Understatement of the year. Her mother’s patience, calmness, and steadiness toward Bri’s not-as-mild-mannered father had stood out over the years. Memory after memory of her mother’s gentle touch on his shoulder, calming his churning anxiety or anger, filled her mind. Presenting him with a hot cup of coffee as he pored over the family bills, whispering words of comfort in his ear when the grief over losing his own father struck fresh and deep.
Tears pricked beneath the surface and Bri focused harder on the macaron, memorizing every crumb. Every ounce of the creamy center oozing between the sugar-dusted layers. Anything to not look at Gerard. His sudden, out-of-character tenderness was going to make her lose it completely.
Gerard reached over and took the macaron from her grip. “Why don’t you let me try that one too. In her honor.”
So much for trying not to cry. The tears slipped over her lids and dripped silently down her cheeks as she surrendered the dessert. Bless him. Gerard acted like he didn’t notice as she frantically dabbed at her face.
“Was she French?”
“My dad was.” Bri shook her head. “Is your mom?”
“My father. Third-generation, so I guess I’m a quarter.” He bit into the macaron, a shadow crossing his face briefly before dissipating. “I’m pretty close to my mom too.”
She didn’t care in the slightest that he was talking with his mouth full. “I’m sure she appreciates that.”
“And I’m sure yours would appreciate the way you describe her.”
“Thank you.” She studied him, the macaron crumbs on his shirt and the corded muscle in his forearm as he raised his coffee mug. Gerard Fortier might be more bark than bite, after all. Who would have thought the leather jacket–wearing, motorcycle-riding guy with a chip on his shoulder had a sensitive side?
And who would have ever thought she’d find it attractive?
He took another sip. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”
Maybe it had been the emotional night, but a tiny piece of her defensive wall chiseled off and dropped to her feet. “You’re welcome.”
She instinctively moved a step closer to Gerard. Met his gaze. She didn’t know what she wanted from him, but she knew she wanted to be closer. She took another step, edging around the island. Her stomach dipped again. Surely, he felt this too. This magnetic connection.
He nibbled another bite of the dessert, looking right into her eyes. “You should tell me more.”
Bri’s heart skipped. He cared. He was being genuine, for once—just like she’d wanted him to. And he was being genuine toward her. Inviting her in. Wanting to know more about her past and her family. “Yeah?”
“For sure.” Gerard finished the macaron and dusted off his hands. “It’ll be a great addition to the feature.”
The feature.
Maybe not that genuine.
Her cheeks flushed, and she backed up several steps. “Of course. Anytime.” She grabbed the bakery box, then remembered she’d meant to leave it. “But it’s getting pretty late. I’ll see you around, I’m sure.”
She backpedaled toward the door, lifting one hand in acknowledgment, trying to ignore the confusion on Gerard’s face as she hurried to escape, heated embarrassment spreading like poison ivy across her chest.
At least he liked the desserts.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
The birds in Story apparently never got the memo that freelance writers didn’t need to get up at dawn. They had started chirping on Gerard’s third-story windowsill with the sun and unfortunately didn’t come with a mute button.
Mrs. Beeker hadn’t gotten the memo either. She’d knocked on Gerard’s door at 6:30 sharp, hollering “yoo-hoo” when he didn’t answer. He had thrown a pillow at the door, but the resounding thump neither confused nor deterred her. “Your breakfast is downstairs,” she’d cooed. “And surprise—it looks like the dessert fairy came last night!”
Dessert fairy. That about summed up Bri.
What Mrs. Beeker didn’t know was that he’d eaten half that box of leftover pastries last night while contemplating what was wrong with Bri to make her run off so quickly. They’d been having a good talk, one full of personal information he could actually use in the feature, and then she’d gotten this weird look on her face and vanished.
Gerard braced his arms on the sink and stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, attempting to get presentable before heading downstairs and facing the redheaded wonder. But all he could think about was Bri. Something had spooked her.
He turned off the running water, deciding to skip shaving. Another day of layered stubble wouldn’t hurt anybody. Besides, the water wouldn’t heat past lukewarm.
Kind of like Bri last night. She’d been so emotional about her mom—to the point he actually felt like maybe they’d connected a little, finally. She’d knocked the chip off her shoulder long enough to open up a little and give him a relatable angle for the article. Peter would love that mushy stuff.
Besides, Gerard could relate. He felt pretty fiercely about his mother too. But when he’d asked Bri to tell him more, she’d claimed the late hour and ducked out. If she wasn’t going to talk more about her mom, then he couldn’t use that to boost the article.
This was why women were so frustrating.
Well, partially why.
He threw on his leather jacket, grabbed his keys and laptop bag, and crept down the stairs, wondering if he could slip outside and bail on the obligatory breakfast. He definitely didn’t want any more pastries—his stomach felt upset from the binge last night. He rarely ate sugar, but just like that, Bri had him munching down half his feelings. There must be some kind of spell on this town that made people vulnerable and emotional.
It was enough to drive a practical man on a paycheck-minded mission insane.
He successfully snuck outside, without Mrs. Beeker spotting him, and shut the door behind him with a relieved sigh. He’d find to-go caffeine elsewhere and maybe plug in at a local diner or coffee haunt and type up his notes. He needed to make
