What was it about Bri?
He took a sip of coffee and winced. Apparently his waitress had topped it off when he wasn’t looking. Now his tongue burned.
At least he could be fairly certain the morning couldn’t get any worse.
“I heard about your commotion in the library last night.” Charles slid into the booth across from him and saluted with his coffee mug. “Well played.”
He was wrong.
Gerard shut his laptop. “Word gets around fast.”
“That’s Story.” Charles took a slow sip, then smirked. “Plus, my friend Sandra was returning some DVDs and overheard the entire thing. I have to say, I’m impressed.”
Sandra. Figured. Did that mean she’d heard the slip about having almost been married?
Gerard stayed silent, hoping for context before replying.
He didn’t have to wait long.
“Not many people stand up to Abrielle Duval.”
Who? Oh, right. Bri. He’d never get used to Abrielle. Bri was about the most American, partially French woman he’d ever met.
He shrugged. “It was just a book club discussion.”
“Are you familiar with subtext, Mr. Fortier?” Charles rolled the saltshaker between his fingers. “The surface conversation might have been about the book. The undertone was a lot more. At least, according to Sandra.”
He knew that woman was going to be trouble the moment he met her. Gerard leaned back in the booth, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah?”
Looking more than pleased with himself, Charles adjusted the collar of his dress shirt. Yellow today, which didn’t do his skin tone any favors. He looked extra pasty. Did the man ever dress down? This wasn’t exactly Chicago. And good thing, because Chicago would eat this weasel alive in a minute. It was easy to play bigwig lawyer in a Midwestern town the size of a postage stamp.
He wished he could take this guy down a peg or two now. But the game wasn’t over. There were still cards to deal, and Gerard couldn’t take his chances on showing his hand yet. “What’s your point?”
Charles returned the saltshaker to its cubby on the table. “I just made the Pastry Puff owners a new offer. One they’d be crazy to refuse.” He shook his head. “Crazy even for them.”
Gerard frowned. Mabel and Agnes were eccentric, for certain. But not crazy. If anything, Charles was the one with a few screws loose—striving and manipulating to purchase a property out of some kind of spite, when any other location in the city would serve just as well. “What’s that got to do with me?”
“You can sway her. Bri is the only reason those sisters are holding out. If she were on board, they’d have taken my original offer. Who wants to run a bakery in their eighties?” Charles shook his head. “They’ll see reason once Bri does. You’re the man for the job. No one else can talk to Bri like you do.”
Maybe so, but that didn’t mean it did any good. If anything, he just kept shoving his foot in his mouth in front of her, to his detriment. Those figurative leather boots didn’t taste great.
“I know you can do it.” Charles tapped the table between them. “And don’t forget what we discussed earlier.”
About the power of the pen? Ha. Gerard glanced at his closed laptop. If Charles only knew how powerless those words currently were. At this rate, he wasn’t going to convince anyone to come to the Pastry Puff—and not because of Charles’s backhanded pleas.
But because he didn’t want to be here himself.
The realization was suddenly so clear. His writer’s block wasn’t just typical writer’s block. It was due to him not believing his own words. Usually he had no problem creating an artistic argument to lure fellow wanderers to experience his travels for themselves. It was easy to talk up nature’s grandest opportunities and most scenic secrets.
But he didn’t want to be in Story, and it was showing in his weak sentence structure and lackluster descriptions.
Charles slipped out of the booth, briefcase in hand. “So, we have an understanding?” He held out his free hand.
Gerard studied it for a moment. Something had to change. And unfortunately, it seemed the fastest way to do that was to take Charles’s advice and try to talk Bri out of keeping the Pastry Puff. It was just like his reverse psychology attempts with Casey the other day—if he pushed, Bri would be sure to push back. He’d be able to see what made the bakery so special.
Then maybe he could finish this assignment once and for all. Besides, war sold. If the battle was still raging between the two when the feature was published, all the better.
He shook Charles’s hand. “That we do.”
Charles was ten feet away by the time Gerard realized the weasel had passed him two folded hundred-dollar bills.
Bri had a Friday tradition, one not even Mabel and Agnes knew about. On her midmorning break, she hoofed it down to Taylor’s Sushi Barn and bought a slice of pepperoni pizza. She’d never worked up the nerve to try Taylor’s sushi—come to think of it, she didn’t even think he served it anymore. The man made weak coffee and stale banana muffins, but his extra-saucy pizza was to die for.
And after last night, she needed her secret Friday treat bad.
The scent of bacon and burned toast assaulted her senses as she hurried inside. She raised her voice over the clatter of silverware. “Morning, Taylor.”
Taylor leaned backward from his post in the kitchen to see around the doorframe. He grinned as he flipped something in a skillet. “Morning, Ms. Bri.” His apron was already stained with grease from the breakfast rush. “Is it Friday already?”
“You know it.” She unzipped her pink coin purse and pulled out a few bills. “Pepperoni me, please.”
“Coming right up.” Something sizzled, and Taylor quickly popped back out of sight.
Bri glanced around the crowded diner—well, barn—and her stomach knotted. Taylor had a steady stream of customers, no doubt. It was like this
