The Key to Love

by Betsy St. Amant

  For her.

  And she’d just babbled on, rejecting him before he could reject her. She was such an idiot. Now she’d never know what he thought or felt.

  But wasn’t that for the better? He was leaving—and they were as opposite as opposites could be. Even Mabel and Agnes had backed off on the matchmaking attempts, not making a single peep or giving them a single glance during their shared dance at the wedding. It was as if they, too, had realized the inevitable end.

  There was, however, one thing she had to know.

  She flung the door back open. “Gerard, wait!”

  He turned, already halfway down the walk. The night breeze wafted against her face and chilled the small patches of skin showing above her knee-high socks.

  Heat flushed her cheeks, despite the cold. “What were you going to ask me?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He shrugged, then offered a half smile. “I was just wondering what you did with the leftover petit fours.”

  Monday had never felt more like a Monday—and this was most likely his last one in Story.

  And it was his birthday.

  Bacon sizzled in the kitchen of Taylor’s Sushi Barn as Gerard typed his next sentence, deleted half of it, then tried again. He’d never had writer’s block like this before. Trying to highlight the bakery’s charm and small-town appeal, all while keeping the report balanced, was exhausting—especially when he believed more and more that Charles was right. Not that the love-lock wall was an eyesore, necessarily, or that Story needed a coffee chain in its stead.

  More so, it was what Bri needed.

  He took a sip of coffee and glanced up from the corner booth, where his back was planted firmly against the wall. At least this time he didn’t have to worry about running into her—unless she suddenly traded her Friday pizza treat for a Monday one.

  That was just one of the many unique facts—or maybe quirks—he had discovered about Bri.

  Another being how well the woman could kiss.

  His stomach dove remembering their encounter in the fountain last night. In hindsight, he wondered how in the world he’d made it this long without doing so. When he’d held her in his arms, she fit so perfectly, it was like he’d discovered a piece of himself he hadn’t realized was missing. It had lit and stoked a fire he’d effectively doused since Kelsey. It had felt . . . right. Natural.

  It had felt a lot like setting down roots.

  His stomach knotted again. He didn’t do roots. He did wandering much better. So it was good that she’d put him off at her door last night before he could mutter any mumbo jumbo about home and puzzle pieces and macarons for the rest of his life—even if it’d stung pretty bad. She’d saved him from a big mistake. It was his own fault, anyway. He’d crossed the line and was paying the consequences for it today with an emotional hangover.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose as his head pounded. Travel features had never been this personal before—and not just because he’d made out with the main subject. He was firmly wedged between the proverbial rock and a hard place, and his writing was suffering for it.

  It wasn’t like public opinion mattered here, since the decision ultimately lay with Mabel and Agnes, but if he slanted the article toward Charles’s potential plans at all, Bri would be crushed. The feature had the potential to draw a lot more business to the Puff—which could possibly convince the sisters not to sell and silence Charles’s persistent offers once and for all.

  He hated to admit it, but Charles had had a bit of a point when he’d alluded to the power of the pen.

  Gerard drummed his fingers on the table beside his laptop. He just wished Bri could see what he saw. That her identity wasn’t in the bakery. It wasn’t even in her parents and their story—she had her own to live out. Her strengths and talents lay far outside baking petit fours and macarons in the same place her mother had.

  But she was too close to the situation to see it. Literally too close—she’d never even left Story besides a four-hour jaunt to Nashville. The woman needed to cut the apron ties—and see the world. See Paris, for crying out loud.

  Maybe he could talk to her later today, friend to friend. Help her see reason—not for Charles’s sake, but for hers. And for the sake of his finally writing “the end” once and for all on this feature. If he was going to spin it as a “goodbye to one of this small town’s charms,” he needed to know ASAP how it was going to go down.

  The door opened across the diner, and Charles walked in. Speak of the . . .

  He refused to finish the thought, however accurate, as the lawyer placed his order at the counter. The older woman in overalls working the register handed him his change and receipt, and Gerard winced. Crap. That cash he’d been intending to give back to Charles was still in his room. This would have been the perfect opportunity to end whatever alliance Charles thought they had. Regardless of Gerard’s take on the Puff, he refused to accept money on the job—especially from someone as slimy as Charles. Bri’s ex, for that matter.

  He stared at the blinking cursor on his screen, willing Charles not to see him. He didn’t want to engage with this guy and try to interpret his next move. He wanted the man to just grab his coffee and whatever grease-ladened item he’d just purchased and keep walk—

  “Gerard. Always a pleasure.” A hand extended into his line of vision, in front of his computer screen.

  Gerard shut the laptop and shook his hand briefly, the smile he forced feeling faker by the moment. “Charles.”

  The stuffy lawyer didn’t sit, thankfully, but leaned his khakis-clad leg against the table—probably in an effort to tower over Gerard, since he clearly couldn’t while both men were standing. “I hear you had a run-in with my intern at the Puff after that news segment.”

  “Yeah, I set him straight.” Gerard crossed his arms over his chest. “Low blow, sending a spy, don’t you think?”

  “Nah, just good fun.” Charles laughed. “It was all in the name of research.”

  “Research.” Gerard nodded slowly. “Is that what they’re calling entrapment now?”

  His smile faded as he adjusted his glasses. “Lighten up, man. It’s all a big game, and you know it. A game that Bri started, remember? She went to the media, not me.”

  True.

  “Besides, we both know it doesn’t matter. Those crazy sisters are close to selling. They won’t be able to resist my offers much longer—they’re old and tired. Who cares what the town prefers?” Charles smirked. “Once they get some real cappuccinos and flavored mochas, they won’t care about ancient macaron recipes and bitter coffee.”

  Also true. But the way Charles described it was so callous—like the bakery wasn’t Bri’s job and clearly a beloved staple in the community. No wonder she was so defensive. Still, the point remained—Bri didn’t need the Puff to be Bri. To be Abrielle.

  But she’d do a lot better seeing that fact on her own thanks to Gerard than against her will because of Charles. He had to convince her—before Charles’s plan worked and she was embarrassed in front of her entire town. From the looks of her last night, she was in no place to withstand that kind of a blow.

  “I guess we’ll see.” He wouldn’t commit to further verbiage than that. Besides, who knew? If business kept up, especially after the feature ran, maybe Mabel and Agnes wouldn’t be tempted to call it quits. That is, if he ever finished it.

  And if he could make himself promote a place that he knew would end up robbing Bri of adventure.

  He turned back to the computer and opened it. The answer wasn’t there, but maybe Charles would take the hint to leave.

  “How’s the article coming?” Charles pointed to the laptop.

  Wrong hint. Gerard scooted the monitor a few inches away from his greasy finger. “It’s coming.” While Charles was lurking, Gerard really needed to clarify that the jerk’s cash hadn’t accomplished anything. “Hey, what are your office hours? I’ll come by—”

  “Well, if this isn’t a meeting of the minds.”

 
; What’s her name—Sandra?—appeared at Charles’s elbow, her platinum hair so shiny it was almost white under the diner lights. “And the biceps.” She squeezed Charles’s arm, her hot-pink talon nails bright against his white button-down shirt, then looked at Gerard like he might be next.

  Gerard picked up his coffee as a shield. “Morning.” He didn’t say “good,” because it wasn’t.

  “I would have grabbed you a coffee if I’d known you were coming.” Charles pulled his arm free of Sandra’s grip, then looped it around the top of her shoulders. Friendly hug? Or defensive move to keep her at bay? Theirs must be one exhausting friendship.

  “You know I can get my own coffee.” Sandra batted her hand at Charles and shot Gerard a wink. “I’m more independent woman than damsel in distress.”

  Hopefully that wasn’t supposed to impress him.

  Gerard watched over the rim of his coffee mug as Charles’s arm subtly tightened around Sandra’s shoulder. Jealous of the flirting? He was no threat. She would probably flirt with the potted fern on her way out the door.

  Regardless, this was more than he could stomach on just a coffee and a bagel. Gerard picked up his laptop and slid it into his bag. “I’ve got to go. The written word waits for no man.” Or something like that. Whatever could get him out of this suddenly claustrophobic environment.

  “Yes, the power of the pen, indeed.” Charles raised his eyebrows pointedly at Gerard.

  Sandra’s overly made-up eyes darted between the two of them. “Oh, talking in code.” She purred in the back of her throat, and Gerard’s coffee threatened to launch from his stomach. “Come on, boys. I want in.”

  “Chill out.” Charles nudged her side. “It’s business.”

  “As in, none of mine?” She winked again. “That’s not how that works in Story. You know you’ll tell me later.”

  Gerard tried to slide out of the booth while they argued, but Sandra was blocking him. “Excuse me.”

  “Right this way, darlin’.” She moved aside, but only about an inch so he’d have to brush against her. “I’ll get out of your way anytime.”

  Gross. The woman could make the Gettysburg Address sound like a come-on. Gerard didn’t even try to smile as he squeezed by. Charles’s hand on his shoulder stopped him—but only because he was itching to grab the guy’s wrist and fling him over his shoulder in a standard self-defense move.

  Charles lowered his voice, his urgent tone implying he might not be as confident about public opinion as he let on. “We’re on the same page, right? You know what to do.”

  Gerard shrugged off his hand, fighting the urge to tell the selfish doofus and his crazy sidekick exactly what he thought of them. But that’d be just what the lawyer needed to start some sort of slander lawsuit against him—or worse, against Trek. “I’ve got an article to finish. You two have a good day.”

  Gerard strode out of the diner before he could give in to his impulse. He’d return Charles’s money tomorrow and get the entitled shark off his back. For now, he had to convince Bri to do what was best for herself—and he knew exactly the way to do it.

  Unfortunately, that would also mean convincing his heart to stay out of it.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-THREE

  Mabel propped her elbows on the display counter at the bakery and leaned forward, a twinkle in her eyes. “So. Have you heard from Casey since the wedding?”

  “Mabel, it was just last night.” Bri gave the eager woman a playful eye roll as she poured decaf coffee into Mabel’s pink-striped mug. She never drank leaded after 4:00 p.m. “I’m giving her time to settle in before bombarding her. Since they aren’t getting a real honeymoon yet, there’s no way I’m calling her the next day.”

  She slid the mug across the counter to Mabel. If the older woman only knew what had transpired between Bri and Gerard over the last twelve hours, she’d be switching gears faster than the teenagers who always raced off the line at 3rd and Oak.

  “I’m so proud of us.” Mabel beamed at Agnes across the room, who crossed one sensible shoe over the other from her perch on one of the nearby chairs. “Married! We really did it.”

  “Yes. We did our civic duty.” Agnes offered a brisk nod in agreement before leaning down to buff a mark off her left shoe.

  Bri couldn’t resist the opportunity to tease. “So, are you and Mr. Hansen next?”

  Agnes jerked upright. “Well, I—I never . . .”

  “Maybe that’s why she’s so grumpy.” Mabel took an intentional sip of her coffee.

  Agnes narrowed her eyes. “Mabel Pauline—”

  “I’m just saying, it wouldn’t hurt you to try one of my lipsticks some time. Or wear a blouse that’s actually a color.” She set down her mug with a clank.

  “I don’t know. Mr. Hansen doesn’t seem to mind beige.” Bri shot a smile at Agnes, who looked equal parts miffed and giddy. “I saw how he was looking at her at the wedding. Crowding the dessert table.”

  She straightened her shoulders. “He just likes petit fours.”

  “He thought something was sweet, that’s for sure.”

  Agnes pursed her lips. “Abrielle—”

  “Okay, okay.” She held up both hands, grateful the matchmaking attention was elsewhere for once, especially with everything brewing between her and Gerard. Or was that brewed, past tense? She sobered. It’d been her own fault, verbally shoving him out the door without even hearing him out.

  The door chimed, and all of their heads swiveled toward it.

  Gerard.

  There he went again, barging into her world unannounced every time she thought of him. Acting like he fit into her cozy little town, sauntering inside wearing that same leather jacket that smelled like evergreens, and carrying . . .

  A picnic basket?

  He grabbed the chair opposite Agnes at the table and spun it around backward before plopping down into the seat. The giant wicker basket settled on the floor between them. “Ladies, I need to borrow your head chef.”

  Bri’s heart stammered with confusion. Mixed with excitement. Mixed with dread. What in the world was he . . .

  Agnes and Mabel locked eyes across the room, trying—but failing—to hide matching smiles. “Of course,” they responded simultaneously.

  Ah. Understanding dawned. Bri shook her head.

  She hadn’t escaped their matchmaking efforts completely after all.

  The gazebo by the love-lock wall, where just hours ago Casey and Nathan had pledged their vows, was still draped in sheer gauze and twinkle lights. Though the sun hadn’t quite set, the coming dusk provided a sufficient RSVP to the shining strand’s beckoning invitation.

  “Have a seat.” Gerard pointed to the blue plaid blanket spread on the middle of the gazebo’s platform floor, and Bri obediently sat down, crossing her legs. Thankfully, she’d worn jeans to work.

  “What is this?” She tried to keep the skepticism out of her voice, but this was clearly a setup. It had Mabel and Agnes written all over it. The question remained, though, why was Gerard succumbing to it? Surely he saw through the attempt too.

  It had to be related to the article. He was probably trying to pacify Mabel and Agnes, get the rest of what he needed from her to complete the feature, and break the ice she’d created between them. She would like him to leave town on friendly terms too—even if that amazing kiss had made it more complicated.

  “I thought you could use an authentic French picnic.” Gerard knelt next to her and began to unpack the wicker basket.

  Her throat knotted. He’d packed all that—for her? Had Mabel and Agnes suggested it?

  “For tonight’s dinner, we have your choice of bread—baguettes or croissants.” He pulled out a long, flat tray and unwrapped the aluminum foil covering the top. “And of course, charcuterie.”

  She squinted. “Cured meats?”

  “Pâté and ham, to be exact. And salami, because what’s a picnic without salami?” He set the tray on the blanket between them and reached back inside the basket
, pulling out a bowl of grapes and a giant block of cheese. “And Tomme de Savoie.”

  She’d never heard of it but felt embarrassed admitting as much—especially since it was clearly French. It would just further prove his theory that she didn’t know nearly enough about Paris as she’d always assumed. “Sounds good.”

  “It is. Trust me.” He passed out utensils and paper plates, then handed her a bottle of water before settling on the blanket. “I’d debated bringing wine, but I don’t really drink anymore.”

  Anymore. Interesting. She toasted him with her bottle of Evian. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.” He tapped his bottle against hers before opening the lid and taking a swig.

  They ate in silence for a moment, Bri still desperately trying to make sense of the last twenty-four hours. The discovery of that telltale photo. The wedding. Her embarrassing meltdown at the fountain. Their kiss. Their conversation at her front door that had been two parts genius in sparing her heart but three parts agonizing in never getting to hear his.

  Yet Gerard seemed at ease across from her, popping grapes into his mouth and stacking various meats between two slices of bread. Was it that simple for him to set aside what had transpired between them and just eat carbs?

  If that was the case, she was envious. Men had it so much easier. Fewer emotions clouding up every action, every thought. To them, it was just: Kiss? Check. Potential relationship voided by porch brush-off? Check. Delicious dinner? Check, check.

  Bri nibbled on a slice of Tomme de Savoie, and the nutty flavor burst across her tongue. Gerard was right—as usual, which was only half as annoying as it used to be. The cheese was amazing. But despite the desire to keep shoving cuisine into her mouth, the urge to know the truth beckoned louder. “Come on, be honest. Why did you do this?”

  Gerard propped himself up on one elbow in his reclined position and grinned. “Because cheeseburgers are American?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. Not this.” She held up her slice of cheese. “I mean, this.” She waved her hand to indicate the entire spread. “Especially after . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.