The Key to Love

by Betsy St. Amant

  Bri shrugged, hoping to seem unconcerned, but that particular fear had crossed her mind a few times over the last few days as well. “I don’t think so. He’s got to feel a little like public enemy number one right now.”

  “Maybe.” Gerard didn’t look as convinced.

  Her heart stammered. “So, you think he might?” That’d be the last thing they needed on Casey’s big day. The wedding was going to be hard enough to pull off as it was—Charles showing up would put such a damper on their success. Still, Casey had technically invited the whole town. He was within his rights to come.

  “Honestly?” Gerard pointed his cup at her. “I think everyone in Story is a little unpredictable.”

  Bri started to argue, then shut her mouth. Lately, that was true. Even of herself, and she’d had the same safe, comfortable routine for years. Now here she was, stressed out, prepping for an entire wedding in one weekend, and almost kissing near strangers on the kitchen floor.

  “You’d be okay, you know.”

  She blinked, trying to dial back into the conversation and catch up. Hopefully Gerard couldn’t read where her thoughts had been. “Okay how?”

  “If the bakery sold to Charles. Or folds, or otherwise goes away.” Gerard shrugged.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re more than the Pastry Puff, Bri. You’re not fulfilled whisking icing and piping cake.”

  She squinted. “Reverse that.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  She didn’t. She crossed her arms, waiting.

  “You’re happy there because you’re serving the people of your town. Caring for the elderly and discounting goods for those struggling and holding babies for stressed out moms so they can drink their coffee in peace. Handing out cupcakes to homeless men on bicycles. Remembering people’s orders and making them feel special. Listening to everyone who’s willing to talk. That’s what fills you up.”

  Her defenses bristled. Now he was psychoanalyzing her?

  The frustration burned fresh. Was he switching sides? Why the sudden fascination with Charles and his next move, anyway—was he somehow cheering him on? She narrowed her eyes. Gerard had never been fully on her team in the first place. He just wanted to write his story and get out of town.

  Did he want to see her fail? She’d trusted him—almost kissed him. But she couldn’t blindly accept something he hadn’t fully given. “How do you even know all that?”

  His voice lowered, sincere and husky. “Because I’ve watched you. I’ve seen it.”

  And just like that, her defensive wall toppled. He conjured all her feelings at once, then left her reeling in the wake of them.

  Still, one giant factor to his current argument remained. She needed the Puff. He didn’t understand the bakery’s connection to her parents, the tangible memories that held her steady on days when the car wreck seemed so fresh.

  She pointed out the obvious. “I can’t exactly do any of those things without the Puff. If Charles gets it, those opportunities vanish.”

  Gerard shrugged, hands up. “Hey. I’m just saying what I’m seeing.”

  And yet somehow, everyone remained so blind about this very topic. She bit back the retort begging to leave her lips and forced another smile, this one obviously missing the casual mark. “I’ve really got to get to Casey. I’ll see you around.”

  “Bri.” Gerard reached out and touched her arm as she started past him. “Wait.”

  She stopped, turning, her emotions balling in her chest until she thought she might scream. And yet somehow, she didn’t even know what she wanted. Wanted to be left alone. Wanted to be done with this hectic weekend.

  Wanted him.

  He watched her, unspeaking. The glint was back in his eyes, the one that mirrored . . . regret. Guilt? Definitely remorse.

  Over their shared moment in the kitchen, or something else?

  “What?” Her gaze jumped from his eyes to his lips—darn those lips—and back again, tension piling up between them like concrete bricks.

  His lips parted, as if about to speak, then closed. They tightened into a thin line, and his hand dropped to his side. “Let me know if I can help with anything else.”

  “Sure.” She nodded, disappointment welling as she turned back toward Casey’s house. She exhaled slowly, hating how out of control her heart felt. Help. Right.

  He could start helping by kicking her poor heart off this roller-coaster ride she hadn’t bought a ticket for.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  Saturday. The wedding was now about thirty hours away. Despite the petit fours being ready to go, Bri still had a dozen little things to do for Casey—and yet there was only one task on the forefront of her mind. She’d argued about it in prayer for most of the morning, attempting to convince the Lord this couldn’t possibly be a good idea, but she couldn’t shake the urge from her heart.

  Even now, sitting on an upholstered backless bench, watching Casey twirl in front of the seamstress in her wedding dress, her fingers itched to complete the one task dominating her mind.

  But she couldn’t do that from the dressing room of Sew Awesome Alterations.

  “What do you think?” Casey half curtsied for Bri, the shiny, fitted bodice giving just enough to accommodate the motion.

  Bri smiled at her friend, hoping she didn’t pick up on her distraction. She owed Casey her full attention. “I think you look like a princess.”

  “Thanks! Hmm. Maybe make that a mermaid princess.” Casey smoothed her slim hips, the fabric of the dress hugging tight until halfway down her leg, where it cascaded into a mass of snowy white fabric onto the platform where she stood. The gown was gorgeous on her, and perfect for her narrow frame. “Hair up or down?” She bundled her brunette tresses up in one hand and pursed her lips.

  “Down,” Bri and the seamstress said at the same time.

  Mrs. Bonnie, who’d been doing alterations in Story ever since Bri needed her first smocked Easter dresses hemmed, fluffed the fabric of the short train and stood back to assess. She fisted her hands on her ample hips and gave a brisk nod. “Yes. Down will balance the flare at the legs. Maybe some curls?”

  “My hair hasn’t held curl since my high school prom.” Casey wrinkled her nose, then pulled the sides of her hair back and squinted into the giant gold mirror. “Wait. Maybe like this?”

  “Perfect.” Bri held her hands up like a camera and viewed Casey through her “finger lens.” “That’d be really pretty. Elegant but still looks like you.”

  “Good.” Casey let her hair go and twirled one more time with a satisfied smile. “I definitely don’t want Nathan to feel like he’s marrying a stranger.”

  Bri watched Mrs. Bonnie fuss over the dress, her unease growing—both from Casey’s comment and her own hesitations over her friends’ fast-developing romance. It wasn’t just the timeline—people got married after knowing each other only a few months all the time. It was more the concern of what did Casey and Nathan really know about true love yet? Wasn’t romance a lot more than messy dinners with kids and rushed weddings because of tight work schedules? Didn’t Casey want more than that? Bri did.

  But perhaps Casey felt like time was passing, and she was giving up on the dream. Settling, in a way. Not that Nathan was a bad guy, but maybe it was more like wanting to make sure she got her chance before she—and her kids—got any older.

  She could certainly understand that kind of pressure.

  Casey performed a little test cha-cha on the platform to see if her dress allowed room to dance. Her eyes shone and her skin glowed with happiness. No, more like giddiness. “He’s going to love it, isn’t he?” It was a statement more than a question, but Mrs. Bonnie murmured her agreement anyway as she secured one of the tiny buttons on the back of the dress.

  Bri swallowed. Who was she kidding? Casey wasn’t settling in the least. Nathan was her dream guy, the perfect fit for her family. She was happy for her friend.

  Maybe her doubts were just
projecting from inside her own heart.

  Casey’s phone trilled, and with an excited shriek, she hiked up her dress and rushed to grab it from her purse in the dressing room stall. Bri scrambled to help her, holding up her train on one side as Casey plucked the cell from her bag. Mrs. Bonnie, frowning, held the rest of the material off the ground.

  “Hello?” Casey’s breathless voice hitched with hope. Then her eyes lit. “Hey, babe.” She started to pace a slow circle as Bri and Mrs. Bonnie followed. Then Casey palmed the receiving end and tucked the phone briefly under her chin. “He misses me.” She squealed before going back to the conversation.

  Yeah, they were going to be fine.

  Bri shook her head with a smile and maintained Casey’s train as her friend absently stalked the dressing room, whispering mush into the phone. Humility was a tough bite to digest. Bri had always thought she was the know-it-all in romance, riding the coattails of her parents’ legacy—an expert by default, a student of the greatest teachers in their generation.

  Until that letter in the attic.

  She sobered. One smudge, and everything Bri thought she knew now hung by a thread. That wasn’t Casey’s fault, and if Bri wasn’t careful, she’d let this funk she found herself in mar her friend’s perfect day.

  She watched a blush crawl up Casey’s cheeks as her friend whispered something privately into the phone. Maybe Casey was onto something. Maybe romance wasn’t as flawless as Bri had always assumed. Casey and Nathan were in love—and wasn’t that the most romantic thing of all? Spaghetti stains and toddler fingerprints and messy proposals included?

  Motorcycles and sarcasm and hard truths included?

  Her arms holding the train lowered. Her idea nudged again, this time growing in appeal, like cake batter slowly rising in a warm oven. Maybe she didn’t know what romantic love really was yet, and maybe some of her hopes in that department were a little idealistic.

  But she did know neighborly love, as Gerard had pointed out to her yesterday. The idea, now fully baked, buzzed like an oven timer, and the decision was made.

  She had a special delivery to make.

  A knock sounded on his bedroom door.

  Gerard swung his legs off the side of the bed with a sigh, discarding his open laptop on the red comforter.

  Another knock, more urgent.

  “Hold on.” He tripped over the red rug on the floor and bit back frustrated words. It was probably Mrs. Beeker again, offering more sweet tea or some other excuse for conversation. He’d chatted amicably enough for as long as he could stand, then he’d told her he really needed to work on his article before he went to sleep.

  Not that he had anything to write about until after Casey’s wedding—and possibly after Charles’s next move. Maybe the two would coincide—maybe the prissy lawyer would get the guts to show up and create something worth writing about. He really needed to hit a home run with part two of the feature, or he couldn’t guarantee that Peter would promote him.

  He swung open the door, ready to reject whatever beverage Mrs. Beeker was forcing on him, but his eyes landed on someone else.

  Bri.

  She held a bakery box in her arms and wore a shy smile—and a different sweatshirt this time. Aqua, which lit up her makeup-free eyes like a firecracker. “Surprise.”

  It certainly was.

  “Now you’re making deliveries that people didn’t even order? That’s got to be good for business.” He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his thumping heart. What would she think if she knew he’d been so distracted by their recent interactions that he’d finally typed her name over and over on his computer, just to get her out of his head? Apparently it’d conjured her up instead.

  Then he straightened abruptly. The laptop was open on his bed—and he couldn’t remember if he’d minimized the Word document.

  “This is more like a special delivery.” Bri started to step inside, but he instinctively blocked the way. She raised her eyebrows. “Can I come in?”

  “Yeah, I mean. Sure.” His chest knotted. He wasn’t trying to be weird, but he had to shut that screen ASAP. Thankfully it was facing toward the headboard, away from where they stood. Maybe she’d leave quickly. Or maybe Mrs. Beeker would come back any minute, and he could send them both away before his computer outed his confusing feelings.

  Except he didn’t want Bri to leave.

  And it had only a small part to do with the rich aroma drifting from the box she carried. He edged closer. “So, what is it? Bedtime snack? Some kind of petit-four taste test?”

  “Not exactly.” She set it on the desk—across the room from the bed, to his relief—and started to open the cardboard flaps. Then she stopped, her cheeks tinting pink. “You open it.”

  Okay, now she was being weird. He hesitantly moved to the box, part of him still desperate to shut his laptop. But she wouldn’t stay long, and besides, she had no reason to get near his bed.

  The thought made his own face hot, and he quickly lifted the cardboard flaps.

  A cake stared back at him—chocolate. Elegant gold script dipped and swirled above a piped motorcycle. Bon anniversaire.

  He sucked in his breath. Not just a cake.

  A birthday cake.

  “Bri . . .” A hundred conflicting emotions skittered across the surface of his heart. No one had ever done something like that for him before. A dozen memories from his childhood cascaded over him, blurring his vision. His mom had tried, she really had.

  But this.

  He turned to Bri, afraid of what might be in his eyes, but more afraid not to look at her. And only a little afraid of what he’d see. “Thank you.” The words felt petty and insufficient. He was a writer, for crying out loud. He could do better.

  But his tongue felt thick and seemed glued to the roof of his mouth.

  “No problem.” She tucked her hair behind her ears, then crossed her arms over her sweatshirt. A smile teased her lips. “Sorry it’s not red.”

  “That’s the best part.” He grinned, grateful for the comic respite from the uncertainty hovering over him like an anvil. He should say something more. He should hug her.

  He should see if her glossy lips tasted like icing.

  “Want to try it?”

  His gaze locked on hers as his heart clambered in his chest. Yes, he did. Then he remembered she couldn’t read his mind.

  She meant the cake.

  He drew in a long, deep breath, chasing away the sudden and unwelcome rush of desire. “Yeah.” Anything to switch gears.

  She dug in her oversized bag and produced two paper plates, two plastic forks, and a serving knife.

  Nothing she did would surprise him at this point. “You travel prepared.”

  She shrugged and cut into the cake. “You want the motorcycle?”

  “Did you have to ask?”

  She sliced into the thick black wheel and cut off a sizeable square, then deposited it onto a plate. “Bon appétit.”

  He forked off a piece, his hand shaking a little beneath the plate. And he’d rejected all of those teas, so he couldn’t even blame it on too much caffeine.

  She reached back into her bag and pulled out a thermos of coffee.

  He almost choked on his cake. Maybe just a little caffeine wouldn’t hurt.

  She poured some of the dark brew into the thermos lid that doubled as a mug and handed it to him. “For the birthday boy.”

  He took a sip. Still warm, and just a little bitter. Like always. “I still can’t believe you did this.”

  She leaned her hip against the edge of the desk. “I had some spare time.”

  Hardly. He leveled his gaze at her over the rim of the mug.

  She laughed—did it sound a little nervous? “Okay, so I had to make the time.”

  For him. He wasn’t sure how to take that gesture—even less sure how he wanted to take it. He set his mug on the desk to pick his cake back up. He had to keep his hands busy or he’d get his answer sooner than he was prepar
ed for. His fingers itched to tangle in her hair. He tightened his grip on his fork.

  Thankfully, she ambled away from the desk as he chewed, roaming over to the bookshelf on the far wall and running her finger over the dusty titles he’d already examined.

  “No Austen, sorry.” There actually had been one volume, but he’d started reading it the other night and hid it under his nightstand.

  She shot him a wry grin over her shoulder. “Then what on earth are you and William going to discuss at the wedding tomorrow?”

  “Easy. Motorcycle Weekly.”

  This time her laugh rang genuine. And everything in him wanted her to do it again. He eased closer to her, following like a reluctant magnet, stuffing another bite of cake in his mouth on the way. “See anything else good over there?”

  “You mean you haven’t looked for yourself?” She pulled a book halfway from the shelf, tilted her head to read the title, then slipped it back into place. “Mrs. Beeker has good taste.”

  “Not in color schemes.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I take that back. She’s got Charles’s favorite book here.”

  “What’s that? War and Peace?” He licked his fork, taking the opportunity to stand closer behind her and peer over her shoulder. She smelled like vanilla.

  “Exactly.” She held up the thick volume.

  He winced. “Oh man. I was joking.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m not.” She replaced it on the shelf.

  Guilt started to slowly seep into his thoughts. Charles. He kept forgetting to go by his office and give that money back. He hated to think what Charles assumed by his keeping it. If that money had been in Gerard’s pocket, it’d be burning a hole right now—especially standing this near to Bri. She’d never understand.

  But it was safe in his wallet atop the nightstand, and his jeans were safe in his suitcase. He’d refused to fully unpack on this trip, refused to get comfortable or pretend he had any reason to stay a second longer than necessary.

  Except now he really wanted to put his jeans in the red-lined dresser drawer.

  Gerard swallowed, the last bite of cake drying out his mouth. One fact remained—playing Switzerland was growing more and more complicated. He still didn’t fully realize why it would be such a big deal if Bri lost the Puff. Who cared if Charles stuck a chain in its place? She could thrive anywhere in Story—heck, anywhere in the United States. Smart, gifted in the kitchen, beautiful, relatable. Caring. Kind. Generous.