Gerard ambled up behind him, hoping to stay off the radar but wanting to get close enough to hear the conversation.
“Ever since the news ran the interview the other day, business has been booming.” Bri gestured around her. She was back in that Wanderlust sweatshirt of hers. “I think that’s all the proof Charles needs that the people of Story love the bakery and want us to stay in business.”
“What do you say to Mr. Richmond’s counterargument that the love-lock wall is an eyesore?” The reporter waited, pen posed. His other hand held a tape recorder under the notepad.
Gerard frowned. Who used pen and paper anymore? Didn’t the staff have tablets or some kind of electronic device to take notes on? It was a small town, but come on. And why both the recorder and the notepad?
“That’s just his opinion.” Bri’s chin lifted slightly. “And I happen to think he’s wrong.”
The reporter shifted his weight to his other leg, glancing over his shoulder before continuing. “Does the fact that Paris removed the original love-lock bridge by the Seine give Mr. Richmond’s argument any merit?”
“Not to me.” Bri crossed her arms. “Just because some people in France made a decision doesn’t mean we have to make the same decision here. Besides, it’s a totally different scale.”
The reporter tilted his head. “So, you’re saying that you would never imitate the French?”
Her arms fell to her side. “What? I didn’t say that.”
“Because you did imitate the French, by creating the wall in the first place. A wall they deigned worthy to remove. Are you saying you disagree with French policies?”
Bri’s brow furrowed. “I love France. What are you talking about?”
“So, you confirm that you are trying to imitate a foreign country.”
She shook her head. “I’m not conf—”
“You don’t even love America anymore?”
Oh, for the love of—
Gerard reached out and tapped the reporter firmly on the shoulder.
Charles was behind this goof. Had to be. This guy didn’t even have a badge. “Hey, Skippy. What newspaper are you with?”
The guy straightened, fumbling with the device in his hands. He had to be nineteen years old, max. Maybe twenty. He swallowed. “The Story Press.”
Gerard crossed his arms over his chest and leveled his gaze. “What’s your name?”
The kid squirmed. “Dalton Edwards.”
“How long have you worked at The Story Press?”
“Nine months.”
“Who’s your boss?”
“Charles Richmond.” His eyes widened. “I mean—”
Bri gasped.
Gerard nodded. “Exactly. Beat it.”
Dalton’s face fell, and he started to push past Gerard. “Fine.”
He sidestepped to block him. “Notepad.”
The kid handed it over without argument, and Gerard ripped the notated sheets from the pad before slapping it back against the guy’s chest. “Recorder.”
“Hey—”
“I didn’t stutter.” He straightened, even though he already had two to three inches on the kid.
Dalton slapped it into Gerard’s open palm with a sigh.
“Let me guess. Intern?”
He nodded, edging away step by step.
Bri’s eyes narrowed. “Of all the—”
“Here’s some advice.” Gerard leaned in close before Bri could finish her thought or the guy could bolt. “Get a real job—one where they pay you and where you don’t have to lie and hide.”
“Yes sir.” Then he was gone, pushing through the line of people eager for coffee and baked goods. Gerard shook his head. Charles was retaliating for the interview, which, although it had shared his side as well, definitely didn’t go over as Charles must have hoped. KCUP gave a fair representation, but the facts tilted sympathy toward Bri’s side. If given the choice, what average small-town citizen wouldn’t want a local, family-owned, themed bakery in place of a corporate chain?
The unfortunate fact for Bri was, there wasn’t a choice here. What Bri didn’t seem to realize at this point was that Charles could buy whatever he wanted as long as he had a seller. She wasn’t trying to convince the town of the bakery’s long-lasting merit.
She was trying to convince the two exhausted old women behind the counter.
Bri’s voice jolted him back to the conversation. “How could you tell he wasn’t really with the newspaper?”
“Experience.” He lightly grasped Bri’s elbow and tugged her toward a free table. “You should be a little more on guard there, Cupcake. Charles isn’t playing around.”
She sank into an open chair and sighed. “I don’t know why you call me that.”
Because it fit. Because she was naive and sugary and sickeningly sweet—well, until she started verbally berating him, anyway. Then she turned spicy and savory and became much more appealing.
Not that she was appealing. Well, appealing, yes—but not tempting. His coworkers bought him a gag gift last Christmas—a T-shirt that read, I didn’t choose the Bachelor life, the Bachelor life chose me.
He sort of wished he had it on now.
“I can’t believe he sent a minion to spy on me.” Bri stared over Gerard’s shoulder at the front of the bakery, then shook her head. “I guess it doesn’t matter.”
“Be careful with whoever interviews you next. Charles isn’t going to take this publicity stunt you started lightly. You can see how he’s trying to twist what you say to use against you.”
“Thanks for the warning. I’ve never done anything like this.” Bri rolled in her bottom lip. “I’ve never had to convince someone else of something this important to me.”
Gerard sat in the chair across from her, suddenly wondering if he’d warned her of too much. He had to play both sides, or Charles would figure out he’d helped her and he’d lose the upper hand. “What would be so bad if Charles did end up buying the bakery? Other than losing your job, of course.”
“I don’t need the job.” Fire sparked in Bri’s eyes. “But it would be devastating. My mother baked here.”
He could see that being important to Bri, sentimental as she was, but . . .
“Didn’t she bake at home too?”
“Of course, all the time.”
“And you grew up here, in Story, right?”
She nodded.
“Did you fight to save the house you grew up in?”
Bri averted her gaze
