The Key to Love

by Betsy St. Amant

  “Go?” Gerard frowned, moving a few steps toward her. Confusion pinched his features. “Bri. Wait!”

  She left him alone on the dance floor.

  He’d never understand women. He never had before, and the odds of him figuring them out now at thirty years old were pretty slim. Nonexistent, to be exact. And yet here he was, patching up strangers’ weddings and chasing after crying pastry chefs.

  “Bri! Where did you go?” The music trailing from the dance floor all but drowned out his voice. She’d run in the direction of the love-lock wall and the fountain, which was to the left of the gazebo where the wedding reception was underway. Thankfully, it seemed like no one had noticed her dramatic exit. Or his.

  A pair of light-colored pumps lay in the grass just ahead of him. He scooped them up and kept walking, following the scattered leaves that trailed toward the fountain. The trickle of water let him know he was close, even before his foot landed on the first stepping-stone. He saw the one marked “Wanderlust” as he neared, and his heart hitched in memory. “Bri! I know you’re here.”

  The lights from the reception didn’t stretch this far, even though the moon above offered a bit of assistance. He stepped carefully from stone to stone, her shoes hooked on two fingers. These were the same ones she’d been tottering around in the first day he met her, when she showed him the love-lock wall and the fountain. He couldn’t believe he remembered that.

  He shouldn’t remember that. Shouldn’t have danced with her. It was too dangerous. But his time in Story had become exactly that.

  Man, she’d looked gorgeous—stunning, even, in that pink dress. All big eyes and flushed cheeks looking up at him, something withdrawn and haunting under the surface. This thing with her parents—what had she said, an affair?—had apparently cut her deep.

  He didn’t get it. Her parents weren’t even alive. How had she found out? And why had it shaken her so thoroughly?

  A frantic splashing of water sounded a few yards away, and his eyes finally adjusted to the shadows. Bri was standing knee-deep in the stone fountain, pawing anxiously through the water.

  Was this what had been bothering her for the last several days? He cleared his throat. “Come on, Cupcake. Out of the fountain.”

  She ignored him, water splashing up onto the hem of her dress. “It has to be here somewhere.” Her gaze remained riveted on the small waves she was creating.

  “Unless you’re looking for a goldfish, I don’t think it is.” He took a few steps closer so he didn’t have to speak quite as loudly. If the wedding guests saw their beloved pastry chef swimming with her clothes on . . . Charles could have a media heyday with that one if word got out. Revenge would be easy. Thankfully he hadn’t shown up to see for himself.

  Bri dove into the water up to her elbows, and the clang of metal hitting rock made him squint to decipher through the shadows. “What are those?”

  “Keys.”

  “Keys.” Nope. Repeating it didn’t bring clarity.

  “To the love locks.” She brushed damp hair back from her face, her expression a twisted mask of hurt and panic. “I have to find my parents’ key.”

  Oh no. His heart stammered a sympathetic beat. “There’s probably a hundred keys in there.”

  She stirred the waters again. “More than that by now.”

  “Are you familiar with the phrase ‘needle in a haystack’?”

  She ignored him, or maybe didn’t hear him. “I have to get their lock off the fence.”

  “Why?”

  She shook her head, refusing to answer as she scooped up another handful of keys.

  He tried a different route of reason. “How are you going to recognize it?”

  “I hung it up there after they died. It’s gold and has their initials stamped on one side.” She held a key up to the moonlight, then tossed it back into the fountain. Grabbed another handful from the fountain floor. Checked. Tossed.

  Checked.

  Tossed.

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “This is going to take you all night, Bri.”

  “Then help me!” Her voice cracked as she looked up, fully focusing on him for the first time since their dance. Wet hair straggled down her shoulders, and dark makeup ran under her eyes. From water? Or tears?

  Something surged in his chest. Irritation. At her, for her foolish mission. At himself, for getting mixed up in it. But mostly at himself, for not being able to fix it. For not confronting her earlier, when she’d been so down at Taylor’s Sushi Barn. He should have tried to get to the bottom of it then, or during the other half a dozen opportunities he could have since.

  But the last-minute wedding prep had taken over, and she’d soldiered through—apparently to her detriment. There was only one thing to do.

  He toed off his loafers and cuffed his pants.

  The water was cold—almost unbearably cold. Chills raced up his bare calves as the water lapped at the bottom of his pants. He set his jaw, reached down, and felt for keys. He came up with three. All silver. He tossed them back, then realized the better approach was to discard the already examined keys onto the side of the fountain so they wouldn’t keep picking up the same ones.

  No. The better approach was to find out what exactly was going through that head of hers so they could get out of the fountain and into some dry socks.

  He waded toward her. “What are you doing, Bri?”

  She shuffled through the keys in her palm. “You know what.”

  He gently took her wrist. “How long has their lock been on the fence?”

  “It was the first one up.” She rolled in her bottom lip but wouldn’t look at him. The moonlight cast a shiny glow on the top of her damp blonde head.

  “Then shouldn’t you leave it there?”

  She pulled her hand free of his grip. “It’s a lie.” Her voice shook, and she tossed the rejected keys back into the water before grabbing another handful. When she stood, she straightened so aggressively, he had to step back to avoid her headbutting him.

  “Because you think your mom had an affair?”

  “You were right all along. Love isn’t real.”

  “I never said it wasn’t real.”

  “Don’t backpedal now because you want to argue, okay?” She waved her hand. “Your vibe was clear all along. Crystal clear. And you were right.”

  His heart clenched. That wasn’t what he’d wanted to do. Bri was light and goodness and faith. He hadn’t meant to let his bitterness snuff out her spark. Those were his issues, his past—not hers. She’d had her mom on such a pedestal—he couldn’t bear to see her knock her down. Not like this. “Bri—”

  “Don’t. It’s fine. I just want to take their lock off the gate.” Her voice was level, controlled. Too controlled. A muscle worked in her jaw. “I thought they had a solid relationship, but apparently they didn’t. I thought they were an example, but they weren’t.” Her tone wavered slightly. “I thought they were an inspiration to aspire to, but—”

  “Love isn’t a farce.” He interrupted before she could finish her depressing monologue. She was running on straight emotion right now and would probably feel silly tomorrow.

  Just like he would for standing in this fountain.

  He tried to catch her eye, but she was too busy examining more keys. “Look, just because your parents might or might not have had some issues doesn’t mean their marriage wasn’t genuine.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  No. He didn’t. He stabbed his fingers through his hair. “Do you even know for sure?”

  “There’s a photo.” She moved farther along the circular fountain, reaching for more keys.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Of her with someone?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?” He fought back an annoyed sigh. “I can’t read your mind, Cupcake.”

  And it was a really good thing she couldn’t read his. Frustration and confusion warred for first place in his train of thought. But silencing both of those was th
e acute, almost painful realization of how beautiful Bri looked—smeared makeup, damp dress, ragged hair and all. Her vulnerability from the dance was gone, shut up behind this defensive wall she’d concocted of assumptions and keys.

  He wanted to tear it down.

  He wanted to light her spark again.

  He wanted to fix it.

  So he sloshed through the water toward her, grabbed her around the waist, and tugged her hard against his body. Her hands gripped his arms with surprising strength. Keys splashed into the water at their feet. He wasn’t sure whose lips found whose first, but suddenly they were kissing, lips melding into one. She tasted like petit-four frosting and fruity Chapstick.

  And hope.

  His grip tightened around her as her fingers dug into his biceps. He broke away for a quick breath, and she moaned in the back of her throat before pressing her lips back against his. Heat surged through his chest.

  He’d gone for a spark.

  And created an inferno.

  Shouts rang from the reception. Gerard instinctively jerked backward—or had Bri pulled away first? They looked at the tent, then at each other, as they slowly stepped away. Reality began a slow descent, and the water he’d almost grown numb to crept up his legs with an aching chill.

  “I think Casey and Nathan are leaving.” Bri’s gaze flickered from the reception to him, then to her feet. She took a ragged breath before meeting his eyes once more. Her gaze, impossible to read, looked as convoluted as he felt.

  Raucous laughter sounded from the party, and a car engine started up. The moment was over, and there was way too much to say. He swallowed hard, wishing he was better at verbal words than written ones.

  Bri pulled her skirt from the water and bunched it in one hand. “I guess you should probably go—”

  “I guess I should probably go—” He laughed, but it sounded forced to his own ears. “Right. Duty calls.”

  He grasped Bri’s arm and helped her out of the fountain, then climbed out beside her, suddenly unsure of everything. Unsure what she was thinking. Unsure how he was supposed to dry off his feet with nothing but leaves for a towel.

  Unsure if that kiss had been a mistake—or if the real mistake was in letting Bri walk back to the reception with so much left unsaid.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-TWO

  Bri had kissed Gerard.

  She’d kissed him like she was drowning and he was a lifeboat. And she had been drowning—in emotion, in confusion, in anxiety. His kiss had quieted the storm yet awakened a different one.

  But right now, she just felt calm, serene. Almost too tranquil—like the eye of a hurricane.

  She had a feeling the rest of the storm was imminent.

  Bri tugged her fuzzy socks higher up her leg. She hadn’t been able to get warm since her fountain dive, despite the robe wrapped around her and the space heater blaring beside the sofa in her townhouse. It was as if the chill had reached all the way inside to her core.

  Yet every time she relived that kiss, she melted a little. She gingerly touched her fingers to her lips, remembering how Gerard had stood there with her shoes like something from Cinderella. He was no Prince Charming, but seeing him pursue her, her pumps dangling from his masculine hands, had stirred something deep. She couldn’t pretend anymore. She was falling for him.

  And it was the worst timing possible.

  Her parents’ letters—well, her mother’s letters—lay in her lap, like a weight she couldn’t shake. She ran her finger over the flap on the top one, then closed her eyes. The events from the evening played in her mind on repeat—in fast-forward, then slow-motion. All the feelings Gerard had conjured in her with that kiss twisted around and knotted up until she couldn’t separate fear from elation.

  After she’d seen to the closing reception duties, packed up the remaining petit fours, and waved her friend off into her new future with a handful of lit sparklers, Gerard had been nowhere to be found.

  Her stomach twisted at the possibilities. Was he avoiding her? Regretting the kiss? Or just giving crazy Cinderella some space? She’d led him on quite the wild goose chase. But he’d come after her to the fountain in the middle of her breakdown. That meant something.

  Right?

  She adjusted the heat blowing on her legs and tightened the belt on her robe. What if it didn’t? What if he’d just been caught up in the romance of the evening and acted on impulse?

  Ugh. She shouldn’t be sitting there, reliving it piece by aching piece. It was a dead end, anyway. Who cared what he felt? He was leaving in a matter of days.

  And this feeling she had? This alleged falling in love? It was an illusion. She had to remember that—or she might end up like her parents.

  Rejection was better than betrayal. It had to be. She was probably lucky that Gerard had changed his mind post-kiss.

  Embarrassment tapped her on the shoulder as she leaned her head back against the soft material of the sofa. She couldn’t believe she’d climbed into that fountain in the middle of a wedding party—in a dress, no less—to find her parents’ key. It could have waited. She hadn’t even found it.

  It shouldn’t be so important.

  She picked up the packet of love notes. Their lock had been the first one on the wall, and now it all felt like a mockery.

  She felt like a mockery.

  A knock sounded on her townhouse door. Bri jumped, knocking over the space heater. She set it upright and turned it off, heart pounding as she checked her phone for the time. Almost eleven.

  Had something happened to Mabel or Agnes? Fear pricked. They’d seemed fine at the wedding—Mabel had applied fresh lipstick between dances and Agnes had pretended not to putter around Mr. Hansen and all the desserts—but you never knew with women their age. Maybe all the excitement had been too much for them.

  She set aside the letters and hurried to the front door, clutching her robe closed at her throat. She peered through the peephole, and her heart hitched.

  Gerard.

  She turned the lock, then hesitated. Was he coming for more kisses? Or to tell her it’d all been a huge mistake? Both thoughts make her borderline nauseated—for entirely different reasons. Regardless, she had to play it cool.

  She opened the door, halfway. “Hey.” Her voice sounded more like a Muppet than the calm, normal vibe she’d been hoping for, so she cleared her throat and tried again. “Hey.” Now it was too low, like she’d been a whiskey drinker for a few decades. She groaned inwardly.

  “Warming up, I take it?” Gerard nodded toward her getup—fleece robe, socks pulled up to her knees, and fuzzy slippers. He was still in his dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, revealing his tattoos. His pants weren’t cuffed anymore, but the damp marks were still evident up his calves.

  “Trying to.” She opened the door to allow him in, her stubborn heart refusing to return to a normal rhythm. “That water was pretty cold.”

  “I remember.” He stepped inside and stood by the door she shut behind him. “I’m not staying long, don’t worry. I know you must be exhausted.”

  She nodded, unable to meet his eyes, afraid she might break down again or worse—blurt out how she felt. When she didn’t even understand how she felt. And she’d probably do it in the Muppet voice again. She pressed her lips together.

  He leaned against the wall. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  He was being sweet again. She had no idea what to do with that. She nodded a second time, still averting her eyes and swallowing any attempt at words.

  He shifted his weight, his proximity warming her much faster than the space heater’s feeble efforts. “So, you’re okay.”

  She nodded a third time. Swallowed. “I will be.”

  “It’s not as bad as you think, Cupcake. It never is.” His hands were tucked loosely in his pockets, and she realized how badly she wanted his touch again. How comforting it’d been—and how distracting. For those few glorious moments, she hadn’t thought about her parents’ love story or
Charles or losing the bakery. She hadn’t felt the slow erase of her entire identity and security fading away. She’d just been herself.

  With him.

  “I need to ask you a question.” His eyes grew serious, and her chest tightened. Here it came. He was going to ask her to keep their kiss quiet. Because he regretted it. Because he didn’t want to sully his columnist reputation by getting involved with a source. A crazy source, no less, who dove into fountains during weddings and rambled about love letters.

  She lifted her chin, determined not to let him see any more vulnerability. She had to redeem what little shred of dignity might still be lingering. He hadn’t come to find her after their kiss, and now she knew why. “I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  He frowned. “I wasn’t worried.”

  “Don’t be. I know it was just a high-emotion night.” Her hands shook, so she crossed her arms over her robe. “You’re not obligated to anything here.”

  “I wasn’t going—”

  Her wounded pride wouldn’t hush. “Weddings are romantic, and you got caught up in the moment. I totally get it.”

  He flinched. “That’s not—”

  “You’re leaving soon, so that’d be ridiculous to even think that we could be—”

  “That’s enough, Cupcake.”

  She snapped her mouth shut. Then had to ask. “Why did you come?”

  His eyes were unreadable now, guarded. He reached into his pocket. “I came here to give you this.” He held up a key.

  A golden key.

  With initials stamped on the side.

  Oh. She took it with trembling fingers. “Gerard . . .”

  He didn’t look at her. “Good night, Bri.” He let himself out, shutting the door behind him.

  She sagged against it, the metal cold in her hand. He’d gone back for it. All that time he’d been gone while she told Casey goodbye and finished the wedding responsibilities, all that time she’d thought he was avoiding their kiss—he’d gone back to the fountain. Alone. In the cold.