Good eye. He shut off the recorder. “What type am I, then?”
“Well, look at you. I’d much sooner expect an article with your byline in something like Mechanics Weekly.” Bri slapped her hand over her mouth. “Ugh. I don’t know why you make me do that.”
He held out both hands. “Do what? I’m just standing here. Not insulting you, by the way.”
“I know.” She groaned and shoved her hands into the pockets of her sweater. “You just make it so easy.”
“To insult me?”
She straightened, as if she’d found her propriety somewhere in those pockets. “You bring out my sarcastic side. I’m sorry.”
He liked seeing her rattled. Between her perfect hair and that flawless apron, she could use some mellowing. “Don’t be. You seem like you need toughening up.”
“What do you mean?” She bristled.
He pointed to her tense posture. “That, right there. Everything offends you, doesn’t it? You keep your heart on your sleeve but get upset when someone bumps it.”
“Sure you’re not a reporter from Psychoanalyze Weekly?”
“You do know that not all magazines have the word weekly in them, right?”
“There I go again. And there you go again.” She turned away from him and started walking toward the stone fountain.
“Okay, okay. Truce?” He caught up to her and touched her shoulder. She ducked out of the gesture but plastered on a polite smile as fake as Mrs. Beeker’s hair color.
“There’s no need for a truce, Mr. Fortier.” She lifted her chin. “You’re a professional writer researching for an article, and I’m a professional baker providing said research.”
Apparently she’d found a “How to Be Formal” manual in that pocket too. As much as her gushing romantic vibe bugged him, this stilted professional act was much worse.
He clicked the recorder back on and braced himself. “Tell me about the fountain.”
A slight smile flickered across her glossed lips. Truce accepted. “In Paris, lovers would throw their key into the Seine after securing their lock on the fence. It was a symbol of their everlasting commitment.”
He knew that already. He’d been there nine years ago. Had stood near the fence and met his hero, a famous travel photographer named Remy, and had a potent conversation about the trappings of love. He’d seen the locks, touched them. Watched Remy scoff at them.
Remy had been right. “Just chase after the story, son. Don’t let it catch you.” Love didn’t last, whether or not you threw away the key. Some keys floated right back up and had no trouble clicking open metal. He’d witnessed it a dozen times in his mom’s life, had experienced it once himself with Kelsey, and didn’t need further proof. Love was a sham, and this pitiful impersonation of the Parisian love-lock bridge here in Kansas was feeding into the illusion.
But what else could he expect from these locals, with their obsession for petit fours and themed hotels and all things fantasy? They wanted to stay in their illusion. Unfortunately, it was his job to make it sound good enough that people would travel to come taste it for themselves.
And the way Bri lit up when she talked about this stuff might mean she was the most disillusioned of them all.
He held the recorder closer. “And then what?”
She glanced down at the little black box, then at him. Confusion danced in her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“After they lock it and throw away the key—then what? They live happily ever after?”
Her brow furrowed. “I like to think so.”
He knew better. After the commitment came too much reality. Food preference arguments that led to financial fights that led to spiritual differences. Shouting matches and slammed doors and holes in the Sheetrock. Rubber marks on the driveways from squealing tires. Missed calls and sleepless nights and unfamiliar men’s colognes.
After the commitment came pain. Not a fairy tale.
“I know family law. And I can confirm there are not a lot of happily ever afters out there.” An unfamiliar male voice broke the pulsing silence between them.
Gerard turned. A thin man with wire-rimmed glasses walked toward them, stepping carefully across the grass in what looked to be new loafers. A brown suit jacket was draped over one arm of his perfectly pressed dress shirt.
Bri sighed. “What are you doing here, Charles?”
Charles. As in, the Charles wanting to open a corporate chain? He stopped passing judgment on the guy’s stuffy suit and held out his hand. “Gerard Fortier.”
Charles shook it with a grip firmer than he’d expected. “Charles Richmond. You must be that feature writer from up north.”
“That would be me.”
“Pleasure.” Charles released his hand and tucked his back under his draped jacket. His expression hardened as he looked back to Bri. “And to answer your question, I’m here to talk business with the owners.”
“Mabel and Agnes are still at the store.” Bri stepped toward Charles and pressed on his elbow, turning him toward the parking lot. “I’ll make sure to tell them you came by.”
“Eyesore, isn’t it?” Charles ignored her attempt, turning back to Gerard.
He clearly wasn’t taking Bri’s hint to leave. Gerard hated that type of personality—he’d seen men do that to his mom over the years and it had rubbed him wrong ever since. That sense of entitled arrogance—and from the looks of Charles’s wardrobe, the man had money. That typically made it worse.
“The wall.” Charles pointed to the locks, as if taking his silence for confusion.
Gerard shrugged. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” Yes, it was an eyesore. He’d give him that, but he couldn’t say so outright in front of Bri—that wasn’t exactly professional. He was a feature writer, not a critic. Still . . . there could be a game to play here.
He crossed his arms and regarded Charles. “What would you put in its place?”
“Something the town could appreciate. Who wants a reminder of an outdated historic icon in another country?” Charles scoffed. “They tore it down in Paris for a reason.”
Bri glowered. “If you’re done eavesdropping on our conversation, the parking
