as dull as my eyes, dear.”

Guess not. Bri braced one hip against the counter, chewing slowly on the remainder of her petit four. “I still can’t figure out her exact recipe, though.” She was missing an ingredient, something vivid she remembered from the past, something Mabel and Agnes never knew either but confirmed was just a little different in her mom’s recipe. She was determined to master it one day.

“But think of all the great new recipes you’ve invented from trying.”

Bless Mabel and her encouraging heart. Bri shot her a grateful smile. Charles couldn’t buy the bakery—because Bri couldn’t lose this. This physical connection to her mom. Her eyes darted around the shop, taking in its tiled floors and tiny tables meant for two, the little vases boasting fresh flowers and pink napkin holders with the Pastry Puff’s signature cursive print scrawled across the front.

Her mom had learned to bake here. And while the shop had been updated over the years, the building carried a permanent piece of her mom’s presence. That was the same counter she used to stir at, the same giant metal mixing bowl she used to dump ingredients into. Just like Bri had that morning.

And Gerard had asked what the big deal was. Fresh irritation blossomed. He probably didn’t have a sentimental bone in his body. The sooner this feature was written and he rode off into the sunset on his motorcycle, the better.

Mabel began packing the few remaining petit fours, macarons, and cookies into a to-go box. Bri brushed the petit four crumbs off the counter and into her hand and dusted them over the nearby trash can. “Where are they going today?”

Every evening, the sisters alternated where they sent leftover food. Sometimes they took the desserts to the fire station, sometimes they split them up to take home themselves, and more frequently than not, the sweets went to a local church for the staff to enjoy or hand out to someone in need.

Mabel tucked the cardboard corners neatly inside the box, her voice breezy and innocent. Too innocent. “Why don’t you run these over to the B&B?”

“Oh no. No way.” Bri held up her hands. “I don’t need any more of your matchmaking schemes.” She’d already had her daily dose of Gerard, thank you very much, and it was plenty.

“It’s not matchmaking.” Agnes huffed. “It’s simply a crying shame to let these go to waste.”

Nice try. Bri pushed the box across the counter toward Agnes. “Then why don’t you take them to Mr. Hansen, like you did the other day?”

Agnes gasped.

“That’s right. My eyes aren’t dull at all.” Bri winked at Mabel, who grinned behind her handkerchief.

“That’s neither here nor there.” Agnes pushed the box back toward Bri. “Think about it. That man is here to write a story about the bakery, and he hasn’t eaten a blessed thing from it yet.”

Bri started to protest, then stopped. Unfortunately, Agnes had a valid point. Gerard had been in the shop twice now—twice? Three times? It was starting to blur. And he had only drunk—and complained about—the coffee. Not exactly the best material for a headlining, save-the-bakery-from-Charles feature.

“Fine. I guess a little bribe never hurt anyone.” She took the wide bakery box and balanced it on her hip. She pointed her finger at both of them in warning. “But don’t get any ideas. I’m just doing this for publicity’s sake.”

“Of course, dear,” Mabel cooed as she reached over and smoothed back a flyaway wisp of Bri’s hair. “Do you want to try my new Sparkle Magic lipstick?”

Bri shooed Mabel’s hand away and hurried for the door before she could offer perfume or a padded bra. “You’re all incorrigible.”

She’d go. But she’d stop by her home for a minute first. She needed a positive boost before she saw Mr. Anti-Romance Mechanic Weekly, and that boost was safely tucked away in her attic.

CHAPTER

SIX

Gerard’s feet hung off the red bed by two inches.

He rolled onto his side and shifted his cell phone to his other ear, simultaneously weary and hyped up. He definitely wasn’t used to drinking that much coffee in one day. “You’d love this place, Mom. It’s right up your alley. All home-cooked comfort food and desserts and obnoxiously decorated inns.”

His mom’s familiar voice, soft and permanently tired, filled his ear. “Maybe I’ll come through town for a macaron one day.”

Fat chance. His mom never traveled, despite his former attempts to help pay for her to do so over the years. He’d even tried to give her a free cruise he’d won once, and she’d refused. She’d never held a job with paid time off or many benefits, and she claimed it wasn’t worth it to be out of money when she got home.

“Maybe I could mail you some. If the Pastry Puff ships.” He’d have to check into that fact for the feature, regardless. Readers would want to know. He one-finger typed a note on the open document on his laptop. FIND OUT ABOUT SHIPPING OPTIONS. Mom would love those frilly-looking purple ones he’d glimpsed in the display earlier.

“That’d be nice. Always looking out for me.” She coughed. “Son, you know I hate to ask, but . . .”

“You need money.” Something he was short of until he got paid for this feature. The downside to freelance work—one had to be good with budgeting. And he’d splurged on his new laptop and sent his mom a pretty good-sized check just last month.

He wouldn’t ask her where it went. He never did.

“I’m just a little behind. They cut my hours at the diner, but Frankie says they’ll get me back on my regular schedule next month.”

Frankie was her boss, and one of the biggest jerks Gerard had ever met. Well, excluding the men who’d dated his mom. He was overly gruff with his staff, including his mother. But Frankie was big, burly, and didn’t take anything from anyone. Gerard had personally witnessed him grab a guy twice his size by the collar and haul him into

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