The Key to Love

by Betsy St. Amant

  Fat chance.

  “A lot of places have history. But just because something has sentimental value to you doesn’t mean it will to everyone else.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, then stopped. He was right.

  She really hated that.

  She wiped a strand of hair out of her face with the back of her gloved hand and stubbornly held on to hope. “It won’t matter. People flock to what’s popular. Once I represent the Pastry Puff on the news and share what’s going on, they’ll start coming back like they did when that video of Casey and Nathan went viral.”

  “Maybe.” Gerard nudged his coffee cup across the counter. “Hint, hint.”

  Bri sighed and grabbed the carafe from the warmer. “You’re going to float away on free coffee—that you don’t even like.”

  “Maybe it’s growing on me.” His gaze caught hers and held, and her stomach flickered.

  She had misinterpreted that look once before, and she wouldn’t do it again.

  She calmly topped off the coffee in his half-empty mug, ignoring the stirring in her chest from his proximity. She was probably just tired and needing a hug. Not from him, though. “Maybe. Or maybe your taste buds are finally growing up.”

  “Or maybe the bad coffee just made them give up completely.”

  Bri shot him a pointed glance. “They weren’t giving up during those two macarons you just devoured.”

  He grinned over the rim of his cup. “Touché.”

  She turned around with the carafe. “Anyway, as I was saying, once the town hears my side, there’s no way they’ll stand for Charles tearing this place down.”

  “You seem to be forgetting a pretty big factor here.”

  She fumbled to replace the carafe on the coffeepot, her emotions still wadded up from that confusing, chemistry-laden moment. “What’s that?”

  “If they’re going to interview you on the news, they’re going to interview Charles too.”

  The carafe jerked into place with a bang and coffee spilled over the top. She stared at the drip forming on the counter, her heart sinking.

  “It’s called ethical journalism, Cupcake. They have to represent both sides of the argument.”

  He was right again, and it wasn’t any less annoying this time. Despair nipped at the hope that had finally bloomed. How had she not thought of that?

  She slowly turned to face Gerard.

  He peered at her over the edge of his mug. “The town will hear your side—and his.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  Three days later, Gerard edged his way across the small parking lot toward the Pastry Puff. A picket wearing gloves and holding a to-go cup of coffee in her free hand pointed her sign at him. “We like fluff! Save the Puff!”

  They really needed to work on their slogans.

  He held up his hands. “Hey, I’m just visiting.” He was Switzerland, as it were. At least as far as Bri and Charles were concerned.

  The woman offered him a gloved high five, which he politely nodded at and slipped inside the bakery.

  Bri wasn’t behind the counter, as he’d expected. Nor had he expected the line of people fifteen deep stretching from the cash register to the door. Mabel and Agnes were steadily ringing up customers and bagging orders, uncharacteristically quiet as they worked.

  Then he saw her—cheeks flushed with excitement and hair tucked behind her ears, making her look even younger than she was. She talked animatedly with a reporter, who scribbled in his notepad. He must be with the local newspaper.

  Gerard ambled up behind him, hoping to stay off the radar but wanting to get close enough to hear the conversation.

  “Ever since the news ran the interview the other day, business has been booming.” Bri gestured around her. She was back in that Wanderlust sweatshirt of hers. “I think that’s all the proof Charles needs that the people of Story love the bakery and want us to stay in business.”

  “What do you say to Mr. Richmond’s counterargument that the love-lock wall is an eyesore?” The reporter waited, pen posed. His other hand held a tape recorder under the notepad.

  Gerard frowned. Who used pen and paper anymore? Didn’t the staff have tablets or some kind of electronic device to take notes on? It was a small town, but come on. And why both the recorder and the notepad?

  “That’s just his opinion.” Bri’s chin lifted slightly. “And I happen to think he’s wrong.”

  The reporter shifted his weight to his other leg, glancing over his shoulder before continuing. “Does the fact that Paris removed the original love-lock bridge by the Seine give Mr. Richmond’s argument any merit?”

  “Not to me.” Bri crossed her arms. “Just because some people in France made a decision doesn’t mean we have to make the same decision here. Besides, it’s a totally different scale.”

  The reporter tilted his head. “So, you’re saying that you would never imitate the French?”

  Her arms fell to her side. “What? I didn’t say that.”

  “Because you did imitate the French, by creating the wall in the first place. A wall they deigned worthy to remove. Are you saying you disagree with French policies?”

  Bri’s brow furrowed. “I love France. What are you talking about?”

  “So, you confirm that you are trying to imitate a foreign country.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not conf—”

  “You don’t even love America anymore?”

  Oh, for the love of—

  Gerard reached out and tapped the reporter firmly on the shoulder.

  Charles was behind this goof. Had to be. This guy didn’t even have a badge. “Hey, Skippy. What newspaper are you with?”

  The guy straightened, fumbling with the device in his hands. He had to be nineteen years old, max. Maybe twenty. He swallowed. “The Story Press.”

  Gerard crossed his arms over his chest and leveled his gaze. “What’s your name?”

  The kid squirmed. “Dalton Edwards.”

  “How long have you worked at The Story Press?”

  “Nine months.”

  “Who’s your boss?”

  “Charles Richmond.” His eyes widened. “I mean—”

  Bri gasped.

  Gerard nodded. “Exactly. Beat it.”

  Dalton’s face fell, and he started to push past Gerard. “Fine.”

  He sidestepped to block him. “Notepad.”

  The kid handed it over without argument, and Gerard ripped the notated sheets from the pad before slapping it back against the guy’s chest. “Recorder.”

  “Hey—”

  “I didn’t stutter.” He straightened, even though he already had two to three inches on the kid.

  Dalton slapped it into Gerard’s open palm with a sigh.

  “Let me guess. Intern?”

  He nodded, edging away step by step.

  Bri’s eyes narrowed. “Of all the—”

  “Here’s some advice.” Gerard leaned in close before Bri could finish her thought or the guy could bolt. “Get a real job—one where they pay you and where you don’t have to lie and hide.”

  “Yes sir.” Then he was gone, pushing through the line of people eager for coffee and baked goods. Gerard shook his head. Charles was retaliating for the interview, which, although it had shared his side as well, definitely didn’t go over as Charles must have hoped. KCUP gave a fair representation, but the facts tilted sympathy toward Bri’s side. If given the choice, what average small-town citizen wouldn’t want a local, family-owned, themed bakery in place of a corporate chain?

  The unfortunate fact for Bri was, there wasn’t a choice here. What Bri didn’t seem to realize at this point was that Charles could buy whatever he wanted as long as he had a seller. She wasn’t trying to convince the town of the bakery’s long-lasting merit.

  She was trying to convince the two exhausted old women behind the counter.

  Bri’s voice jolted him back to the conversation. “How could you tell he wasn’t really with the
newspaper?”

  “Experience.” He lightly grasped Bri’s elbow and tugged her toward a free table. “You should be a little more on guard there, Cupcake. Charles isn’t playing around.”

  She sank into an open chair and sighed. “I don’t know why you call me that.”

  Because it fit. Because she was naive and sugary and sickeningly sweet—well, until she started verbally berating him, anyway. Then she turned spicy and savory and became much more appealing.

  Not that she was appealing. Well, appealing, yes—but not tempting. His coworkers bought him a gag gift last Christmas—a T-shirt that read, I didn’t choose the Bachelor life, the Bachelor life chose me.

  He sort of wished he had it on now.

  “I can’t believe he sent a minion to spy on me.” Bri stared over Gerard’s shoulder at the front of the bakery, then shook her head. “I guess it doesn’t matter.”

  “Be careful with whoever interviews you next. Charles isn’t going to take this publicity stunt you started lightly. You can see how he’s trying to twist what you say to use against you.”

  “Thanks for the warning. I’ve never done anything like this.” Bri rolled in her bottom lip. “I’ve never had to convince someone else of something this important to me.”

  Gerard sat in the chair across from her, suddenly wondering if he’d warned her of too much. He had to play both sides, or Charles would figure out he’d helped her and he’d lose the upper hand. “What would be so bad if Charles did end up buying the bakery? Other than losing your job, of course.”

  “I don’t need the job.” Fire sparked in Bri’s eyes. “But it would be devastating. My mother baked here.”

  He could see that being important to Bri, sentimental as she was, but . . .

  “Didn’t she bake at home too?”

  “Of course, all the time.”

  “And you grew up here, in Story, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Did you fight to save the house you grew up in?”

  Bri averted her gaze and her smile faded. “No.” Her soft voice trailed off, as if she’d never thought of that. “It was part of the estate. I needed to sell it—it was too much for just me to live in alone.”

  He waited to let the point sink in. Then he realized what she’d said before. “What do you mean you don’t need the job?”

  “Well, I need a job, to supplement, but I don’t make that much money working here. I have inheritance money that supports me. I just work here because of my mom—and because I love it.” Bri shrugged. “It’s who I am.”

  Something didn’t ring true about that. He leaned forward. “Do you really think this is who you—”

  He stopped. Someone was watching them. Had Dalton returned to spy? He glanced to his right just as those two white-haired love angels behind the counter stopped whispering behind their hands and snickered.

  He narrowed his eyes.

  They smiled.

  He glared.

  They beamed, their gaze bouncing back and forth between him and Bri. Then they leaned in and whispered again.

  Crap.

  “It’s heating up, man. Sales are booming over here.” He’d leave out the part about the love angels setting their sights on him and Bri. Peter would never let him live it down. At least the sisters wouldn’t have time to put any Cupid-inspired plan into action. He’d be leaving in a day or two.

  Not that it’d work anyway if they tried.

  He’d left the bakery in a rush earlier, mumbling something to Bri about meeting his deadline. Truth was, he was spooked after that look from Mabel and Agnes. The last thing he needed was for their old-lady magic to convince Bri that he was someone she could get involved with. If she’d noticed their whisperings and winks . . .

  A pen clicked on and off from the other end of the line. Peter must be editing, which he always did with a red pen instead of on his computer. Any excuse to be in his recliner—and the man always did like pointing out the errors of others. “Tell me more about this news broadcast.”

  Gladly, since Peter had kept steering the conversation to Bri in the moments prior.

  Gerard shifted position on the B&B’s porch swing, keeping his voice low and a constant eye on his surroundings. He couldn’t bear to sit in that horrible red room any longer, so he’d brought his laptop to the porch to work. “Bri’s on a mission—this local lawyer wants to tear down the bakery and replace it with a chain of some sort. A high-end coffee bar, or whatever.”

  “Really?”

  He adjusted one of the sentences in his story. “Yeah, so she went to the media and stirred up the town. There are picket signs outside the bakery and the lawyer’s office. She generated a big stream of sales after her TV interview.”

  “This is perfect.”

  Gerard’s fingers froze over the keyboard. “How so?”

  Peter’s recliner squeaked. “I want you to stay on at least another week, get the full scoop.”

  Gerard’s stomach clenched as if someone had punched him. “Excuse me?” A breeze rifted across the porch, but the welcome rush of cool air did little to calm the sudden heat flooding his neck.

  “Maybe longer. Two weeks, max. Well, that might be extensive, but whatever it takes to see how this plays out. The feature will be all the better for it.”

  His heart thudded, and adrenaline shoved through his veins. He flexed his fingers. “You’ve got to be kidding.” His frustration spiked. “You promised me—”

  “Go ahead and send me what you have, ending on a hook. We’ll make this a series. Corporate will love it.” Peter spoke faster as his diabolical plan unfolded. “You can write part two when you see how it lands. Either way, people will flock to visit the bakery. Be it victorious—or one more time before it’s demolished. Doesn’t matter to me.”

  To him either. Except now he was stuck in the red room for another week or longer. Stuck in Story with macarons shoved down his throat every fifteen minutes and Charles’s stalking and Bri’s sugary sweetness and naiveté. How had he turned into Bri’s babysitter, anyway? She couldn’t even handle herself with a reporter, for crying out loud.

  And she did things to him . . . things that made him want to forget Remy’s word of warning that day in Paris.

  He was done here. His fist tightened. “Peter, I’m not—”

  “I’m writing your advance on the first draft now, as promised.” The pen clicked again. “Plus, an extra seventy-five.”

  Gerard clenched his teeth. “Ten days. Max.”

  “Send me the first draft by noon tomorrow.”

  He’d do it by midnight—just to have the final word.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  Mabel was making Bri take the leftovers to the B&B again.

  She tucked the pastry box on her hip and made her way up the stone-lined path toward the cottage. The Gingerbread House sign swung in the breeze that also ruffled her hair. If this autumn air kept up, Casey was going to have the perfect weather for her wedding the following Saturday.

  She stepped carefully over the stones, so not to turn the low heel of her ankle boot in the dim evening light. Bri couldn’t believe the wedding was happening so soon—and she was the town’s romantic.

  So why wasn’t she happier for Casey?

  She shifted the box to her other hip as she maneuvered the three steps to the porch. Probably because she was still a little wary of their not-so-romantic romance. She couldn’t get past their proposal story—but if Casey was happy, that’s all that should matter. Besides, Casey had agreed to get married at the love-lock wall, which was a crucial piece of the puzzle to save the Pastry Puff. Bri couldn’t complain.

  She hesitated before knocking lightly on the front door. Hopefully she could drop the pastries off with minimal small talk and leave.

  And yet a tiny part of her hoped Gerard might be in the kitchen again.

  He’d left so quickly earlier that afternoon after helping her out with the fake reporter. He’d said something about need
ing to work on the article, which seemed legit. But then he’d turned white as meringue and ran off before she could thank him for helping her with Charles’s minion.

  On top of that, Mabel and Agnes had been quiet all afternoon with the customers, while Bri handled the press—which didn’t bode well. She couldn’t even remember the last time Mabel was quiet. Maybe everyone was just having an off day. She knew she could use some extra sleep after this last whirlwind of a week.

  Bri turned the doorknob.

  “You can just bring those over here.” The sudden male voice echoed across the porch, slicing through the silence.

  Bri shrieked and dropped the dessert box. It hit the porch floor with a thud and two petit fours turned over at her feet.

  She clutched her hand to her chest to keep her pounding heart inside her rib cage and squinted toward the dusty shadows. “What in the world?”

  “Geez, Cupcake, it’s not like I jumped out of the bushes with a knife.”

  She finally made out his still form on the porch swing and took a deep breath to steady her nerves. There he went with that nickname again. She couldn’t tell if she found it endearing or annoying. “You could have said something.”

  “I did. And you freaked.”

  True. She bent and picked up the bakery box. Only two had bit the dust—thankfully, the rest of the box was intact. She tucked in the cardboard flaps and straightened. “You’re finally admitting you’re addicted to these?”

  “I’m a lot of things, but a liar isn’t one of them.” Gerard held out his arms and for a split second, she thought he wanted a hug. Then she snapped back to reality—the reality of her holding his new favorite food.

  What was wrong with her?

  She set the box in his outstretched hands and stepped to the side, away from whatever odd temptation had swooped down and threatened to take her logic captive.

  “Thanks.” He opened the box and took a big bite of the first thing he grabbed. Icing smeared across the stubble on his chin. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

  She shook her head. And to think she’d almost dove into his arms. She must be more tired than she thought. Though Gerard had been extra nice to her earlier, saving her from Charles’s latest trick and giving her advice. She probably was just riding the emotional wave from that. It was rare that someone ever tried to take care of her—besides Mabel and Agnes, of course.