Six sets of eyes jerked his way, Bri’s widening the most.
Bri stared at Gerard staring at her from the middle of the circle of chairs. He was like a pop-up book. Always at the bakery, then appearing at the bank . . . now he was intruding on book club?
She opened her mouth, then shut it, unsure which situation to address first—his accusation of her favorite novel or that he was there in the first place.
William didn’t give her time before coming to her defense. “Of course she did. We all did.”
“You, I can’t even deal with right now.” Gerard held up one hand to William before pointing at Bri. “You. Did you read the book?”
Bri stood to face him and crossed her arms to hide her shaking hands, her heart pounding a defensive rhythm. “I could quote the book.”
“You read the book? In your native language?” Gerard still hadn’t lowered his finger. “And you somehow still came away with that crazy theory?”
“I could have read it in French too.” She narrowed her eyes. “C’est une vérité universellement reconnue que—”
He grabbed the books tucked against his side and crossed his arms to imitate her, interrupting with the rest of the novel’s famous opening line. “Un homme célibataire en possession d’une bonne fortune doit avoir besoin d’une femme.”
Bri gasped and her arms fell to her side. Gerard knew Pride and Prejudice?
“I’m a world traveler, Cupcake. You want to go Italian next?”
The library briefly tilted around her, and anger sparked in her chest. He had the nerve to invade her personal space and then call her out in front of her entire group? He was rude and unnecessary—this gesture perhaps the rudest of them all. Just because he came to try to smooth things over at the bank earlier didn’t give him an open invitation into her life.
Especially if he was coming to commandeer it.
She glared. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Next to her, Casey wiggled in her seat, grinning and turning to hang her legs over the side of her chair. She looked like all she needed was popcorn as her head turned back and forth between Bri and Gerard.
A brief warning signal flashed in the back of Bri’s mind. Abort. Abort. So much for Bri’s plan to save the bakery—she not only wasn’t implementing said plan, but she was hard-core running in the other direction at this point. It was difficult to remember her motivation when he challenged her like this. What was it about Gerard that set her so on edge? Her frustration knew no limits when he goaded her. They had zero compatibility.
Sort of like Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy.
Bri flinched. No. That was totally different.
“I’m sorry. Who are you?” Their book club leader, Julie Thompson, smiled politely as she glanced up at Gerard. She looked unsure if she should offer to pull up a chair or run him off. “I’m Julie.”
“Gerard Fortier. Pleasure.” He nodded briskly, then turned back to Bri before Julie could respond. “Darcy wasn’t a pushover, giving in to the whims of some wishy-washy woman. He was a man who stood his ground and spoke the truth.”
“What? Elizabeth wasn’t wishy-washy. She knew right away what she wanted—who she wanted, for that matter.” A flush crawled up Bri’s neck. He had the story completely wrong. Like he had their town—and the Pastry Puff—completely wrong.
“As for you.” He pivoted toward William, tucking the two books back under his arm. “Darcy wasn’t harsh. He was honest—which, by the way, is a refreshing and rare quality in a man today.”
“You think?” William’s eyebrows shot up so fast, his glasses slipped on his nose. “Honest, huh?” He nodded eagerly. “I can go with that.”
Bri turned away so he wouldn’t see her roll her eyes. Figured. William was definitely more Mr. Collins. He hadn’t stood by a single opinion he’d offered in book club yet.
Gerard ran a hand down the length of his face before peering at Casey in her chair. “I suppose you think these two are right?”
“I actually haven’t read the book.” Casey grinned. “And who needs to now?”
Bri huffed. “Casey!”
“What?” She laughed, twisting back around in the chair so her feet dropped to the floor. “It’s more fun this way. Besides, I’m planning a wedding. I don’t have time for novels.”
“But you have time for book club?” Bri shot her a pointed glance.
Gerard blew out a breath. “At least you’re getting a glimpse of what real marriage is like with these Austen characters.”
Finally, something they could agree on. “Exactly!” Bri reached back into her chair and grabbed her worn copy of Pride and Prejudice. “Romance, longsuffering, passion.”
“Hardly.” Gerard perched on the edge of the seat Bri had vacated. “More like arguing, stubbornness, and selfishness.”
“Oh, I love a good fight scene.” Casey flipped through her stiff new copy. “What page is that on?”
“Pick one. It’s their entire relationship.” Gerard shrugged. “I really don’t see how this novel is a romance, anyway. More like a tragedy.”
“Fascinating point.” Julie leaned forward in her chair with a smile, smoothing her floral-print skirt over her lap. “I have to admit book club rarely gets this animated.”
The rest of the group started chatting excitedly, considering other scenarios and themes. Even Casey joined in.
Bri watched a satisfied smirk slide across Gerard’s face, and her grip tightened on the book in her hand, itching to wind it like a baseball and pitch it at his head. She narrowed her gaze at him, raising her voice to be heard over the chattering din of the club members. “How do you even know what marriage is like, anyway? Have you ever been married?”
The group fell silent at the same moment. Her loud question echoed through the small study nook.
Gerard’s eyes locked with hers. “Almost. Once.”
Bri’s pounding heart tripped in its marathon rhythm, and her stomach flip-flopped. Regret at her brashness immediately flooded her senses, heating her chest and neck in a telltale flush she tried to cover with her hand. Despite wanting to sink into the ground, she absolutely couldn’t walk past one detail. “Almost?”
Gerard slowly stood. “People break engagements every day, Cupcake. Just ask your buddies there.” He gestured to the worn book in her hands. “Not all stories end in happily ever after.”
Then he walked away, leaving the women swooning and William shaking his head in awe. “Wow,” he said as he pushed his glasses up on his nose.
Bri rolled in her lower lip and looked away from his retreating form. Wow, indeed.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
He hadn’t had a headache this bad—or swallowed back this much regret—since Spring Break 2009.
Gerard pecked aimlessly at his laptop keys. One of the library books lay open next to him on the table he’d wiped down with a napkin that he’d had to dip in his own water glass. Classy.
After tossing and turning all night, nauseated over the words he’d let slip to complete strangers—words he hadn’t even said in front of his coworkers at Trek—he’d decided to shove aside reality and get some work done at the most inconspicuous place he could think of: Taylor’s Sushi Barn, which boasted a full breakfast menu and the “town’s best pizza” on their website.
More importantly, though, was that it was located on the opposite end of Story from the Pastry Puff. He’d drown his sorrows in black coffee and pancake syrup and try not to worry about where in the world Mr. Taylor secured his sushi and why he felt the need to sell it from a barn.
Temples throbbing from lack of sleep, Gerard stared at the words swimming on the computer screen before him. The library books so far hadn’t helped much. Though it could be his fault for lack of focus. Always with the writer’s block in this town.
Why had he blurted that out to Bri? “Almost. Once.” He had hard rules about his personal life—as in, don’t talk about it, at all, under any circumstances. Especially on a job. No one needed
to know his business. Peter didn’t even know the whole story about Kelsey, and here he was blabbering on in a library because of what? He was trying to prove a point about a classic novel? What was it about this town?
What was it about Bri?
He took a sip of coffee and winced. Apparently his waitress had topped it off when he wasn’t looking. Now his tongue burned.
At least he could be fairly certain the morning couldn’t get any worse.
“I heard about your commotion in the library last night.” Charles slid into the booth across from him and saluted with his coffee mug. “Well played.”
He was wrong.
Gerard shut his laptop. “Word gets around fast.”
“That’s Story.” Charles took a slow sip, then smirked. “Plus, my friend Sandra was returning some DVDs and overheard the entire thing. I have to say, I’m impressed.”
Sandra. Figured. Did that mean she’d heard the slip about having almost been married?
Gerard stayed silent, hoping for context before replying.
He didn’t have to wait long.
“Not many people stand up to Abrielle Duval.”
Who? Oh, right. Bri. He’d never get used to Abrielle. Bri was about the most American, partially French woman he’d ever met.
He shrugged. “It was just a book club discussion.”
“Are you familiar with subtext, Mr. Fortier?” Charles rolled the saltshaker between his fingers. “The surface conversation might have been about the book. The undertone was a lot more. At least, according to Sandra.”
He knew that woman was going to be trouble the moment he met her. Gerard leaned back in the booth, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah?”
Looking more than pleased with himself, Charles adjusted the collar of his dress shirt. Yellow today, which didn’t do his skin tone any favors. He looked extra pasty. Did the man ever dress down? This wasn’t exactly Chicago. And good thing, because Chicago would eat this weasel alive in a minute. It was easy to play bigwig lawyer in a Midwestern town the size of a postage stamp.
He wished he could take this guy down a peg or two now. But the game wasn’t over. There were still cards to deal, and Gerard couldn’t take his chances on showing his hand yet. “What’s your point?”
Charles returned the saltshaker to its cubby on the table. “I just made the Pastry Puff owners a new offer. One they’d be crazy to refuse.” He shook his head. “Crazy even for them.”
Gerard frowned. Mabel and Agnes were eccentric, for certain. But not crazy. If anything, Charles was the one with a few screws loose—striving and manipulating to purchase a property out of some kind of spite, when any other location in the city would serve just as well. “What’s that got to do with me?”
“You can sway her. Bri is the only reason those sisters are holding out. If she were on board, they’d have taken my original offer. Who wants to run a bakery in their eighties?” Charles shook his head. “They’ll see reason once Bri does. You’re the man for the job. No one else can talk to Bri like you do.”
Maybe so, but that didn’t mean it did any good. If anything, he just kept shoving his foot in his mouth in front of her, to his detriment. Those figurative leather boots didn’t taste great.
“I know you can do it.” Charles tapped the table between them. “And don’t forget what we discussed earlier.”
About the power of the pen? Ha. Gerard glanced at his closed laptop. If Charles only knew how powerless those words currently were. At this rate, he wasn’t going to convince anyone to come to the Pastry Puff—and not because of Charles’s backhanded pleas.
But because he didn’t want to be here himself.
The realization was suddenly so clear. His writer’s block wasn’t just typical writer’s block. It was due to him not believing his own words. Usually he had no problem creating an artistic argument to lure fellow wanderers to experience his travels for themselves. It was easy to talk up nature’s grandest opportunities and most scenic secrets.
But he didn’t want to be in Story, and it was showing in his weak sentence structure and lackluster descriptions.
Charles slipped out of the booth, briefcase in hand. “So, we have an understanding?” He held out his free hand.
Gerard studied it for a moment. Something had to change. And unfortunately, it seemed the fastest way to do that was to take Charles’s advice and try to talk Bri out of keeping the Pastry Puff. It was just like his reverse psychology attempts with Casey the other day—if he pushed, Bri would be sure to push back. He’d be able to see what made the bakery so special.
Then maybe he could finish this assignment once and for all. Besides, war sold. If the battle was still raging between the two when the feature was published, all the better.
He shook Charles’s hand. “That we do.”
Charles was ten feet away by the time Gerard realized the weasel had passed him two folded hundred-dollar bills.
Bri had a Friday tradition, one not even Mabel and Agnes knew about. On her midmorning break, she hoofed it down to Taylor’s Sushi Barn and bought a slice of pepperoni pizza. She’d never worked up the nerve to try Taylor’s sushi—come to think of it, she didn’t even think he served it anymore. The man made weak coffee and stale banana muffins, but his extra-saucy pizza was to die for.
And after last night, she needed her secret Friday treat bad.
The scent of bacon and burned toast assaulted her senses as she hurried inside. She raised her voice over the clatter of silverware. “Morning, Taylor.”
Taylor leaned backward from his post in the kitchen to see around the doorframe. He grinned as he flipped something in a skillet. “Morning, Ms. Bri.” His apron was already stained with grease from the breakfast rush. “Is it Friday already?”
“You know it.” She unzipped her pink coin purse and pulled out a few bills. “Pepperoni me, please.”
“Coming right up.” Something sizzled, and Taylor quickly popped back out of sight.
Bri glanced around the crowded diner—well, barn—and her stomach knotted. Taylor had a steady stream of customers, no doubt. It was like this every Friday. Did he ever get lulls too?
Or was it just the Puff?
Her gaze traveled over the patrons nestled in their booths—sharing pancakes, sipping coffee, munching bacon. One elderly woman had a slice of pizza on her plate, and Bri hid a smile. She hoped she was just like that when she reached that lady’s age—still eating pizza on Friday mornings.
Then Charles strode purposefully across the restaurant toward the front door, briefcase in hand. She quickly ducked her head to hide behind her curtain of hair. He hadn’t seen her, thankfully, or he’d have said something, for sure. He never missed an opportunity to goad her.
She peeked between the strands of her hair and noticed a lone figure sitting at the table Charles had just vacated. Someone had been forced to start his morning with Charles—poor guy.
Then her eyes narrowed as the lone figure shrugged into the sleeves of a leather jacket.
Any inkling of sympathy vanished. “You have got to be kidding me.” It was official—Gerard was everywhere. Not even Taylor’s Sushi Barn was safe now. How in the world had he figured out her Friday tradition?
“What’s that, dear?” Taylor slid her pie across the counter on a scratched black plate.
“Nothing, Taylor.” Bri forced a smile and handed him her cash. Better start faking it now. She couldn’t repeat her mistake at the library last night and get hung up on the fact that Gerard was following her. She had to start implementing her plan to get his help, and quick, before Mabel convinced Agnes to take Charles’s offer. That was all that mattered.
That, and the steaming, cheesy sustenance on her plate. She could do this. The Puff depended on it.
Her mother’s memory depended on it.
She carried her pizza toward Gerard, hesitating by his table as he started to stand. He glanced up with a smirk. “You following me, Duval?”
She gritted her
teeth. “I could ask the same.”
“Actually, I was here first.” He gestured to his laptop, which was sitting dangerously close to a sticky syrup stain on the table.
She set her plate on top of the stain and sat down in the booth. “I’m on my break.”
“Slow down there, now. It’s not even ten a.m.” Gerard nodded toward the pepperoni she was picking off the top of her pizza. She always ate them first, separately. Except for the last one, which she left for the last bite of crust.
She started to snap back, something about not having judged his carb-loaded breakfast, then remembered the plan. She wouldn’t let him derail her again. Seeing Charles had fortified her.
Instead, she laughed. “You’re always so funny.”
Gerard’s eyes narrowed, as if he couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic. “Well, I was just leaving. Enjoy your plate of teenage rebellion, there.”
He half slid out of the booth, waiting for her response, but she just kept smiling as she pulled another pepperoni off her pie and conjured happy thoughts. Puppies. The Eiffel Tower. The feel of plush new slippers.
She thought of Mabel ripping up a sales contract from Charles, and the smile turned a little more genuine. “You should stay.”
“Stay?” His eyebrows rose. “Here?”
“Yes. Eat with me.” She patted the table as if that could ease him back into the booth. “We can talk.”
“Talk?”
She started to say something sarcastic about a parrot but restrained herself. Man, she was on a roll with the self-discipline today. Must be the joy from the pepperonis. “How’s the red room treating you?”
Wait, that probably sounded sarcastic. She tried again before he could answer. “Is Mrs. Beeker harassing you too badly?” She plastered on what she hoped came across as a sympathetic smile. “I know she can be a little much at first.”
“A little much? That’s like saying a jet is a bit loud.”
Bri’s stomach tensed. Who did he think he was? Mrs. Beeker was a nice woman and a dedicated patron of the Pastry Puff. Sure, she was somewhat eccentric and her hair was hard to look directly at, but she truly cared about the residents of Story and—
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