The Key to Love

by Betsy St. Amant

  “That was really nice of you to offer to help.” She pulled off another pepperoni and this time, at least, nibbled on it. “I know weddings aren’t your thing.”

  “Sure, no problem. I’ll be writing about this for part two of the article, anyway, so it’s all good. Might as well write it from an up-close, hands-on perspective.” He hoped his casual tone convinced Bri he was doing this for himself and the sake of the feature—and not to save her.

  She nodded, averting her eyes.

  He still didn’t know what was wrong with her but couldn’t ask a second time. That had been close—too close. He couldn’t risk getting that up front and personal again. In fact, he’d better stay as far from Bri as he could for the next week.

  Except he’d just volunteered to help her set up a wedding.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  Bri stretched taller on the chair she’d dragged outside, straining to wrap the second layer of purple gauze around the arch Casey had convinced Jimmy from Johnson’s General to let her borrow for free. The kind old man with a penchant for plaid shirts had delivered it an hour ago, and the chairs and tables were supposed to be coming soon. Casey’s last-minute request had everyone in town eager to help—and had served to distract Bri from the gloomy cloud that had enveloped her since her attic discovery last night.

  She tugged the material around the curve of the arch, wobbling slightly in her ankle boots as she rose to her toes. She probably should have taken her shoes off, but it was too cold.

  Her mind raced with the seemingly never-ending to-do list as she adjusted the sheer fabric around the white wood, which would serve as a backdrop and parameter of sorts for the reception. She couldn’t let herself forget about the cakes cooling on the counter for the petit fours. Once they were ready, she’d torte them and spread on the lemon-berry filling that was still chilling in the fridge. By then the other round of cakes should be ready to come out of the oven. Then she could come back outside and arrange the chairs, if they’d arrived yet. If not, she’d sweep off the stepping-stones leading to the fountain before she had to go back and ice the petit fours.

  Thankfully, Mabel and Agnes were inside the Puff, keeping the coffee fresh and taking care of customers while Bri handled the wedding prep.

  She wondered briefly if Gerard would actually show up to help as he’d mentioned at Taylor’s, but then decided she shouldn’t care. She could handle this—Casey deserved it, and she’d offered, after all. It was just a matter of multitasking and keeping a close eye on her watch. She’d set a phone alarm just in case, to prevent anything from burning.

  Although, on second thought, that proactive attempt might have been more successful if her phone was actually in her pocket, not inside on the bakery counter.

  Bri smoothed the fabric over the curve of the frame. Almost done, and she could go check on the cakes and grab her phone. But a piece snagged on a nail, and she reached higher to free it. It wouldn’t budge—and she couldn’t risk ripping it. She didn’t have more material.

  She blew a stray strand of hair out of her face, then rose on her tiptoes, fingers anxiously grasping for the steel culprit. She held her breath as she attempted to wrestle the fabric free. Almost . . . there . . .

  She stretched too far, and suddenly there was no more chair. Just air, and the rapidly approaching, sparse winter grass. She squeezed her eyes shut and threw her arms out to catch herself—but her fingers grasped fabric instead of dirt.

  She opened her eyes, and her gaze collided with a becoming-too-familiar broad chest, covered in a hunter green, long-sleeved T-shirt. Her reluctant knight in shining armor, once again.

  “Easy there, Cupcake.” Gerard lowered her to the ground, his hands lingering on her waist a moment longer than necessary. Or did they? Wishful thinking?

  No. They definitely lingered.

  Her hips burned at the contact, and her heart lodged somewhere up in her throat. She coughed, and he quickly let her go, his fingers flexing twice as if shaking off an electric current. He’d felt it too.

  She straightened her sweatshirt and quickly reached up to tighten her ponytail. “Good timing.” Or the worst. Maybe hitting the ground would have been better. A lot less confusing for her heart, at least.

  He eased backward a few steps, his eyes guarded. “You won’t be a very good maid of honor if you’re on crutches.”

  “There isn’t a wedding party. It’s going to be just them and the two little girls.” Thank goodness. She could only imagine trying to add maid-of-honor duties to her already overflowing wedding plate. Though it would have been a little fun to see Gerard’s reaction to her in a nice dress.

  She blinked. What was wrong with her? She hadn’t even hit her head.

  “Can I help you finish whatever you were doing before you tried to play Superman?” Gerard extended one hand in the air, one that could easily reach the knotted fabric. “Some of us don’t need stilts.”

  “Very funny.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Can you fix that piece there on the end that’s bunched? It snagged on a nail.”

  “And you thought that was worth face-planting for?” Gerard freed the gauze, and it fluttered perfectly into place. “What else have you done to take one for the team?”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, all of this.” He gestured to the arch and the love-lock wall, and she tried not to notice the way the sleeve of his shirt clung to his bicep. “You basically just volunteered to single-handedly put together this entire wedding.”

  There he went again. Butting into her life, trying to analyze or criticize every move she made. “Well, then, lucky for me that someone like you volunteered to help.” Though clearly not for her sake. “Remember? For the article?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I thought I was writing a travel feature. Not a tragedy.”

  “Look, do you want to help, or do you want to judge me?” She crossed her arms over her sweatshirt. “I don’t have time for should-haves. Hand me that broom.”

  She’d do the whole thing herself if she had to. The drive to prove herself—and to run from the possibilities that haunted her attic trunk—loomed large, and she swallowed hard. She didn’t need Gerard’s approval. She needed to get to work. To keep moving.

  He handed her the broom she had brought outside on her last trip. “Glad to see you’re back to your old self, Cupcake.”

  She snatched the broom and started brushing off the stepping-stones. “What old self? The one that’s impatient with you? Or the one that’s annoyed by your attempts to control everything I do?” Dirt powdered through the air, and she coughed.

  He smirked. “All of them. Do you hear their voices in your head too?”

  She wanted to laugh. And cry—because there was still so much work to do. She chose to do neither and instead swept harder—maybe a little intentionally toward him.

  He stepped back. “What can I do to help?”

  “Stop bugging me.” She turned, leaning on the broom handle. “If you’re going to truly help, no more criticizing the fact that I volunteered. Casey is a good friend, and she’s been through a lot. She deserves a special day.” Her voice shook, and she wasn’t sure from which emotion. Too many were roiling around. Frustration. Fear. Stress.

  That annoying zing of attraction still jolted through her midsection.

  Gerard held up both hands in surrender. “Fair enough. I said I’d help, and I will. No more analyzing.”

  “Great.” She breathed a sigh of relief. Both that he was backing off—and staying. Being alone with her racing thoughts felt like too much to handle, even with the distraction of the wedding preparations at large.

  “The delivery truck with the chairs and tables should be here any minute.” She swept the next stone, then moved to the next. “On second thought, we should probably put the tables and chairs in storage and not actually set them out until Sunday morning. So, you can help the guy unload and carry them to the shed out back.”

/>   “That’s not more expensive? We should just tell them to come Sunday morning.”

  “No, she got them for the whole weekend, for the same price as one day.”

  “Nice. I guess the business owners in Story don’t like to make money.” Gerard hiked an eyebrow.

  Bri gripped the broom handle tighter. “More so, the people in Story like to help each other out.” She glanced up. “You could try mentioning that in your feature.”

  “Roger.” Gerard saluted. “Why don’t you let me finish sweeping, and you can work on the petit fours.”

  She gasped and the broom clattered to the ground.

  The cakes.

  Hopefully this wasn’t an omen for the whole wedding.

  “Bon appétit.” Gerard extended a fork to Bri in her near-fetal position on the kitchen floor.

  She sat up slightly, her head resting back against the island. Once she’d removed the ruined cakes from the oven and deposited them on the stove top, she’d sunk to the floor and had yet to find the energy or motivation to stand. Mabel and Agnes had flipped the “Closed” sign on the front door and left, probably to head out for a quick lunch break during the lull, and hadn’t been there to hear the timer going off. Of all the times for them not to tell her they were leaving. Another sign of their memories slipping?

  She’d been with Gerard, though . . . maybe it was another attempt at matchmaking.

  She couldn’t take much more of this.

  Gerard shook the fork at her, breaking into her thoughts. “What are you doing?” She reached up and reluctantly accepted the fork from him.

  “Come on, Cupcake. There’s got to be some perks to managing a bakery. Scoot over.” He lowered to the floor beside her, stretching his jeans-clad legs across the tiles, and plopped the ruined cake in his lap. He’d transferred it from the scorched pan to a serving plate, and it lay in broken chunks.

  Sort of like her crumpled plans. Now she was going to have to bake an entire extra batch of petit fours, which would put her over an hour behind schedule. On top of that, worry about her parents’ letters still clung to the frayed edges of her thoughts.

  Or were they just her mom’s letters, and not her parents’, after all? Her stomach knotted.

  “Try it.” Gerard nudged her.

  She stared at the carnage on the plate. “Are you crazy?”

  “It’s good.” He chewed slowly. “Surprisingly moist—once you get past the charcoal exterior.”

  Bri groaned. She didn’t have time for this. And yet she couldn’t convince herself to get up and start the next batch of batter.

  She plucked a piece free with her fingers, not even bothering with the fork. She flicked off the crusty, black top layer and took a bite. He was right. It was still pretty decent on the inside. Not bad for comfort food.

  “Still convinced you’re not overstretching yourself on Casey’s behalf?” Gerard forked off another bite.

  Not that she’d ever admit, especially to him. “I can handle it.”

  “Clearly.”

  She wiped crumbs from the corner of her lips. “I just need to torte the cake that didn’t burn and spread the filling.”

  “Uh-huh. And remake this last batch.”

  “Right.”

  “And finish sweeping outside. Oh, and ice all the petit fours.”

  She nodded, stomach clenching. “Right.”

  He speared another bite of cake, calmly, as if this pending wedding wasn’t a pending disaster. “And set up all those chairs and tables.”

  “Okay, I see your point. Hand it over.” She reached for the plate.

  “Now you’re talking.” He nudged the crumbly graveyard closer to her.

  “I feel like we just reversed roles. Wasn’t I the one talking you into desserts just a week ago?”

  He rolled his eyes. “My sweatpants and I thank you, my jeans do not.”

  Like he’d gained an ounce of fat. He was all muscle.

  Not that she’d noticed.

  She leaned her head back fully against the island, eyes closed. This might be her last break or still moment until after the wedding on Sunday evening. Maybe she could clear her head completely. Ignore the acrid tang of smoke hanging in the air and the rush of her adrenaline-shocked heartbeat and actually relax for just a—

  “What was wrong this morning?”

  The cake dried in her mouth.

  She shook her head.

  “Not ready to talk about it?”

  She shrugged.

  “Well, I’m not going to guess.”

  “I wasn’t going to ask you to.”

  He shrugged.

  She rolled in her lower lip. She wanted to blurt out the entire situation, all of her fears—wanted reassurance from someone not as close to her as Mabel and Agnes to tell her she was overreacting, that it was all going to be okay. That nothing would change. That her history and family legacy would remain intact and nothing was tarnished.

  But she couldn’t force any of it out between her dry lips.

  “You don’t have to talk about it.” Gerard set his fork on the plate. “But whatever it is, don’t let it consume you.”

  She swallowed. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “Is that why you jumped at the chance to become a one-woman wedding act? To distract yourself?”

  Probably. She couldn’t bring herself to agree out loud, but it was true. She was running, had been ever since she found that smudge.

  It didn’t matter whether she voiced her agreement. He had her figured out anyway. “I get it.” He nudged her side with his elbow. “You’re just trying to keep moving. I seem to remember the other day you called me out for doing the same.”

  She stared at the burned remains on the plate. “I used to always hope my mom would burn my birthday cake because I wanted her macarons instead.” A slight smile tugged at her lips, and she permitted it with relief. Positive memories were better than the fear of this terrifying unknown. “But she never did, of course. She was too good a baker.”

  “Would you believe I’ve actually never had a birthday cake?”

  Bri shot him a glance. “No way.”

  “Nope.”

  She tilted her head toward him. “Not ever?”

  “Maybe when I was really little. And my mom made a pie a few times, I think. But nah, we usually just grilled burgers or something. She wasn’t much of a baker, remember?”

  That was sad. Every kid deserved birthday cakes. It was a rite of passage. The shaded guard in his eyes made Bri wonder if he thought it was sad too. Maybe Gerard had a softer center than she realized. Sort of like the ruined petits—just had to get past the crusty exterior.

  She pressed her lips together. “Well, whenever your birthday rolls around, you should treat yourself. Get one of those grocery-store cakes with the thick icing that turns your teeth blue for hours.”

  He forked another piece of cake from the pan. “My birthday is actually next week. On Monday.” Regret instantly filled his eyes. “But don’t tell anyone. Last year my coworkers tricked me into going to lunch, and the waiter made me wear a sombrero.”

  The image of him standing by a pile of chips and salsa, grouchy-faced under a rainbow-patterned sombrero while waiters clapped around him, made Bri laugh—hard. “Oh no. I’m taking out an ad in the paper. Or better yet”—Bri snapped her fingers and grinned—“I’ll call Sandra.”

  “Now I know you’re joking.” Gerard shuddered. “That woman is terrifying.”

  “You don’t understand the half of it. You should read her old gossip column articles.”

  “I’m glad that’s not a thing anymore—gossip columns.” Gerard shook his head. “What a waste of newsprint.”

  She couldn’t stop the erupting giggle building in her chest. It felt so good to not feel emotionally bogged down, she couldn’t rein it in. “Your secret is safe . . . old man.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Hey, if you can’t dish it out, then—”

  Gerard sm
ashed a piece of cake in her face. “Eat it?”

  She blinked as petit four crumbs dusted her cheeks. Flakes clung to her chin and lips and fluttered in her eyelashes. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

  “I’m the writer, remember? Let me stick to the happy endings.”

  “Sure.” She grabbed the remaining hunk of cake from the pan. “But I prefer plot twists.”

  He blocked her desperate dive with his forearm, and the momentum pushed him backward, half-reclining against the wall.

  She collapsed against his sturdy chest, laughing, maneuvering her fistful of cake toward his face, to no avail. She tried to push herself up in defeat, but her cake-crusted fingers skidded on the slick tile floor and she landed hard against him.

  Their faces were inches apart.

  Gerard’s gaze caught hers and held. Her breath hitched. He smelled like evergreen and petit-four batter and something deeper and muskier. Something uniquely him. His hands supported her waist, keeping her weight from bearing fully on him. His fingers, coated with cake and calluses, barely grazed under the hem of her sweatshirt as he braced her, but she felt their heat to her core.

  His eyes lowered to her lips, then darted back to her eyes, as if seeking permission.

  Her stomach dipped, and her gaze followed the same path, noting the stubbled dimple in his jaw. A small scar she’d never noticed before barely clipped the edge of his chin.

  His fingers flexed around her hips, and she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t push herself up. Couldn’t decide if she wanted to.

  She wanted him to kiss her.

  No, she didn’t. It would change things. Change was scary.

  But something about being this close to Gerard didn’t feel scary at all.

  His head rose toward her, closing the narrow distance between them. She closed her eyes in anticipation, heart pounding an unsteady beat in her chest. This was it. He was going to kiss her. His hands gripped tighter.

  And propelled her up and off of him.

  Her eyes flew open as she sat upright on the tile beside him. Their gazes collided, and she wondered if he could see the myriad questions racing through her mind. Wondered if she could even put words to them if she tried.