He didn’t particularly look like he wanted her to, thankfully. “You’ve been pretty down the last few days. I thought this would cheer you up.”
She blinked slowly. “You did?”
“Well, yeah. Who isn’t cheered up by food?” He ate another grape.
He had totally missed her point, but now she knew. It wasn’t a matchmaking ploy. This was his idea—not her aunts’.
She swallowed, her tongue still tangy from the cheese. This picnic was perhaps the most thoughtful thing anyone had ever done for her. It was the most thoughtful thing a man had ever done. Her dates—rare as they were—usually consisted of pizza at Taylor’s Sushi Barn, fries at the fast-food drive-in, or occasionally, the bowling alley. Fun but average. Not specified to her tastes or interests.
Gerard had taken the time to get really specific.
“You’ve lost your spark.” Gerard’s tone grew serious, despite the fact that he’d sat up and started juggling grapes. “I couldn’t take it anymore. I mean, I can’t exactly write an award-winning article to convince people to come visit the Midwest’s most charming bakery and its most sullen chef, now can I?”
She grunted a halfhearted protest but couldn’t be offended. He was right—she’d been really grumpy lately. But that didn’t change her new reality. It didn’t change her mother’s potential secret or the fact that her solid foundation had crumbled.
Bri reached out and snatched a grape from his jerky juggling cycle. The other one bounced off the tray of meat and the third dropped into his lap. “Hey. No fair.”
She popped the grape into her mouth. “True confession time.”
He raised his eyebrows at her. “You’re an avid juggler?”
“No.” She slid a few pieces of ham inside a croissant. “I’ve never heard of Tomme de Savoie.”
He nodded. “I figured.” She chucked another grape at him, and he laughed. “Tell me something you do know about France.”
She tilted her head to the side. “They didn’t invent French fries.”
“What about French toast?”
She swallowed a bite of bread, not as confident in the answer but determined to wing it. “Nope.”
“Very good.” Gerard leveled his gaze at her, and the look reminded her of the feel of his lips against hers the night before. Her stomach cartwheeled twice. “Now tell me about your mom.”
There it was. The weight she’d been carrying threatened to land squarely back on her shoulders. She’d carried her mother on a pedestal all these years, and now . . . it was as if she teetered precariously on the edge. If the truth fully emerged and her mother eventually fell—what did that mean for everything Bri had ever believed? About her parents? About love?
About herself?
Gerard must have noticed her hesitation, because he reached toward her across the blanket. “I mean, tell me something good. Something from her time in Paris.”
Bri drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. The good. Not the unknown . . . the bad . . . the incredibly ugly. But the good. Paris. “That would be when my mom met my dad.” That part would forever be unstained, regardless of how the rest of their love story played out.
It had to be.
He leaned back on his elbows, his gaze fully fixed on her. “Tell me.”
She tucked her hair behind her ears. “For the feature?” She wasn’t sure how much of this she wanted included in the article. The backstory of her parents’ relationship might help encourage reader interest, which could mean more potential customers—but it felt wrong to flaunt that part until she knew the whole story.
What if she’d been wrong about all of it?
“No.” He shook his head. “Tell me for you.”
The woman was painfully beautiful in twinkle lights.
Bri relaxed as she talked, as he’d hoped she would. She’d wrapped up in the extra blanket he’d packed to ward off the evening air, and the bright green stripes made her eyes shine.
Gerard snagged another slice of cheese as she chatted about her mother daring to leave her small town and learn from a professional baker in Paris, where she met Bri’s father—the baker’s son.
This was good. He’d needed to level her defensive wall so she’d hear him when he talked about the sisters potentially selling the Puff. Plus, she’d been wound so tight ever since she found whatever evidence she thought she had on her mother, that it seemed like she might actually crack. That wasn’t the way to go into this last round of war with Charles—if she decided to keep fighting, that is.
Hopefully that would change tonight.
Gerard finished his last bite of sandwich. “How long did it take your dad to ask your mom out?” Probably not as long as it’d taken him to ask Bri out—although technically, this still wasn’t a date. Was it? He didn’t really know the game anymore. Didn’t want to play it even if he did.
Bri was different, though. Despite their kiss, despite the awkward conversation at her front door, and despite the unofficial status of their current dinner, here they were, relaxed and having a good conversation.
It was just hard not having permission to lean over and kiss her senseless again.
She wiped her fingers on the napkins he’d remembered to stick in the basket at the last minute. “Six days.”
“Where was the bakery, anyway? By the Seine?”
“No, it was on Boulevard Fleur Rouge.” She smiled. “I’ve always loved that name.”
“Red Flower Boulevard.” Gerard sat up. “Wait a minute. Is that a few blocks from Rue de Vaugirard?”
“Yes, I think so.” Bri twisted the cap back on her bottle of water. “She talked about walking that particular road often with my father after work while they were dating. Why?”
“Hang on. I think I might have a picture.” He tugged his phone from his pocket and pulled up his photo album. He distinctly remembered having a conversation with Remy on that particular road—a conversation before the one that eventually led to warning Gerard off women and small towns.
“What?” Bri’s eyes lit, and she scooted closer on the blanket to lean over his shoulder. She smelled like vanilla, as always. “You’ve seen the bakery where she interned?”
“There are so many bakeries in Paris, I’m not sure I went to that one or would remember if I had.” He scrolled through his iPhone photos until he found the album marked “European trips,” then “Paris.” “But I’m pretty sure I’ve walked past it. That street name rings a bell.”
Bri’s short intake of breath over his shoulder reminded him how big of a deal this was to her. He’d stood on the street where her mother had met her father. Hopefully this visual would be more sweet than bitter for her.
The picture he’d been looking for finally appeared on his screen. “Here it is.” He surrendered his phone to her eager hands.
Remy had offered to take his photo—just so Gerard’s starry-eyed self could say he’d had a picture taken by the famous travel photographer. In hindsight, he could see the humor in how he’d fawned over his idol. Travel photographers didn’t typically have a cult following. But the man had humored him, like an uncle figure, and let Gerard shadow him all afternoon. It wasn’t until later that Remy’s bitterness emerged in the form of a life lesson for Gerard—one he’d taken to heart.
Until Kelsey, anyway.
Bri gasped. “That’s you. And that’s the bakery in the background! Brioches Croisées.”
Hot Cross Buns. Catchy. He tilted the phone to see the photo again, his hand brushing hers. The bakery had been unintentionally included in the back. Half of the store’s low-hanging wooden sign was clearly visible to the right of the photo, its white cursive print beckoning pastry lovers inside.
“I can’t believe you’ve stood where my mother spent her early adulthood.” Bri shook her head, wonder etched across her face. Then her expression dampened.
“Hey.”
He waited until she looked up, meeting his eyes. The vulnerability in them made him desperate to soothe the ache
. “You’ll get there one day.” If she didn’t stay glued to the safety of the Puff, anyway. He opened his mouth to say as much—it was the perfect opening for his message. But it didn’t feel right. She was too raw.
She offered a half smile as she handed back his phone. “Who took the photo?” The flicker in her eyes made him briefly wonder if she was jealous it might have been a girl.
“A travel photographer idol of mine, actually. Remy.” Gerard shook his head. “I’d tell you how obsessed I was with this guy at the beginning of my career, but it’d be really embarrassing.”
“Tell me anyway.” Bri shifted positions on the blanket, settling in for the story.
He would. But only because he wanted to keep that achy look out of her eyes, even if it was at his own expense. “Well, he’s not usually a typical twenty-one-year-old’s hero, but he was mine. Remy’s the reason I got into this job in the first place.” He still remembered that particular glossy photo. Submerge Magazine, page 29. It’d been a full-color shot of a man standing on a sailboat, wind whipping the sails, ropes pulled taut as he fought for control—man against ocean. Gerard could almost feel the mist from the waves, and in that moment, he knew what he wanted to write about.
Bri tugged the striped blanket up to her chin. “How is that?”
Gerard plucked another grape from the bunch and rolled it between his fingers. “His photos are art. They let people travel without ever leaving their living room.” He shrugged. “It made me realize I wanted to be on the other side of that page.”
Remy’s warning against roots, against love, against anchoring oneself down at the expense of life had settled deep, right alongside that oceanic action shot. It’d shaped who he was for most of his twenties. Had shaped the way he’d treated Kelsey once they got serious. He’d always resented her a little for it. Was that why she’d sought attention elsewhere?
The sandwich settled like a rock in his stomach.
He knew he’d played a role in their difficult relationship—after all, it took two to fight. But it only took one to leave, and he’d been prepared to stay. Kelsey had wanted otherwise.
Maybe she had sensed his commitment was halfhearted. Remy’s words had always stayed in his mind, a constant tension between the glittering diamond on Kelsey’s left hand and his fear of losing himself—his dreams, his goals, his career—for the sake of love.
Roots were bad. And Kelsey had wanted roots that extended clear down to Middle-earth. Gerard’s chest tightened.
Now here he sat on a picnic blanket, having to constantly restrain himself from falling for a woman who had never even left her hometown.
He quickly changed the subject to travel expenses and the absurd price of cab fare in other countries. Cracked a joke about how much he hated escargot. Shared a story about white-water rafting that made Bri’s eyes widen two notches. But despite his storytelling skills, there was an unfinished story lingering in the back of his mind every time he let his gaze linger on her lips.
Theirs.
She sat with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, chin resting on her bent knees, laughing at a joke he’d just told and didn’t remember. Bri was a threat to the security he’d wrapped himself in all these years. He felt a little like Linus from Peanuts, suddenly, desperately clutching at the frayed fabric he needed.
But every moment with Bri, his grip loosened just a little.
“Tell me more about your mom.” Bri plucked off a corner of a croissant with her fingers and nibbled a bite. “Besides that she wasn’t much of a cook.”
Gerard took a tight breath. He owed Bri more information—she’d shared plenty about her own parents. “I think my mom is probably the polar opposite of yours.”
“Maybe not. She raised you, right?” Bri gestured with the bread. “And you turned out alright.”
He didn’t fully agree, but he also didn’t want to be the guy who argued a compliment. “Mom does her best, I’ll give her that.”
Bri kept her steady gaze on him, not allowing the out his instincts wanted to take. He exhaled slowly. “But I’m pretty sure she’s abusing alcohol.” Again.
Sympathy lit her eyes. She set down the remains of her croissant. “That’s got to be hard.”
He nodded.
“For both of you.”
He raised his eyebrows at her.
“You want to take care of her, and something like that makes it more difficult. It’s out of your control.”
A knot formed in his throat, and he didn’t even try to swallow it down. Just nodded. Avoided her gaze, the one that suddenly saw way too much. She’d nailed it.
His proverbial blanket slipped further from his hands, and he steepled his fingers together in an effort not to grab it back. “After my promotion, I’ll have more opportunities to help her.”
Bri hesitated, reaching over and gently laying her hand on his wrist. “Can I say something hard?”
“It would be unfair for me of all people to say no.”
She offered a tentative smile. “Just remember, there’s a difference between helping and enabling.”
The truth rolled around in his gut a moment before settling. She was right. If he started shipping his mom more money, what would that accomplish at the end of the day? He couldn’t control what she bought with it. But if he helped pay for her to attend a rehab facility . . . His thoughts churned before his hope crashed. She’d never go for it.
And that wasn’t in his control either.
He looked at Bri and inhaled deeply. Inhaled her. Inhaled the memory of their kiss. Of leftover cheese wafting in the cool air around them and the scent of contentment. He returned her touch, turning his hand over to lace his fingers with hers. He squeezed. “Thank you.”
She squeezed back before easing into her blanket cocoon. “Of course.” She nestled under the cover, then offered a corner to him. “Need this?”
He studied the striped material, then shook his head. Peace welled for the first time in months. “Nah, I don’t think I do.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
Gerard was romantic. Who knew?
Bri scrubbed the bakery floor with her wet mop as if she could scrub away the memories of that evening. Of the soft blanket tucked up by her neck and the aroma of French cheese saluting her senses and the warm timbre of Gerard’s voice lilting over her as they talked for hours. Despite his opening up and sharing about his mom, she’d only shared the good memories she could remember of her parents—she couldn’t handle any more bad, those stealthy ones that kept creeping in from nowhere. Were they even real?
Her gut knew what her heart didn’t want to accept.
Bri scrubbed at a stubborn sticky spot on the tile floor, her arms burning with the effort. She still didn’t know how to reconcile the aged photo with the rest of what she knew about her parents’ relationship. But the signatures and the handwriting and the initials all matched up. She couldn’t ignore it any longer.
Her frantic mopping slowed. But for a minute, while she had been talking with Gerard under leftover twinkle lights, it almost hadn’t mattered. It was as if the past had been momentarily suspended, and she was so caught in the present that the hope of the future actually seemed within grasp.
She tightened her grip around the blue wooden handle. She wanted something with Gerard. Wanted more than a stolen kiss during someone else’s wedding and a clandestine twilight picnic. Terrifying as it was, she wanted more slow dances. More food fights. More kisses.
Except he was leaving in a matter of days. And she was so jaded at this point, she’d be tempted to slap Cupid in the face if he dared fly past.
If she wanted to move forward—if she wanted to even have a chance at determining her real feelings for Gerard—then she had to find a way to reconcile that photo.
And she wouldn’t find the answer by cleaning an already clean bakery.
Before she could change her mind, she returned the broom to the utility closet, turned off the lights, and locked up.
She’d go back to the photo and start there. Embrace each memory as they came, as painful as they were, and see where it all led. She owed it to her parents—and truly, she owed it to herself.
Back at home, the stairs trembled—or was that her legs?—as she climbed to her familiar spot in the attic. The spot that once brought such comfort and now brought only trepidation. Bri took a deep breath, unlatched the trunk, and dug the photo from the depths of where she’d stashed it.
The same startling sensation swept over her from head to toe as she looked back into the dark eyes of a man who was a complete stranger to her, but clearly not to her mother. She swallowed hard, turning the photo over and examining the scrawled signature. The initials. The smudge of the aged ink. The crinkled lines from bent corners.
The photo had been through a lot—and apparently so had her mom.
Bri rocked back on her heels in front of the trunk, sending a dust bunny skittering past like a tumbleweed. She let out a slow breath. There had to be more here. If her mom had saved a photo, maybe there was an explanation somewhere else.
But where? Bri frowned. She’d thoroughly gone through all her parents’ belongings after the funeral and saved what she wanted for sentimental value. The rest was donated. No way anything had slipped past her and Mabel and Agnes during that teary time. No, this kind of memory would be hidden.
Hidden. She narrowed her eyes and reached back into the trunk, carefully removing the familiar contents piece by piece. The hardback books. The lace doilies. The quilt. She sneezed from another rogue puff of dust and kept mechanically removing items until her hands braced flat against the bottom.
She felt around, then rose on her knees to peer into the dim shadows. It was solid. Plain wood. Nothing fancy. But what was she expecting—a panel to open into a secret chamber? Maybe next she’d find a winter wonderland and a lamppost behind a rack of fur coats.
This was ridiculous. “You’re looking for something that doesn’t exist.” She spoke out loud, the sound of her own voice echoing in the silent attic, giving her new appreciation for how crazy she must look. First, she had splashed around in a fountain at night in her best dress to find a key, now she was groping around a trunk in the semidarkness for clues that weren’t there.
The Key to Love Page 22
