What was Gerard’s?
CHAPTER
SEVEN
He’d been in this hole-in-the-wall town for one day and was already addicted to bad coffee.
Gerard opened his door and squinted down the hallway, lit only by an oddly shaped nightlight plugged into the wall. Surely Mrs. Beeker wasn’t still downstairs in the front lobby . . . and surely some coffee was. He probably needed decaf—it was already almost nine o’clock—but he still felt oddly exhausted and wired. He couldn’t get the Pastry Puff out of his mind. Or Bri.
Which meant he must be really tired.
The phone call with Peter hadn’t helped.
Gerard rubbed his hand down his jaw, the stubble prickling his calloused palms. This particular writing gig wouldn’t be calling for any fresh blisters, that was for sure. He missed the adrenaline rush of flying over a multi-terrain trail, parasailing over crystal-clear waves, taste testing exotic cuisine.
But if he didn’t nail this assignment, boring as it was, then he wouldn’t have the opportunity for any future blisters. Peter had made that clear on the phone twenty minutes ago.
Gerard bit back the frustration rising in his throat. He really shouldn’t have asked, but he couldn’t get his weary mother’s voice out of his mind. He was almost thirty, and he hated that he wasn’t able to help her the way he should be able to.
He peered down the hall. The last thing he wanted currently—or ever—was to get stuck making small talk with a stranger. Which begged the question—who else would be visiting Story in the first place? Another love-lock hopeful? A traveling tourist wanting to check the Pastry Puff off their bucket list? He was, unfortunately, going to need to interview a few locals to complete the piece.
He wondered if there was anyone those two goofy love angels had failed to set up successfully who might be bitter about it. That’d be one way to show Peter the “fresh angle” he demanded. Apparently the write-up they’d initially agreed on wasn’t going to be sufficient. It was bad enough he had to write about this mess in the first place, but now he had to find an additional slant to make it more interesting.
The fact that Peter—or corporate, rather—was afraid it wasn’t interesting enough should have told him something right there.
Gerard checked one more time in both directions. Mrs. Beeker was nowhere in sight. Come to think of it, a small, cottage-style house sat behind the main structure—he’d seen it from his window earlier. Maybe she lived out there.
Enough debating. Coffee won. He needed something to wash away the bitter taste Peter had left. He’d had the nerve to call Gerard a flight risk. No feature, no paycheck.
Then Peter made it worse by caving halfway and offering Gerard the advance once he turned in a solid rough draft. Better than nothing, maybe, but the worst part was realizing Peter didn’t fully trust him with this one. So why had he even bothered to assign it to him? And why had he peppered him with so many useless questions about Bri?
Nothing about this assignment—this place, this town, this B&B—made sense.
And yes, that was a red candy cane–shaped nightlight shining in the hall. Of course it was.
He attempted to tread lightly down the spiral stairs, but his anger built with each tentative step. Anger at Peter, for being practical instead of giving him this one as a friend. Anger at his father, for bailing on their family decades ago. Anger at the parade of men who had put his mom in this position in the first place, cosigning loans with her and leaving her with loads of debt and bad credit.
Anger at God, if he was honest, for the weariness his mother couldn’t ever shake, for the joy that always seemed right out of her reach. She deserved love. Real love, not some love-lock fairy-tale mess, but someone who really wanted to be there for her.
He didn’t need it, but she did. She always believed it was possible—as for him, he stopped looking the day Kelsey packed up her diamond and went home.
By the time he reached the end of the staircase, he was stomping much harder than he had initially intended. He winced at the consequent creak of wood and froze. This was his life now—creeping around some old B&B in middle America, avoiding talkative women with bad dye jobs, and begging his boss for money.
He flexed his blisters. Too bad he couldn’t spike that coffee. He’d given up alcohol several years ago, for myriad reasons, but a dash of whiskey wouldn’t be entirely unwelcomed right about now.
The door to the B&B was unlocked, like most doors on any given night in Story.
Bri turned the handle, half expecting chipper Mrs. Beeker to greet her from the front desk and half expecting a silent tomb of a foyer.
She got the latter and breathed a sigh of relief. If Mrs. Beeker wasn’t at her post, then Bri didn’t have to explain why she was there or risk any assumptions about Gerard. That was the last thing she needed in the midst of this love-lock feature—additional small-town gossip. That was one perk to having come so late. Now she could just place these treats in the kitchen, write a quick note of explanation, and wish them all a happy breakfast the next morning.
Bri tucked the pastry box on her hip, grabbed a yellow sticky note and pen from the lobby desk, and headed into the kitchen.
She ran smack into a brick wall.
She grunted and jerked backward, fumbling with the dessert box to keep from dropping it. A strong grip steadied her and she gasped.
Nope, not a wall. She squinted into the dim lighting as her eyes adjusted. A chest. A broad chest, hard as a board—and belonging to one Gerard Fortier.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed, adrenaline spiking through her veins. She hated
