He waited to let the point sink in. Then he realized what she’d said before. “What do you mean you don’t need the job?”
“Well, I need a job, to supplement, but I don’t make that much money working here. I have inheritance money that supports me. I just work here because of my mom—and because I love it.” Bri shrugged. “It’s who I am.”
Something didn’t ring true about that. He leaned forward. “Do you really think this is who you—”
He stopped. Someone was watching them. Had Dalton returned to spy? He glanced to his right just as those two white-haired love angels behind the counter stopped whispering behind their hands and snickered.
He narrowed his eyes.
They smiled.
He glared.
They beamed, their gaze bouncing back and forth between him and Bri. Then they leaned in and whispered again.
Crap.
“It’s heating up, man. Sales are booming over here.” He’d leave out the part about the love angels setting their sights on him and Bri. Peter would never let him live it down. At least the sisters wouldn’t have time to put any Cupid-inspired plan into action. He’d be leaving in a day or two.
Not that it’d work anyway if they tried.
He’d left the bakery in a rush earlier, mumbling something to Bri about meeting his deadline. Truth was, he was spooked after that look from Mabel and Agnes. The last thing he needed was for their old-lady magic to convince Bri that he was someone she could get involved with. If she’d noticed their whisperings and winks . . .
A pen clicked on and off from the other end of the line. Peter must be editing, which he always did with a red pen instead of on his computer. Any excuse to be in his recliner—and the man always did like pointing out the errors of others. “Tell me more about this news broadcast.”
Gladly, since Peter had kept steering the conversation to Bri in the moments prior.
Gerard shifted position on the B&B’s porch swing, keeping his voice low and a constant eye on his surroundings. He couldn’t bear to sit in that horrible red room any longer, so he’d brought his laptop to the porch to work. “Bri’s on a mission—this local lawyer wants to tear down the bakery and replace it with a chain of some sort. A high-end coffee bar, or whatever.”
“Really?”
He adjusted one of the sentences in his story. “Yeah, so she went to the media and stirred up the town. There are picket signs outside the bakery and the lawyer’s office. She generated a big stream of sales after her TV interview.”
“This is perfect.”
Gerard’s fingers froze over the keyboard. “How so?”
Peter’s recliner squeaked. “I want you to stay on at least another week, get the full scoop.”
Gerard’s stomach clenched as if someone had punched him. “Excuse me?” A breeze rifted across the porch, but the welcome rush of cool air did little to calm the sudden heat flooding his neck.
“Maybe longer. Two weeks, max. Well, that might be extensive, but whatever it takes to see how this plays out. The feature will be all the better for it.”
His heart thudded, and adrenaline shoved through his veins. He flexed his fingers. “You’ve got to be kidding.” His frustration spiked. “You promised me—”
“Go ahead and send me what you have, ending on a hook. We’ll make this a series. Corporate will love it.” Peter spoke faster as his diabolical plan unfolded. “You can write part two when you see how it lands. Either way, people will flock to visit the bakery. Be it victorious—or one more time before it’s demolished. Doesn’t matter to me.”
To him either. Except now he was stuck in the red room for another week or longer. Stuck in Story with macarons shoved down his throat every fifteen minutes and Charles’s stalking and Bri’s sugary sweetness and naiveté. How had he turned into Bri’s babysitter, anyway? She couldn’t even handle herself with a reporter, for crying out loud.
And she did things to him . . . things that made him want to forget Remy’s word of warning that day in Paris.
He was done here. His fist tightened. “Peter, I’m not—”
“I’m writing your advance on the first draft now, as promised.” The pen clicked again. “Plus, an extra seventy-five.”
Gerard clenched his teeth. “Ten days. Max.”
“Send me the first draft by noon tomorrow.”
He’d do it by midnight—just to have the final word.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
Mabel was making Bri take the leftovers to the B&B again.
She tucked the pastry box on her hip and made her way up the stone-lined path toward the cottage. The Gingerbread House sign swung in the breeze that also ruffled her hair. If this autumn air kept up, Casey was going to have the perfect weather for her wedding the following Saturday.
She stepped carefully over the stones, so not to turn the low heel of her ankle boot in the dim evening light. Bri couldn’t believe the wedding was happening so soon—and she was the town’s romantic.
So why wasn’t she happier for Casey?
She shifted the box to her other hip as she maneuvered the three steps to the porch. Probably because she was still a little wary of their not-so-romantic romance. She couldn’t get past their proposal story—but if Casey was happy, that’s all that should matter. Besides, Casey had agreed to get married at the love-lock wall, which was a crucial piece of the puzzle to save the Pastry Puff. Bri couldn’t complain.
She hesitated before knocking lightly on the front door. Hopefully she could drop the pastries off with minimal small talk and leave.
And yet a tiny part of her hoped Gerard might be in the kitchen again.
He’d left so quickly earlier that afternoon after helping her out with the fake reporter. He’d said something about needing to work on the article,
