Oh, the memories. “The one who slobbered all over me?”
“Hey, at least the dog slobbered, and not the guy.” Mabel chortled.
Bri winced. “You didn’t see the last half of our date.” Their first date, and their last. Story of her life. Then again, her standards were pretty high—she wasn’t convinced she’d ever find a romance equivalent to her parents’.
But she’d much rather wait for her fairy-tale ending than waste time kissing frogs.
“At least you’re out of that horrid relationship with that lawyer.” Agnes shuddered. “I couldn’t imagine a duller marriage than one to Charles Richmond.”
Bri shuddered. “He was pretty bad.” Definitely more sidekick than hero—he’d ironed his socks. He needed a woman less romantic than Bri, someone with an equally law-obsessed head on her shoulders. And she needed someone who could kiss her and make her foot pop like in the black-and-white movies.
The only thing Charles made pop was her bubble of expectations.
“Mark my words, Abrielle, I’m going to place your love lock on that gate outside one of these days.” Mabel’s gaze pierced into Bri’s, and she believed her.
Somewhere, he was out there. Apparently not at the firehouse or the police station or Johnson’s General, but somewhere, he was there—a man with zero froggy intentions and a heart as romantic as hers.
CHAPTER
TWO
The only thing Gerard Fortier possibly hated more than romance was writing about it.
He shoved his fingers through his thick dark hair, wishing he could shove Peter’s smug grin where the sun didn’t shine. “You’ve got to be kidding, man.”
But he’d known Peter long enough—even before those silver streaks appeared on his supervisor’s temples—to know this assignment wasn’t a joke.
They started out as buddies, and usually maintained that relationship, but Peter was all too quick to play the managing editor card when needed. Work first, poker games second. He had a knack for keeping his business and his personal life separate, which was a plus around Trek Magazine’s Chicago headquarters and around the bar. But the man was a bull when it came to teaching stubborn.
And right now, Peter might as well have had his head down and nostrils flared.
“Hey, now, all I’ve heard from you for the past nine months is how badly you want to write about ‘what matters.’” Peter crossed his arms over his snug-fitting polo, the one everyone knew he bought a size too small on purpose, and grinned, propping one foot up against the side of the mahogany desk. “What matters more than love?”
If Gerard had a dart gun, he’d have shot his boss in the loafer.
“Not exactly what I had in mind when I said that.” Gerard leaned against the doorframe, grateful he hadn’t accepted the invitation to sit in the leather chair opposite Peter’s desk and be looked down on literally, as well as figuratively. Everyone at Trek Magazine—thanks to Keurig-fueled chatter, a few scorned sweaters, and one too many rounds at coworker happy hour—knew how Gerard felt about love.
They didn’t know why, and he’d keep it that way. Except Peter. Peter knew, and he was baiting him—but why?
His boss spread his arms wide. “You want the assignment or not?”
“Not.” Gerard boldly met his gaze, hoping Peter could see he was just as determined not to take the task as Peter was to give it to him. This was crossing the line—he could write plenty of other pieces for the upcoming issue.
But the bull hadn’t gotten that way by turning soft. Peter straightened his shoulders, one eyebrow raised in a way Gerard knew from experience meant he was inching closer to an invisible line he shouldn’t cross.
Gerard stood taller, even though he already had two inches on Peter. And even though he knew it was impossible to intimidate the man. “Don’t you have something—anything—more appealing? You know, like maybe a month’s stay in the snake-infested South African bush?”
He was joking. Sort of. Their readers would prefer to hear a firsthand account of a jungle adventure than read a boring piece on some European-style café in Nowheresville, USA, right?
And he’d much rather write it.
Peter grabbed a golf ball from the stand on his desk and tossed it casually from one hand to the other. “I told you, this little French-themed hole-in-the-wall in Kansas is going viral, thanks to some YouTube matchmaking videos and the cute blonde who works there.”
Hopefully he hid the eye roll threatening to break free. It was always a blonde with Peter. Gerard preferred brunettes.
Minus the last one, anyway.
“Bakeries are a dime a dozen in the Midwest, man. What makes this one so special?” Gerard didn’t really want to know; he wanted to stall. But Peter would tell him anyway.
“I mentioned the blonde.”
Gerard glared. “Not interested.” They couldn’t all have perfect marriages like Peter and his wife, Cynthia. She was a rare find, and Peter knew it. At least they were proof that all marriages weren’t doomed.
Just most.
“I’m kidding.” Peter set the ball back on his desk, then shifted his weight against the side of it. “It’s like this. Apparently the feedback from our last few issues wasn’t stellar. Sales are down—significantly down.”
“Is Trek in trouble?” His heart stammered a beat. If that was true, he might have more pressing problems on his plate than dealing with some silly old women in small-town America.
“Not yet.”
Gerard sank into the chair by Peter’s desk, knowing the movement indicated a white flag on his part, but he couldn’t muster the fight any longer.
He ran his hand down the length of his face. His stubble scrubbed his palm, which was still calloused from that mountain bike excursion he’d written about two weeks ago. Racing bikes on a Pacific cliff required a death grip on the handlebars.
He’d rather do that again, blind and barefoot, than write about some old ladies playing Cupid.
Which reminded him . . .
