The Key to Love

by Betsy St. Amant

He’d just picked up an older novel by his favorite author when her voice carried over the rows.

  Bri.

  He snapped the book shut and checked his watch. Thursday night.

  Book club.

  Who did book club every week? These people were serious. He bit back a groan. He’d have to face Bri sooner or later—after all, he was stuck in Story for part two.

  He cocked his head, listening. Surely they were off Pride and Prejudice by now. But it wasn’t the book club—it sounded more like a one-on-one conversation.

  Bri’s voice, lower this time, sounded again from around the corner. “Have you tried surprising him? You know, with his favorite meal or a date night?”

  The second voice murmured quieter, the first half of her response muted. The last part he heard loud and clear. “. . . but he doesn’t seem interested anymore. He just wants to work all the time.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. You probably just need some romance.” Bri’s soft voice turned consoling.

  Gerard frowned. Hardly. If a husband was staying at work all the time, it was for more than just a lack of romance. They probably needed a counselor—or at least some healthy conversation and hard truth.

  Bri pushed further. “I bet there’s a book here with some ideas for couples. Or hey, I could make his favorite cake and you could take it home to decorate for him.”

  “Thanks, Bri. You always know what to say. That’s a great idea.” The second voice muffled as if they’d hugged. “I’ll see you next week.” A few more muted comments, then footsteps drifted away.

  Relief flooded him. At least Bri had left. Now he wouldn’t have to point out what a ridiculous—

  Bri suddenly rounded the bookshelf corner, a smile on her face. Then her gaze collided with his and her contented smile quickly vanished. “Gerard?”

  He shouldn’t. But he couldn’t help it. “That’s a horrible idea.”

  Her lips—glossy pink—parted. “That was a private conversation. What are you doing here?”

  “Technically, the cake idea itself isn’t that horrible.” Gerard braced one arm on the bookshelf, ignoring the obvious. “Any guy would eat it and appreciate it, more than likely.”

  “What are you even talking about?” She blinked hard, as if that could make him go away. That answered his question as to whether she was still upset with him.

  This conversation probably wasn’t helping. But she was so wrong—and she was going to drag the women of Story down with her fairy-dust illusions of reality. “Listen to me. No man is going to take a cake as a sign of trying to fix a relationship.”

  She lifted her chin, stubbornness personified. “Sure he will.”

  “I’m a man, Cupcake. I’m telling you, never in a million years.”

  “Right. Mr. Expert on romance, here. Flowers wilt when you walk past.” Bri crossed her arms over her pale peach top. “What do you suggest, then?”

  “Do you really think everything is so easily fixed with romance? With a lock on a wall or a surprise date?” Gerard pointed toward where Bri had been talking to the anonymous woman. “They need solid counseling. There’s a reason he’s MIA.”

  “Not necessarily. They just lost the spark.” Bri shrugged. “They’ve been married several years. It happens.”

  “And you know this from experience?”

  She averted her eyes. “I’ve heard.”

  “It can happen, sure.” Gerard caught her gaze. “But I know.”

  Boy, did he know. Kelsey’s inattentiveness had led him to make choices—bad ones. Not the same as hers, but unfair ones, nonetheless. If she would have talked to him instead of reaching out elsewhere . . . “Men are intentional, Bri. He’s not working more because he loves his job so much.”

  “Maybe they need more money?”

  He raised his eyebrows at her. “Do they?”

  She shook her head slowly, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Why are you even telling me this?”

  “Because you steered your friend wrong. She needs to have a real conversation with this guy, not cater to him with his favorite toys. If he’s staying away, there’s an issue that needs to be dealt with. Hopefully a minor one.”

  She opened her mouth, the familiar fire from last night once again lighting her eyes. Then something flickered across her expression so fast that he almost wondered if he’d imagined it. She snapped her mouth shut and nodded. “Okay.”

  “Okay?” Wait a minute. That was easy—too easy. He narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean, okay?”

  She adjusted the strap on her purse. “I mean, okay. I hear you. Maybe you’re right.”

  He was right. But her realizing that so readily seemed wrong.

  Bri swung back by the bakery after leaving the library. Mabel had texted in her clumsy, not-so-tech-savvy way full of typos and misused emojis, and asked her to make sure she and Agnes had locked up. The older woman couldn’t remember if they had done it before they’d left for the night an hour or so earlier, and they worried about a break-in.

  Highly unlikely in Story. No one locked any doors, and besides, they didn’t even leave any desserts in the display overnight, much less cash in the register. What could anyone want?

  Regardless, she’d appease Mabel. Whatever gave her peace of mind.

  For a moment, Bri hesitated. Was this a sign of the sisters getting ready to sell? Were their memories slipping? They were in great health for their ages, but Bri knew they couldn’t go on full speed forever. Still, somehow, in the back of her mind, she had always assumed she’d just take over when that unfortunate day came. Surely they’d leave the Puff to Bri in their will.

  But if they were considering Charles’s offer, was that truly the case?

  Bri pulled into the bakery parking lot and cut the engine. Crickets chirped in the sudden stillness, and she momentarily rested her head against the seat, exhausted from the mental debate. The night’s events played vividly like slides on a projector screen.

  She’d wanted to ream Gerard at the library for eavesdropping and offering his unwanted two cents—but something about the look in his eyes when he said he knew stole the pending indignation right from her lips. She couldn’t help but think of his earlier comments, about how he must have been burned at some point, and she just couldn’t bring herself to prove his opinion about women and love and romance correct by spewing back.

  So, she’d swallowed her pride—and her gum, on accident—and taken the high road. Accepted his unsolicited advice and calmly walked away.

  Then she frantically called her friend’s cell to encourage counseling, because what if he really did know? It still irked her that he’d been right about her expectations of Paris. What else was he right about?

  It was all just too much to think about right now. She wanted to go home, take a hot bath, and read their latest book club find in bed—and forget all about Gerard Fortier.

  Bri opened her car door and headed for the front door of the bakery just as headlights cut through the darkness. She squinted. Make that one headlight.

  She turned at the door of the bakery and shielded her eyes from the sudden brightness. The vehicle turned a tight donut and parked next to hers, tires skidding.

  But it wasn’t a car. It was a motorcycle. A dark figure emerged from the back of it—Gerard.

  “Are you okay?” He rushed toward her, one hand resting on his back pocket.

  She blinked, but the image charging directly at her didn’t change. “Are you kidding me?” Bri, heart racing with fury and frustration, planted her hands on her hips. He was everywhere—literally everywhere. “What in the world are you—”

  He stretched out one arm and used it to quickly flatten her against the wall, just to the left of the bakery door. He pressed his back against the wall beside her, his breath tight. The dim porch bulb highlighted his tense expression, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. “Did you see anyone?” His other hand still rested cautiously behind him, his gaze flickering to the right and left.

&n
bsp; “Is that a gun?” Her eyes widened.

  “Shh.”

  That was it. He’d lost it—everyone had lost it. Had she somehow made a left turn and accidentally fallen down Alice’s rabbit hole?

  She shoved his arm away. “Shh, or what—the crickets will call the cops? There’s no one here. Are you even allowed to have that thing?”

  “Yes,” he hissed. “Now, shut up. We don’t know if the intruder is gone.”

  “What intruder?” Her heart rate quickened. Irony of ironies. Of all the nights for Mabel to be unsure of the door. “Someone really did break into the bakery?” She couldn’t believe it. She pressed back against the wall, straining to hear evidence.

  But there was only silence—plus a cricket choir and the sound of Gerard chewing gum.

  “I don’t know.” He was still whispering. “Mabel called and said she thought someone was prowling around and asked if I’d come check it out. Said she was worried about the media having stirred up negative attention.”

  Negative attention . . . Bri frowned. That didn’t sound like Mabel. She had been more concerned about what lipstick color she wore for her TV debut than about something bad happening as a result of the publicity. That almost sounded more like Agnes.

  Wait a minute.

  Bri reached over and tested the bakery door.

  Locked. Of course.

  The love angels had struck again.

  Bri groaned as reality dawned. “It was me.”

  “Huh?” Gerard still had one hand in his back pocket.

  Bri swatted at his wrist. “Stop it with that thing. I’m the prowler.”

  He frowned. “You have keys. And you work here. What are you talking about?”

  “I meant, we’ve been set up. Mabel told me to come and make sure she’d locked up for the night.”

  “She lied? To get me to come here too?”

  Bri waited.

  Understanding finally dawned in his eyes, and his hand slipped empty to his side. “Nice. Clever ol’ love angels.” He shook his head. “I wondered why she didn’t just call the police.”

  “Why would she, when she has a willing Robo Cop right down the street at the B&B?” Bri snorted. “This is a new extreme, even for them.” She wasn’t sure if she was offended or impressed. Maybe both. Definitely impressed at the way Gerard had come ready for a fight—for her sake. Well, for Mabel’s, anyway.

  Maybe both?

  “I guess I don’t need this.” He patted his back pocket.

  She tucked her hair behind her ears, willing her adrenaline to come back down—and her thoughts of chivalrous Gerard to chill out. “Why do you even have that thing?”

  He shrugged. “I got my conceal and carry license a few years ago, did some training courses. It comes in handy when traveling the world and getting yourself into various situations.”

  She smirked. “Like ticking off various people with your explicit honesty?”

  “That too.”

  Bri pulled out her keys and held up the one to the bakery door. “While we’re here . . . macaron?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I thought you didn’t leave desserts in the bakery overnight—that’s why you’re always delivering to the B&B.”

  “We don’t. But I have a few in the fridge from this morning, from my experimental batch.” Failed batch, but they would be edible.

  Gerard nodded. “Why not? I think we’ve earned it.”

  She unlocked the door, then hesitated before opening it fully. “Put the gun away while I get the macarons ready?”

  He looked like he might argue but didn’t. Miracle.

  “Deal.”

  Gerard met Bri back inside just as she arranged the colorful macarons on a paper napkin at one of the bakery tables. “What, is all the hot-pink china dirty?”

  She smiled, a real smile, and he couldn’t ignore the jittery feeling that ricocheted through him at the sight of it. Very unexpected and unwanted. Must be the adrenaline still coming down from the alleged intruder scare.

  He sank into the nearest chair. “Is this a peace offering, or are you still mad at me?”

  “It’s hard to be mad at someone who galloped up on a metal steed to rescue me.”

  “Chrome. Chrome steed.”

  “Whatever.” She wrinkled her nose. “Plus, the longer I think about it, the more I realize that, in your own twisted way, you were just trying to help my friend at the library.”

  “Something like that.” That, along with correcting Bri’s misguided views. It was only going to hurt her in the long run. She didn’t deserve that.

  He took a bite of macaron, paused, then took another. “This is different than last time.” Not worse. But different.

  He took a third bite. But maybe not better.

  “Cinnamon in that one. No almond this time.” She tilted her head. “And I think a dash of raspberry.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Is it good?”

  He nodded, his mouth full.

  “Not good enough, though.” She took a frustrated bite of a yellow macaron on the napkin. “It still isn’t right.”

  He’d be happy to take all the wrong ones, then. “What did you mean by ‘experimental’?”

  “I’ve been trying to find a missing ingredient my mom used—a secret recipe.” She pointed to the pink macaron that was next in line. “That one has a bit of rosewater.”

  On second thought, maybe not all the wrong ones. He skipped over it and picked up the brown one. “Chocolate?”

  “Ganache. That one was just for fun.”

  He liked that one. He finished it in two bites. “What’s the deal with the secret recipe?”

  “My mother’s macarons were luscious. Downright legendary.” Bri closed her eyes. “I can remember them like yesterday. But I can’t place the missing ingredient. It’s savory, and light, and not chocolate—but sort of like chocolate’s cousin.”

  It sounded amazing. He could almost taste it too, the way she was describing it.

  “They were comforting.” Bri opened her eyes, defeat shadowing her expression. “I’ve researched off and on for years, playing around with different recipes, googling. Nothing. I might never know what it was.”

  “Nah, you’ll get it. Just keep trying. And who knows what yummy mistakes you might create along the way?” He pointed to the rose macaron. “But hey, some mistakes are actually just mistakes. Remember that.”

  “Very funny.”

  He wasn’t joking, but he’d let that one go. “What’s in the darker pink one?”

  She stared at it. “Honestly, I can’t remember. But I know it wasn’t right.”

  Was she a perfectionist with everything in her life, or just the things that had to do with her mom? He suddenly really, really wanted to know. But prying into her life hadn’t gone so well the last few times he’d tried it, and he didn’t want to throw off this truce vibe they had going.

  “Did your mom ever bake?” Her eyes met his, the question slicing through his childhood like a carving knife through a turkey.

  He swallowed. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  So much for the subtle don’t-pry messages. She apparently wasn’t going to return the favor. His mouth went dry, and he suddenly wished he had coffee—even the Puff’s bitter version. “I don’t know.”

  But he did know. She didn’t have time to be a Pinterest mom, or whatever version of that existed in the early 1990s. She worked her rear off to provide for him, countless hours at the diner or cleaning houses on the side, for minimum wage and meager tips—and spent the rest of the time trying to find him a replacement dad. When that hadn’t worked, and she kept getting older and more exhausted, she defaulted to simply trying to find someone to care about her. Long nights turned into overnights and bruises on her cheekbones and alcohol-laced, pleading excuses for him to forgive her absence.

  Not exactly prime opportunity to roll out some cookie dough from scratch.

  Bri leaned forward slightly and squin
ted at him, her long hair falling across her slim shoulders. “You don’t lie very well.”

  His jaw tightened. “Good.”

  She tilted her head. “That’s a good trait to have, I suppose.”

  “No, I was correcting you. You should have said, ‘You don’t lie good.’ Not ‘well.’”

  “Whatever!”

  “It’s true.”

  “You should know basic grammar, Mr. Travel Writer.”

  “Why? From my subscription to Grammar Weekly?”

  She swatted at him. “Look it up.”

  “You look it up.” He leaned back in his chair, casually raking the crumbs from the table onto the floor. Bri was right, of course, and from the way she eagerly pressed buttons into her phone, she would have visible proof here in about fifteen seconds.

  No worries. His shoulder tension eased.

  He’d gladly sacrifice being right for the invaluable gift of a subject change.

  That particular subject change brought three more in its wake, and by the time midnight rolled through and they reluctantly locked up the bakery, Gerard felt the faint remains of a fairy tale hovering over him the entire way to his motorcycle. Okay, so maybe more like a Brothers Grimm tale. A little darker and edgier than the current stuff. But something—something—was happening between him and Bri, quicker than he cared to admit. Like worn pages of a book, flipping faster and faster. He wanted to shove a bookmark in place and yell, “Wait!”

  He also wanted to see how it ended.

  Gerard straddled his bike and lifted one hand in a wave as Bri climbed into her car. Was she on the same page? Did it even matter? Regret lightly tapped his shoulder. When was the last time he’d openly shared about his mother to a woman he cared about?

  Cared about?

  Crap.

  He waited until Bri’s headlights faded from view before cranking his engine. His stomach knotted. This was such a bad idea, this thing between them, however developing it might be. He was messy. His background. His mom. His current situation. All messy. Even for the Brothers Grimm.

  He gripped the handlebars of his bike and eased toward the road, swallowing hard. Whatever story he thought he might be reading, best to shut the book now. Before someone got hurt.