She leaned against the porch railing as Gerard bit into a second dessert. Macaron, this time. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about his point regarding her parents’ old house. She hadn’t thought of that house in years—it wasn’t on her radar anymore. Most of the essence of her parents was locked up in their trunk in her townhouse attic.
But the Puff . . . that was different. The bakery still carried a portion of her mother’s soul. Not literally—she knew where her mother was, knew that her faith in the Lord had been real and solid, and she was with Jesus now. But her history was so tangible at the bakery. Her mom hadn’t baked at the Puff in years, but Bri could feel her presence there, much more so than anywhere else in town.
“You can sit. I don’t bite.” He scooted over an inch, gesturing with his half-eaten macaron. He had finally swiped off the smudge of icing.
“You can’t say that to the leftovers.” She eased down onto the wooden slats, careful not to touch him. She didn’t trust that emotional side of her, the part that still wanted a hug and appreciated his chivalry in the bakery. Leaning against that broad, solid side of his would possibly do her in.
“I’ll be honest. You’ve got a ways to go with the coffee. But these—” He finished the macaron. “These have officially arrived.”
She didn’t have the strength to argue the coffee comment. She’d just take the compliment on the other. “As long as you write the latter in the feature.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Gerard brushed crumbs off his dark T-shirt. Mid-November, and here he was sitting outside in short sleeves while her sweatshirt was barely warm enough to keep her comfortable.
She fought back a shiver. “How long have you been out here?”
“A few hours.” He pointed to a laptop sitting on the wicker end table under the window. “Ran out of battery.”
“Did you finish?” She pushed off with her feet to move the swing. Gerard lifted his boots to allow the movement.
“I’ve got the ending to iron out.” He tilted his head back to rest against the swing’s top rung. “Just wasn’t ready to give up the fresh air yet.”
She looked away from his strong profile and chiseled, stubbled jaw, focusing instead on the wicker strands making up the table under his computer. “I’m surprised you haven’t painted the red room blue yet.”
“I’ve debated hunter green, actually.”
She laughed. “Mrs. Beeker would kill you.”
“Some risks are worth taking.”
She nodded slowly. “Some.” Others, not so much. Change was overrated, while comfortable and safe were way underrated. Familiar was much better.
But she had a feeling the traveling man next to her wouldn’t agree.
He turned his head to glance at her, still reclined back against the swing. “What risks have you taken?”
“Lately? Not many.” Bri shrugged. “Been busy with the bakery.” Not to mention avoiding risks in general.
“Well, you’ve traveled a bunch, I’m sure. Ms. Wanderlust.” He nudged her, and his elbow in her ribs sent a jolt of electricity that immediately warmed her to her core. “Let me guess. Favorite sweatshirt?”
“It is.” She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about him noticing—yet she found herself slowly relaxing against his elbow, still slightly resting against her side. The warmth of his arm through her shirt spread across her torso. “But I really haven’t gone anywhere.”
Yet. She’d make it to Paris. Eventually.
“Why not? Money?” He sat up straighter on the swing, shifting to face her. She immediately missed his warmth. “I’ve got some articles in my archives I could send you about traveling on a budget.” He smirked. “It’s not like Trek sends me out with an unlimited credit card.”
She shook her head. “It’s not the money.” She had plenty of funds to travel with, if she wanted. She just wasn’t ready. She grabbed a petit four from the open box on his lap, hoping for a change in subject.
No such luck.
“Then what? Everything in your life says wanderlust. Your shirt.” He pointed. “The stones outside the bakery by the fountain. That plaque on the counter by the cash register.”
She should have taken the financial excuse and let him assume. “Just haven’t had the chance to go anywhere yet.” It was more than that. But he wouldn’t get it. She bit into the petit four, relishing the familiar taste. Predictable.
Exactly as it should be.
“Wait a minute. You mean, you haven’t been anywhere?” His voice pitched in surprise.
Her defenses spiked. “I’ve been to Nashville.” Which was only a few hours away by plane. “It was pretty cool.” A little too loud and neon for her more reserved taste, but she’d never admit that to Mr. Motorcycle.
He opened his mouth, then shut it. Then he held up one hand. “I’ll probably regret this, Cupcake, but I don’t get it. You’re young. You’re single. No baggage. You have money, and you seem more than a little obsessed with Paris. You should have gone half a dozen times already.”
Her defenses grew, forming a wall. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I really don’t see how this is your business.”
“Probably for the best.” He rested back against the swing. “You wouldn’t like Paris anyway.”
“What do you mean?” She sat up straight, knocking the swing off its rhythm. “Of course I’m going one day. When the time is right.” She thought she’d have gone by now too. But it still held her back every time she tossed around the idea—that old rush of anxiety that took over every time she pictured herself actually flying away from Story. Pictured herself actually trading the familiar for the unknown.
She always thought she’d have a husband by now—someone to travel with, to help take care of her, to safely adventure with, to live out a love story like her parents’.
It didn’t seem right to go to the city of love single.
“Okay, whatever.” Gerard reached over and set the almost-empty bakery box on the table by his computer. “Just be ready.”
She blinked at him. “Ready for what?”
“I’m telling you, you’re not going to like it. You’re expecting the Americanized version of Paris.”
He was so arrogant. And yet . . . she had to know. “What do you mean?”
He braced one foot on the ground. “What’s the first thing you’d do once you got off the plane?”
That was easy. She opened her mouth, but he quickly interrupted. “I mean, after checking in to your hotel and unpacking and ironing, because you know you were going to say that first.”
She’d never have admitted it, but he was dead-on. Except for one thing. “I wouldn’t iron.” Not on vacation. She’d iron beforehand, of course—and hang everything in her garment bag between those wrinkle-resistant sheets she’d seen on a late-night commercial so she wouldn’t have to worry about it when she got there.
“Good for you, then. No ironing. What’s the first thing you’d go see?”
“The Eiffel Tower.” They said it at the same time, and he shot her a pointed glance. “After that?”
She thought for a second, though she really had no hesitation. She’d mapped out her itinerary a dozen times but had never actually clicked “add to cart” on the airline website. “The love-lock wall.”
“Former wall,” he corrected.
“Well, yeah.” The city had replaced the links with glass. No matter. She still wanted to walk in that spot, where countless of other lovers had walked. Where her parents had walked.
“See the Seine.”
She nodded.
“Then let me guess? The Louvre?”
Had he snuck a peek at her list?
“Then the Champs-Élysées?” He snapped his fingers. “No, wait. Next for you would be Notre-Dame. Church before shopping.”
He was ruining this. “You think you have me all figured out.”
“I do.” He said it so matter-of-factly, it grated across every raw, emotional nerve the busy day—and his
presence and proximity—had exposed. “You’ve probably never even heard of the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont. Or the terrace at the Printemps department store? Or the Montmartre vineyards?”
She hadn’t. And she hated he was right.
“People tend to have no idea about the real heart of the city. Forget the overcrowded tourist traps—Paris is so more than just the Eiffel Tower.” Gerard sighed. “It’s the 59 Rivoli art district. It’s the Latin quarter, the Rue Mouffetard. It’s the one hundred and thirty-five Arago medallions scattered across the city floor.”
He kept on, but she tuned him out. Why was he rubbing this in her face? He didn’t understand about her mom or the bakery or even what this fight with Charles was really about.
Her irritation intensified. He just thought he could roar into Story on his motorcycle, judge everyone—and her beloved town—for being different, and psychoanalyze her along the way? All while bragging about what he’d seen and done that was so much better?
She stood abruptly. “Look, maybe I haven’t traveled anywhere yet. Maybe I haven’t checked off my bucket list or heard of all these secret spots in Europe. But at least I have roots.” She pointed. “You’re the one running, Mr. Travel Writer.”
He didn’t answer. And it irked her further.
“You think the traveling bachelor life makes you so cool. Makes you better than everyone here with their quirky hair and bad coffee and eccentric hobbies. So what? We’re unique. And we’re a town family.”
He started rocking the swing, silently, still refusing to answer.
“Everyone here was there for me when my parents died. That’s worth holding on to.” The words tumbled faster, building with indignation. “Who cares if I haven’t made it to Paris yet? At least I’m not afraid to stay in one spot.”
Silence.
She straightened the hem of her sweatshirt, pulling it taut so the words were evident. “Maybe you should wear this shirt. What are you running from anyway? The police?”
He rolled his eyes.
“Debt?”
He ignored her.
“Love.”
He met her gaze then, jaw tight. “You done yet, Cupcake?”
“Almost. Once.” She’d done it again—thrown something hurtful in his face because of carelessness. Because of frustration.
Regret threatened her indignation, and she shoved it aside. It wasn’t fair. She shouldn’t have to feel bad for Gerard’s probing comments into her life. He’d started it, pushing her to talk about private heart issues and her past.
If he didn’t want to take it, he shouldn’t dish it out. He was like Mr. Darcy, pre-redemption.
“Yeah, trust me. I’m done.” Done with his incorrigibility and stubbornness and arrogance. Done with her wishing he’d notice her—really notice her—and hating the fact that she wanted him to. Her small town wasn’t enough for his wanderlust, and never would be.
She gestured toward his laptop. “You said your feature is almost done. So, congrats. Soon you can head out on your next reality-denying adventure and forget you ever met us.”
She pressed her lips together, but the words had already escaped. It was like she got in his presence and was immediately overcome with word vomit. No one had ever stirred her ire like that.
But he’d be gone soon, and it wouldn’t matter anymore.
“I actually just got asked today to turn the feature into a two-part series.” Gerard’s quiet voice broke the stillness and interrupted the pounding of her heart. “I’m here for another week or so.”
He was right.
The clock inched toward midnight as Bri clicked slowly through the Parisian images on the computer screen. Everything that appealed to her was just as Gerard had predicted. The art museums. The churches. The bicycling paths and the Eiffel Tower. It was all the stereotypical, American view of Paris.
After all her reading and dreaming, she’d prided herself an expert on the city by now. But as she clicked through the happy faces taking selfies in front of the various popular landmarks, she realized the truth—she didn’t know a thing about the real city of love. What had Gerard mentioned? The Parc des Buttes-Chaumont and a terrace at some department store?
She’d never even heard of those places.
She soaked in the photos before her—of lush green parks and wildflowers, of bronze medallions and statues, of captivating fountains and funky graffitied walls, of elegant rooftop bars and restaurants—and felt like she was staring at a stranger.
What else had she assumed incorrectly? She’d been naive to the reporter at the Puff. Maybe she’d been blind to other things along the way too. Was that how Gerard saw her? Incapable, boring, ignorant?
Why did she even care what he thought?
She pressed her fingers against her forehead. Maybe it was the late hour, or the boiling mix of emotions hovering below the surface, but regardless, regret started a slow seep into her heart.
Ten more days.
Ten more days of Gerard’s confusing invasion in her town. Yet wasn’t he doing her a favor? Just hours ago, she’d been so grateful for his help. He was writing favorably about her favorite place on earth. Just because he wasn’t sold on it personally didn’t mean the feature wouldn’t be lifesaving for the bakery. He had promised he’d do a good job. And just because he had his arrogant moments didn’t give her any reason to assume he’d go back on his word.
The seep of regret morphed into an all-out flow.
Gerard couldn’t have intended to be cruel earlier on the swing. He just had no idea how much she longed to be like her mother. How she wished she could be brave and leave everything to pursue a dream and see what blessings waited on the other side—like when her mom left Story to learn how to bake in Paris and met her dad.
And then she did it again when she left Paris and moved back to Story after learning she was pregnant with Bri, trading the familiar and safe for adventure and risk.
Bri had never been anywhere but Nashville. The biggest risk she took was wearing peep-toe shoes in October. She couldn’t even figure out a simple secret ingredient to an age-old recipe that was supposed to be in her DNA.
Tears pricked her eyes, and she abruptly shut down her computer.
Maybe she was nothing like her mom after all.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Bri’s skin was so thin, it was a wonder she wasn’t see-through.
Gerard lowered the kickstand on his bike, then pulled the books he’d checked out on Story from his backpack and started across the library parking lot to the outside return chute.
It’d been two days since his encounter on the porch with Bri. In those two days, he’d sent Peter his first draft, received an overnighted check, sent his mom her portion through PayPal, and thought nonstop about Bri’s reaction to his comments. He’d just been making small talk. Then when she brought up how she’d never gone anywhere, well—it was worth asking about. How could someone in her position not travel? It was downright ludicrous.
Her comments about him running and avoiding roots was beside the point.
He wondered if she was still upset with him. Had she cooled down in the last two days? Gotten over her shock at his hanging around for another week? Or had she just taken the time to stew?
Regardless, he had to finish this second part of the feature or he could kiss his desired promotion at Trek goodbye—which was not an option. He wanted to write things that mattered. It was fine boasting about exotic locales and challenging others to eat spicy cuisine and go ziplining over rapids for now, but he had things to say that counted for something.
And no one to hear them.
Gerard glanced both ways across the parking lot, pausing to let a minivan pass before closing the distance to the drop-off chute. This feature could go either way at this point—the love-lock wall saves the bakery, love conquers all, and Casey’s on-site wedding serves as a victorious, happily ever after or Charles dishes out enough dough to convince the sisters to sell, leaving the seco
nd half of the series to serve as a farewell to an outdated, once-beloved concept.
Sort of like marriage, if he thought about it.
Charles had been laying low as far as he could tell since sending his poser intern to trip up Bri. But backing off seemed way out of character for him. He probably had more calculated tricks up his sleeve—the question was, what exactly did he expect in exchange for that money he slipped Gerard at Taylor’s? If Bri could be talked out of the entire ordeal, she would have been by now by Charles himself. Besides, Gerard didn’t take underhanded bribes by anyone—especially not weasel lawyers in small towns.
It really didn’t matter what Charles intended, though. Tempting as it was to send that money to his mom, Gerard planned to give it back—as soon as he could swing by the guy’s office.
He shoved the books through the drop-box chute, then realized about three seconds too late that he’d sent the keys to his motorcycle down with them.
Figured. Now he’d have to go inside the library, swallow some crow, and ask the librarian to dig his keys from the drop box. Perfect.
He set his helmet on his bike seat, hiked his backpack onto his shoulder, and headed inside.
A rush of warm air greeted him as he entered through the automatic doors. There was a line at the front desk—a mom with a handful of kids, an elderly man wearing an argyle sweater, and two college-aged students loaded down with textbooks.
He tried to slip up to the front of the line. “Ma’am? I really need—”
“It’ll be just a moment.” The librarian didn’t even look at him as she continued pecking at the keyboard.
Oh well. Might as well check out the sci-fi section that he never made it to last time. He ambled toward the novels, dodging a kid in a backward ball cap who had barreled out of the children’s section.
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