  “Of course.” Relief and excitement vied for first place in her soaring emotions—along with a fresh dash of hope. “I’ll even discount your petit fours.”

  “No way! They’re already practically free. I know how much you’re taking off for me.”

  “Then I’ll take off another ten percent. This is perfect!” Business would have to pick up once word spread of a wedding—the wedding of the famous love-lock couple, no less—happening in mere weeks. The Puff would be back in the news, which would generate another rush of sales.

  And bonus—it would make Charles’s attempt to buy out and tear down the love-lock wall look incredibly petty. Talk about poor timing for his repeated offers. He’d have to back off if he didn’t want the bad publicity. And if she remembered anything about Charles Richmond, it was that image was everything. That had to be half the reason behind his grudge—she’d made him look bad by breaking up with him, the successful lawyer.

  “Look! Bubbles.” Casey held up a package of a dozen. “How many, do you think? Five packs?”

  “Let’s get them all.” Bri handed Casey several more, then piled the remaining boxes in her own arms. She was feeling more than a little generous at the moment—and giddy. “Consider it one of your wedding gifts.”

  Now for phase two of her plan—ensuring Casey’s wedding memories stayed intact.

  “The love-lock couple is getting married at the love-lock wall?” KCUP producer Adam Sikes propped his sneakered feet up on the station’s long conference table. “Tell me more.”

  “It’s in two weeks.” Bri handed him the details she’d typed out during the Pastry Puff’s late afternoon lull. Or rather, the entire afternoon’s lull. They’d been pretty dead for a Saturday. “The time is still tentative, but it’ll be held outside the Pastry Puff at the gazebo, by the love-lock wall. The whole town is invited.”

  Adam pulled his skinny jeans–clad legs off the table to reach forward and accept the paper. He’d run the local news station for as long as Bri could remember yet rarely seemed to age. The whole town wondered if he snuck away annually for Botox injections. “We could run a quick promo for it. I assume you’re doing the cake?”

  “Petit-four tower.”

  “Well, I’m in.” He grinned. “Put me down for a plus one.”

  “You’ll want to do more than a promo, though. Trust me.”

  “We always do a Friday morning shout-out for weddings, anniversaries, happy birthdays, and the like.” Adam nodded. “I can squeeze this in, no problem. Everyone loves Casey.”

  Bri pointed to the paper in his hands, fluttering slightly in the draft from the air vent above. “There is a problem, though.”

  His eyes skimmed over it for the first time, and his voice turned wary. “A ‘I don’t want to touch this’ kind of problem or a ‘This makes it juicy’ kind of problem?”

  “You tell me.” Bri crossed her arms and leveled her gaze at him, trying to appear confident despite her pounding heart. “Local attorney seeks to destroy wedding destination.”

  Adam smirked. “This isn’t a newspaper, doll. We don’t do headlines—we do sound bites.” He tilted his head. “But I kind of like it.”

  “You want this scoop, trust me.”

  He studied the sheet. “Who’s the lawyer involved?”

  “Charles Richmond.”

  Adam squinted at her beneath a shock of dark brown hair, also speculated to be dyed. “Didn’t y’all used to date?”

  “That’s irrelevant.”

  “Is it, though?” Adam leaned across the table. “Maybe we have a different scoop here. Are you seeking revenge?”

  Hardly. “I broke up with him.”

  “Oh. Then yeah, that’s irrelevant.” Adam flapped the sheet of paper in her direction. “We almost had something.”

  She was losing him. Bri sat up straighter, heart jump-starting in defense. “You still do. A prominent town figure is trying to buy—and destroy—a beloved city landmark.”

  “Landmark?” He raised a dubious eyebrow at her.

  Too far. “Okay, maybe it’s not that big, but a national travel magazine is doing a write-up on us. That’s noteworthy.”

  “Indeed. I’ll give you that.” Adam nodded. “Who’s the travel writer?”

  Bri handed him another sheet of paper, on which she’d already written Gerard’s name and the phone number to the B&B. “He’ll help with anything you need.”

  He better, anyway. He promised.

  “You’ve been busy. KCUP?” Gerard raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s the station’s call letters. K-C-U-P.” Bri shrugged as she shut the oven door. “Their morning broadcast is ‘Wake Up with KCUP.’”

  Gerard ran a hand down his face and groaned as he followed her from the kitchen back into the front of the bakery. “Now I’ve actually heard everything.”

  “Oh, come on.” She rolled her eyes. “You’ve traveled the world—surely you’ve heard weirder.”

  “Weirder? Yes. Cornier, no. Not even close.”

  Bri pulled on a pair of plastic gloves and began stacking macarons in the bakery display. Her plan was working—convince Casey to get married at the love-lock wall, pitch it to the local news station, gain publicity for the cause . . . and watch Charles slink away in defeat with an unsigned contract. So far, she’d gained two and a half of the
three.

  Hopefully the news bite would generate the uproar she needed to make Charles back off for good.

  She nestled a macaron in its place on the next row. Lavender, tangerine, and chocolate—the perfect Autumn lineup. “I can’t believe he already called you.”

  “I can’t believe you had him call me at all.”

  She met Gerard’s gaze, which looked about as weary as she felt. This feature was getting to him too. “You said you were going to help. That the article was going to be all it needed to be.”

  “Right. The article will be. I never said anything about going on TV.”

  Uh-oh. Bri hesitated. “Adam asked you to be on the show?”

  “Heck no.” Gerard flinched. “I’m not going to lie on TV about love and romance.”

  Thank goodness. The last thing they needed was more of his darkness dust sprinkled over this entire event. “Then what do you mean?”

  “I mean, he alluded to how me writing this feature was a large part of why he was going to broadcast anything at all. Apparently having Trek behind the scenes gives the Pastry Puff more value.”

  “That’s ridiculous. The Puff is already invaluable.”

  Gerard shrugged. “To you, yes. But not necessarily to the entire town and beyond.”

  “Everyone loves us. Everyone loved my mom.” Bri rolled in her lip to stop the stream of words threatening to burst forth. She hadn’t meant to go there. But it was all so inexplicably mixed together. Like trying to separate dry ingredients once they already had been dumped into the bowl.

  “Bri, you’ve got to stop taking everything so personally. It’s okay if people don’t love the Pastry Puff.”

  But they should. She swallowed and stacked another macaron. He didn’t get it. Mr. Big-City Travel Writer had no idea about roots and home and what went into a family business. He could grab the same giant slice of pizza at any Chicago joint and be just fine. She didn’t want to live that way—nothing but chains on every corner.

  “The Pastry Puff—and the love-lock wall—have history.” Bri’s hand shook as she carefully placed the next macaron. History was precious—something people needed to start appreciating again. If she could convince Gerard, she could convince anyone.