Or was it just the Puff?
Her gaze traveled over the patrons nestled in their booths—sharing pancakes, sipping coffee, munching bacon. One elderly woman had a slice of pizza on her plate, and Bri hid a smile. She hoped she was just like that when she reached that lady’s age—still eating pizza on Friday mornings.
Then Charles strode purposefully across the restaurant toward the front door, briefcase in hand. She quickly ducked her head to hide behind her curtain of hair. He hadn’t seen her, thankfully, or he’d have said something, for sure. He never missed an opportunity to goad her.
She peeked between the strands of her hair and noticed a lone figure sitting at the table Charles had just vacated. Someone had been forced to start his morning with Charles—poor guy.
Then her eyes narrowed as the lone figure shrugged into the sleeves of a leather jacket.
Any inkling of sympathy vanished. “You have got to be kidding me.” It was official—Gerard was everywhere. Not even Taylor’s Sushi Barn was safe now. How in the world had he figured out her Friday tradition?
“What’s that, dear?” Taylor slid her pie across the counter on a scratched black plate.
“Nothing, Taylor.” Bri forced a smile and handed him her cash. Better start faking it now. She couldn’t repeat her mistake at the library last night and get hung up on the fact that Gerard was following her. She had to start implementing her plan to get his help, and quick, before Mabel convinced Agnes to take Charles’s offer. That was all that mattered.
That, and the steaming, cheesy sustenance on her plate. She could do this. The Puff depended on it.
Her mother’s memory depended on it.
She carried her pizza toward Gerard, hesitating by his table as he started to stand. He glanced up with a smirk. “You following me, Duval?”
She gritted her teeth. “I could ask the same.”
“Actually, I was here first.” He gestured to his laptop, which was sitting dangerously close to a sticky syrup stain on the table.
She set her plate on top of the stain and sat down in the booth. “I’m on my break.”
“Slow down there, now. It’s not even ten a.m.” Gerard nodded toward the pepperoni she was picking off the top of her pizza. She always ate them first, separately. Except for the last one, which she left for the last bite of crust.
She started to snap back, something about not having judged his carb-loaded breakfast, then remembered the plan. She wouldn’t let him derail her again. Seeing Charles had fortified her.
Instead, she laughed. “You’re always so funny.”
Gerard’s eyes narrowed, as if he couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic. “Well, I was just leaving. Enjoy your plate of teenage rebellion, there.”
He half slid out of the booth, waiting for her response, but she just kept smiling as she pulled another pepperoni off her pie and conjured happy thoughts. Puppies. The Eiffel Tower. The feel of plush new slippers.
She thought of Mabel ripping up a sales contract from Charles, and the smile turned a little more genuine. “You should stay.”
“Stay?” His eyebrows rose. “Here?”
“Yes. Eat with me.” She patted the table as if that could ease him back into the booth. “We can talk.”
“Talk?”
She started to say something sarcastic about a parrot but restrained herself. Man, she was on a roll with the self-discipline today. Must be the joy from the pepperonis. “How’s the red room treating you?”
Wait, that probably sounded sarcastic. She tried again before he could answer. “Is Mrs. Beeker harassing you too badly?” She plastered on what she hoped came across as a sympathetic smile. “I know she can be a little much at first.”
“A little much? That’s like saying a jet is a bit loud.”
Bri’s stomach tensed. Who did he think he was? Mrs. Beeker was a nice woman and a dedicated patron of the Pastry Puff. Sure, she was somewhat eccentric and her hair was hard to look directly at, but she truly cared about the residents of Story and—
Bri stopped. Swallowed hard. And attempted a fake yet genuine-sounding laugh. “You’re so clever.”
Gerard stared at her, eyes squinted, mouth half-open. “Okay, what’s in that pie? Someone has clearly spiked your pizza.”
Had the two of them gotten so bad, she couldn’t even be decently nice without raising suspicion? She shook her head. “I’m just making conversation. Aren’t you tired of arguing all the time?”
He leaned back in his seat, leveling his gaze at her. “Well, I wouldn’t have to argue if you’d stop being wrong.”
Her fingers tightened around her napkin. A million retorts danced through her mind, begging to be chosen. She clenched and unclenched her teeth. “Point taken.”
Gerard leaned forward abruptly, crashing into the table. “Okay, stop it right now. What is your problem?”
She fought to stay calm, wishing she had more pepperonis left. But she only had the one left for her last bite of crust. She tried to focus. “I don’t have a problem. I’m being nice.”
“Well, being nice is a problem. It’s weird.”
“So, I need to be mean, because that’s what you’re used to?”
“Yes.”
“No. I’m turning over a new leaf, and you can’t stop me.”
They stared at each other across the table. Then Gerard reached over, plucked the last pepperoni from her slice, and popped it in his mouth.
She picked up her crust and threw it at him. It bounced off his nose, and he didn’t even flinch.
Apparently her new leaf had withered.
“You’re afraid I’m going to write something bad, aren’t you? That’s what this is about.” He gestured between them.
That sounded bad. Like she was using him. But wasn’t she? And why would he care, anyway? He didn’t have a romantic bone in his skeletal structure—much less a heart.
His words from the library rolled through her mind. “Almost. Once.” A pinch of regret flitted through her chest. “I’m sorry I threw that.”
“Well, I’m not sorry I ate it.” He smacked his lips. “Taylor was right about having the best pizza in town. He’d give some
