And maybe one day, his father too—if he ever bothered to pick up a magazine. Or even remembered Gerard’s name.
So, into the witch’s house it was.
He grabbed his duffel, pushed open the picket gate that matched the swinging sign, and plodded up the three stairs to the front door.
His black leather boot cracked through the second step and he lunged forward, catching himself on the splintered railing. A wood chip dug into his palm just as his duffel hit the dusty porch floor with a thump. His backpack swung off his shoulder and smacked him in the face.
Welcome to Story.
“Oh, my cheese and crackers!” The screen door opened, nearly nailing him in the head, and a red-haired, spectacled woman rushed outside, an apron tied around her ample waist. Her hands fluttered like she was shooing birds. Or perhaps trying to fly herself. “Are you okay, sir?”
“Yep.” Gerard straightened, tugging his boot from the step. He’d probably be a little sore from the sudden lunge, but there was no need to point that out. “Looks like that stair needs repairing.”
“They’ve been rotted for a while now.” The woman leaned over and winked dramatically at him. “Don’t tell my insurance agent.”
Right. “Your secret’s safe.” He adjusted his backpack, just as she handed him his duffel. Thankfully his laptop was in a padded case inside. He never traveled on his bike without the extra protection.
“Hopefully the rest of your stay at the Gingerbread House will be top-notch.” She extended her hand. Up close, he could tell now her red hair was from a bottle. Judging by the laugh lines around her overly plucked brows, she must be in her late sixties.
“I’m Mrs. Beeker, proud owner. And housekeeper, and chef.” She laughed. “I would do the books too, but I can’t add to save my life. I leave that to my grandson.”
Noted. He shook her hand. “Pleasure is mine.”
“It’s not every day we get a traveler like yourself from the Rainy City.”
Close. “It’s Windy.”
“Is it?” She licked her finger and held it up, squinting. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“No, I meant—” Never mind. Time to switch gears so he could get to his room and write out his initial impressions of the Pastry Puff. Another image of Bri in her apron filled his mind, and he shook it away. “I’d love to see my room. It’s such a charming establishment you have here.” It wasn’t a blatant lie. Someone would find it charming. Just not him.
“Oh, you’re too much!” Mrs. Beeker swatted in his direction as a pink flush dotted her cheeks. “I do hope you’ll leave us a good review on the World Wide Web. Business has been booming since the love-lock wall got so much publicity.”
She should probably fix that stair, then.
Gerard followed her inside, catching the screen door she forgot to hold open in her excitement before it hit for the second time. This woman was like a redheaded tornado.
The foyer looked normal enough, with dark wood and old floral wallpaper. Outdated but harmless. And no candy decorations. He relaxed an iota. Maybe she just hadn’t taken down her Christmas decorations outside.
Mrs. Beeker rounded the corner of the front desk. “People want to come see it, you know.”
He dropped his bags at his feet and dug in his wallet for his company credit card. If this place had room service, he’d order it, just to get back at Peter. “It?”
“The love-lock wall, of course. They want to hang their lock on the fence and fall in love.” Mrs. Beeker sighed and batted her eyes. “Every single one of them.”
“Is that how it works? You hang a lock and fall in love?” He handed her the card.
“Oh, my cheese and crackers, no. You have to fall in love first. The lock is the symbol of your commitment.”
“I see.” So, it was sort of like prison. Fitting.
“Is that why you’re here?” She wiggled her eyebrows.
“Heck no.” He caught himself. “Well, sort of. It’s related. But I can assure you, it’s not because I’m in love.”
“Never say never, dear.”
Technically, he hadn’t said never. He opened his mouth, then bit back the argument. “Yes, ma’am.” He waited for her to pull up his reservation in the computer, then realized there wasn’t one. She had a notebook—and a pencil.
Mrs. Beeker flipped open the thin calendar book and placed a checkmark next to his name. Elaborate system. “Well, I can’t run the card until my grandson gets here later this evening. I just don’t know how, dear. But don’t worry, I know where to find you.” She gave him back the card and dangled a room key from her other hand. “Room three.”
That didn’t sound so bad. After seeing the outside of the establishment, he’d half expected the rooms to be called Gumdrop Fantasy or something equally nausea-inducing. “Thank you.” He reached for the key.
She didn’t relinquish it. “That’s the third floor.”
“Right.” He held out his hand, waiting.
She pulled the key back and peered at him over the top of her glasses. “The color red doesn’t give you anxiety, does it?”
“Not that I’ve noticed.” Except it might now, after looking at her hair this long.
“Good.” She grinned, and her gold hoop earrings swung. “Then, here you go.”
He was definitely edging up on the anxiety now. He nodded with a brief smile, grabbed his bags, and headed toward the winding wooden staircase. Third floor. Apparently he wouldn’t be getting too big a break from his gym regimen on this trip, after all.
He needed to keep up the endorphins anyway. He was already grumpy. He just needed to do his job, write this silly article, and get out of Dodge.
Besides, the more miserable he was, the more Peter would gloat.
He creaked his way upstairs and stopped at the top of a short hallway leading to the door with a gold-scripted 3 on the front. He inserted the key, turned the knob, eased the door open—and saw red.
Literally. Red everywhere.
He took a step back, his eyes trying to process the red floor rugs, the red rose wallpaper climbing above the white wainscoting, the red floral bedspread draped over the queen-sized frame. The red vases holding faux red flowers on the small desk shoved under the window.
It was as if the color had vomited over the entire room. And if that wasn’t enough, a short Christmas tree stood guard in the corner of the room, decorated with red candy ornaments.
He was going to kill Peter.
“I didn’t know I could ruin something so thoroughly, so quickly.” Bri tossed a lacy oven mitt out of the way on the counter and leaned over the glass, not even caring about the smudges sure to follow. She couldn’t stop replaying that morning’s encounter with Gerard in her mind. Gerard Fortier—travel writer, insult doler, and sarcastic guru.
Figured he’d have a French surname. The Lord’s sense of humor never failed her.
“Well, I always thought you were part superhero, if that helps.” Casey grinned as she popped a pinch of macaron in her mouth. She’d been patiently listening to Bri bemoan her first impression with the Trek writer for the past half hour. They’d become closer friends since the viral video—one more pro that had sprung from the debut. Hopefully this travel feature wouldn’t become a con.
“Superhero?” Bri raised her eyebrows.
“Sure. You know—capable of anything?”
“In the kitchen, maybe.” Bri rolled her eyes. “And apparently I have mad skills in messing up what could be the bakery’s only chance at deterring Charles’s bullheaded offers.”
“Charles is no bull.” Casey took another bite of macaron. “Bulldog, maybe. He just tries to act tough. He’s all bark, no bite.”
Still, his persistence made Bri nervous. So far Mabel and Agnes weren’t taking his offers seriously, but she recognized that determinedness in his eyes. It was the same characteristic that helped him pass the bar. She just didn’t know why he was so obsessed with the Pastry Puff. Why not use any of the buildings for s
ale farther down the street for his next venture? There were two perfectly good properties closer to Johnson’s General.
Casey shrugged. “Besides, you didn’t ruin anything. The reporter probably thought it was funny.”
Hmm. Gerard had smiled when he saluted her. But that was probably because of her shocked response. What had she even said to him afterward? She moaned as she remembered. “Casey, I rambled to him about pencil skirts. Trust me. It’s ruined.”
The pretty brunette tossed her head back and laughed. “Classic.” Gone were the bags under her eyes, which Casey attributed to a new concealer, but Bri knew the truth. Now she had help—and someone to love her. What girl wouldn’t be smiling about that?
“Do you care?” Casey eased forward, eyebrows furrowing together and a half smile playing on her lips.
Bri frowned. “Of course I care. This is the bakery’s one big chance and I ruined—”
Casey waved her hand. “Not because of the bakery, silly. I’m sensing there might be a little bit of embarrassment for other reasons. You know. Personal ones.” Her eyebrows wiggled up and down now in a suggestive dance.
Heat cloaked Bri’s chest. “Hardly.”
“Oh, come on. I googled him. He’s not exactly hard to look at. You’re single . . . and he’s got to be, with a personality like the one you’ve described.” Casey’s cheeks dimpled as she grinned.
The heat cranked up a notch, and she tugged at the neckline of her shirt to cover it. “Definitely none of that.”
Casey sighed. “Whatever. Listen, regardless, I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think. You worry too much. And trust me, I’m an expert at worry, so I recognize it a mile away.” She crumpled her napkin into a ball, then pointed at Bri. “Nathan’s helped me chill a lot. Now I’m going to help you.”
“Do you have a pill for that or something?” Bri was kidding. Sort of.
“Better.” Casey winked. “It’s called love. I’m going to help Mabel and Agnes set you up.”
Oh no. She’d drunk the Kool-Aid. Panic flared. “I just said Gerard—”
“It doesn’t have to be him.” Casey shrugged. “Just, you know. Love in general.”
Bri shook her head. “I’ll have my turn one day, I’m sure. But for now, I’ve got bigger cakes to bake. Like saving the Puff.” She forced a smile that hopefully looked cheerier than she felt. “Besides, I’m sort of picky, and you just snatched up the last decent man in Story.”
“No way! There are some great guys at the fire department.” Casey tilted her head, rolling in her bottom lip. “Well, two. Okay, one, because the other guy is dating that girl in Missouri now. But the one left is pretty great!”
“If he’s single and breathing, it’s already been attempted around here, trust me.” Bri straightened and moved away from the display before she was tempted to take another petit four out of the case. The last thing she needed right now was to stress eat. “Some things can’t be forced.”
“I understand. But if you change your mind . . .” Casey’s voice trailed off as she stood and threw away her trash. “Come to the station and ask for Kyle.”
“Sure. Tell Nathan I said hey.” Bri waved as her friend headed to the door, appreciating her good intentions but knowing she’d never contact Kyle. She was sure he was a perfectly nice guy, but she hadn’t waited around this long for nice. She was waiting for a prince. Charles had been nice, and Charles was no prince.
There was a difference. She wanted a love like her parents’. A love that stood the test of time. A love to write home about—literally, as the letters in her mom’s trunk demonstrated.
The bakery door swung open from the outside just as Casey pushed against it.
Speaking of non-princes.
Bri straightened as Gerard stepped back on the sidewalk, allowing Casey sufficient room to exit. His averted gaze as he held the door gave Bri the opportunity to reluctantly notice two things: one, his firm jawline, still stubbled over, and two, the wide eyes and “wow” Casey mouthed behind her hand to Bri.
Bri widened hers back at Casey in warning just as Gerard stepped inside. Casey plastered herself against the door behind him, pointing and wiggling her eyebrows again.
Bri attempted to wave Casey away, just as Gerard looked up and made eye contact. She quickly patted her hair, as if she’d been fixing it the entire time. “Welcome back.” She wasn’t going to stop and evaluate why she suddenly felt out of breath. Probably just from the looming embarrassment of Casey’s antics.
Surely not because of the way Gerard strode purposefully toward her, still clad in that leather jacket and those distressed jeans.
“Before you even ask, no petit fours. Just coffee.” He leaned against the glass countertop that Bri had just vacated.
She hadn’t intended to ask. Why waste a perfectly good petit four on someone so grumpy? “Coming right up.” Funny how the moment he opened his mouth, it became much easier to breathe normally.
She had to be nice now, though. No more barbs or sarcastic impulses. She had to remember this was their feature writer, not just a jerk with a chip on his shoulder. This was someone to impress—for a good cause.
She couldn’t let Charles have the bakery. Now, or ever.
Gerard rapped his knuckles lightly on the display as she reached for a mug. “Your town sure likes its sweets.”
“Is that a bad thing?” Who didn’t love fresh-baked desserts? It sounded like he was already tired of them. But wait. That could only mean one thing. “Let me guess. You’re staying at the Gingerbread House?”
His eyebrow rose. “You mean there’s another option?”
She picked up the carafe of black coffee, trying to hide her smile. It wasn’t polite to gloat, even at irony. “Not unless you go about thirty miles north of town.”
He narrowed his eyes, as if debating the potential commute.
Which meant one other thing. She reached for a mug to serve him. “Red room?”
He nodded, jaw tightening.
Bless Mrs. Beeker and her quirks. “It could be worse. It could be pink.” She casually poured his coffee into a pink polka-dotted mug and slid it toward him.
Gerard cradled the mug between his hands. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”
“Hey, a town that loves sweets is good for business. You might as well jump on board.” Bri placed the carafe back on the warmer. In fact, he needed to be completely on board, or this entire feature would tank. And when sales generated from the viral video tapered off, there wouldn’t be enough momentum to keep Charles from sniffing around with his briefcase and lowball offers.
She reached for Gerard’s mug again. “On second thought, let me put that in a to-go cup. There’s something you need to see.”
“Let me guess. The love-lock wall?”
Bri poured his coffee into a to-go cup and snapped the lid on tight. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“Well, I’m not here to drink the coffee, if that’s what you’re asking.”
She stiffened. “If you’d just sweeten up a little, it wouldn’t be so bad.”
“Did you mean sweeten it up?”
“That’s what I said.” Should have said, anyway. She sighed in an effort to relieve some frustration. “Try it with some cream or sugar.”
“That’s going to be the opening line of the feature.” Gerard framed the imaginary headline with his fingers. “Just a spoonful of sugar helps the coffee go down.”
“It’s not that bad.” She slid the cup toward him and reached to untie her apron. His eyes followed her hand movements, and she remembered his teasing earlier about wearing the allegedly useless garment. Her chest heated. “And don’t you start on my apron again.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He half managed to cover his grin with his coffee cup.
She wanted to swat him with said apron, but with her luck, Mabel and Agnes would return from the store before she could and start giving her that look again. Besides, swatting was definitely on the list of things she should
n’t do to their feature writer.
Running her fingers through his waves of dark hair to straighten it out was also on that list.
She tossed the apron on a clean part of the counter, next to her favorite Wanderlust pallet sign, then stepped through the waist-high swinging door that separated the behind-the-counter area from the shop. “Come on. It’s not so bad.”
Gerard straightened. “The coffee or the love-lock wall?”
“Both.”
“You’re going to have to sell me.”
“Your coffee is already free.”
“I meant on the wall.” Gerard followed her outside, his begrudging presence heavy on her heels as they crunched through the leaves. “What’s the big deal about it, anyway?”
She stopped and turned so quickly that he stumbled not to run into her. “Am I trying to convince you or your readers?”
He took a sip from his paper cup and winced. “Both.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“Now, Ms. Duval, you haven’t known me long enough to make that declaration.”
She held up her hand to shade her eyes from the setting sun. A crimson leaf blew from a nearby maple and drifted down between them. “How do you know it’s not Mrs.?”
He opened his mouth, then immediately pressed his lips together, as if changing his words mid-verse. “My editor did his research.”
Wait a minute. “How is my relationship status part of the feature?”
“It might not be, but you know how it goes. A cute, single blonde sells copies a heck of a lot better than a cute, married one.”
He thought she was cute.
And now she couldn’t remember a single thing about the love locks.
CHAPTER
FIVE
This chick needed a hobby.
Gerard considered clicking off his recorder for the third time since she’d started rambling about the love locks. She stood in those cream high heels on a crimson carpet of leaves, gesturing toward each lock like a tour guide. And doggone it, she remembered the individual story behind most of them.
The wall, which was really a black wrought-iron fence wrapped around a stone fountain, held more than a hundred padlocks, some piled on top of each other on the same rod, others stacked on the bottom and waiting for a lock to fall on top of it. Some silver. Some black. Some chrome. A few spray-painted a bright color for easy recognition.
The Key to Love Page 3
