Hated that the memory of his touch would most likely be forever branded on her forearms.
Gerard let go of her and crossed his arms over his chest—the chest that had ricocheted her like a ping-pong ball and was currently covered in a soft-looking T-shirt. “I’m staying here, remember? The better question is, why are you breaking and entering?”
“First of all, it’s technically impossible to break and enter anywhere in Story, since no one bothers to lock their doors.” She set the box down on the kitchen island with a thud. “And second of all, I was bringing these to you.”
“To me?”
That sounded way more personal and intimate than she’d intended. Probably exactly what Agnes had in mind. “I meant to the B&B.” She flipped on the light. That would solve that problem. Hard to take anything intimately under fluorescent lighting.
Gerard blinked and scrunched his face at the sudden change. “At nine o’clock at night?”
“I got hung up.”
“On what?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I thought you were a feature writer, not an investigative reporter.”
“Zing.” He drew a checkmark in the air with his finger and grinned. “You got me again.”
Ugh. “Why do I keep doing that?” Good gravy, the man drove her to her last nerve. Her breath still caught from the scare, and she inhaled deeply to calm her racing heartbeat. “I just need a minute.” He was in pajama pants. Black ones. She looked away.
“Not an adrenaline junkie, are you? Might want to rethink your crime spree then, Cupcake.” Gerard casually opened the box on the island, then shut it and nudged it away.
Dismissed, just like that.
She glared. “Try one.”
“Bossy.”
“Try one?” She turned it into a question, biting back the second sarcastic remark begging for release. She had a mission here.
He crossed his arms, the sleeves of his T-shirt pulling taut. “I’m not hungry.”
“People don’t eat desserts because they’re hungry, silly.”
Gerard leveled a stare at her, one that clearly stated he had never been, and would never be, silly.
“Come on. One petit four won’t kill you.” She nudged the pastry toward him.
“I was coming down here for coffee.” He pointed to the Keurig sitting on the counter by the sink. It wasn’t even turned on.
“As it so happens, coffee and petit fours go perfectly together.”
He leaned one hip against the island. “Maybe some coffees, anyway.”
She leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the countertop by the box. He was just baiting her. She refused to bite. She scooted the box closer to him. “Try it. For the feature.”
His gaze met hers, and she held it steady. Talk about an adrenaline rush. What was wrong with her stomach? Regardless, he wasn’t budging. Stubborn.
Whatever. She wasn’t going to beg. She straightened just as he leaned forward and snagged a petit four. “Fine. Just one.”
He took a bite while she watched. Then he rolled his eyes. “Staring at me isn’t awkward at all.”
“Only if you chew with your mouth open.” She grinned.
He pressed his lips together, green icing dotting the corner of his mouth.
She couldn’t wait any longer. “So? How is it?”
“Better than your coffee.” He wiped his mouth with his wrist.
Such a guy move. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She searched through two of the cabinets by the fridge until they produced a mug—a solid black one. Peace treaty. She grabbed a pod of decaf and flipped on the machine.
She felt his eyes on her back as she worked, so intensely she had to cast a sidelong glance. He leaned against the counter, watching her.
There went her stomach again.
“Such service. And hey, with a smile too.” He theatrically tapped his chin with his finger. “Too bad there’s not a bakery around here that offers both of those.”
And just like that, her butterflies ceased. She snapped shut the lid of the Keurig and faced him fully. “It wouldn’t kill you to be genuine just once, you know.”
“Wait, is this the Bri who can’t help but insult me talking or the Pastry Puff chef determined to make a good impression talking?” He imitated writing on an invisible notepad. “I want to get my quotes straight.”
“This is off the record.”
“I’m not a reporter.”
“Still applies.”
He shrugged, as if she had a point. She had no idea if it actually applied, but she barreled on. “Our service is phenomenal. My coffee isn’t gross. And my petit fours aren’t just decent, they’re amazing. You know how I know that?”
His lips twitched. “How?”
“My mother invented the recipe.” She leaned back in satisfaction.
Gerard moved forward slightly, as if waiting for more.
Apparently her mic hadn’t fully dropped after all.
He raised his eyebrows as the silence stretched on. Finally, he spoke. “What about your mother?”
It sounded rude but couldn’t have been. He looked genuinely confused.
Bri’s mouth opened, then closed as reality dawned. Gerard wasn’t from here. He didn’t know her mother like the majority of the town. He had no idea her mother had won the sweetheart pageants three years in a row in high school. Had no clue she’d learned to bake at the Pastry Puff and gone on to train at a prestigious school in Paris, where she’d met Bri’s Frenchman father—the course instructor’s son—and lived happily for years before moving to the States and starting a family. Had no idea she’d single-handedly set the standard for pastries in Story.
There was too much to say, and not nearly the right words to sum it up. To sum her up. Bri swallowed hard. “My mom was a treasure.”
“Was?”
She nodded, emotion balling in her throat. She hadn’t cried over her parents in a few years—that wound had long since scabbed over. After all, it’d been almost a decade now since the car accident. But reading their letters earlier that evening had stretched the scar.
Gerard’s head dipped. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
She nodded again and picked up a macaron, having zero appetite but needing something to do with her hands.
“Any woman whose kid can simply mention her
