On top of that, Mabel and Agnes had been quiet all afternoon with the customers, while Bri handled the press—which didn’t bode well. She couldn’t even remember the last time Mabel was quiet. Maybe everyone was just having an off day. She knew she could use some extra sleep after this last whirlwind of a week.
Bri turned the doorknob.
“You can just bring those over here.” The sudden male voice echoed across the porch, slicing through the silence.
Bri shrieked and dropped the dessert box. It hit the porch floor with a thud and two petit fours turned over at her feet.
She clutched her hand to her chest to keep her pounding heart inside her rib cage and squinted toward the dusty shadows. “What in the world?”
“Geez, Cupcake, it’s not like I jumped out of the bushes with a knife.”
She finally made out his still form on the porch swing and took a deep breath to steady her nerves. There he went with that nickname again. She couldn’t tell if she found it endearing or annoying. “You could have said something.”
“I did. And you freaked.”
True. She bent and picked up the bakery box. Only two had bit the dust—thankfully, the rest of the box was intact. She tucked in the cardboard flaps and straightened. “You’re finally admitting you’re addicted to these?”
“I’m a lot of things, but a liar isn’t one of them.” Gerard held out his arms and for a split second, she thought he wanted a hug. Then she snapped back to reality—the reality of her holding his new favorite food.
What was wrong with her?
She set the box in his outstretched hands and stepped to the side, away from whatever odd temptation had swooped down and threatened to take her logic captive.
“Thanks.” He opened the box and took a big bite of the first thing he grabbed. Icing smeared across the stubble on his chin. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
She shook her head. And to think she’d almost dove into his arms. She must be more tired than she thought. Though Gerard had been extra nice to her earlier, saving her from Charles’s latest trick and giving her advice. She probably was just riding the emotional wave from that. It was rare that someone ever tried to take care of her—besides Mabel and Agnes, of course.
She leaned against the porch railing as Gerard bit into a second dessert. Macaron, this time. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about his point regarding her parents’ old house. She hadn’t thought of that house in years—it wasn’t on her radar anymore. Most of the essence of her parents was locked up in their trunk in her townhouse attic.
But the Puff . . . that was different. The bakery still carried a portion of her mother’s soul. Not literally—she knew where her mother was, knew that her faith in the Lord had been real and solid, and she was with Jesus now. But her history was so tangible at the bakery. Her mom hadn’t baked at the Puff in years, but Bri could feel her presence there, much more so than anywhere else in town.
“You can sit. I don’t bite.” He scooted over an inch, gesturing with his half-eaten macaron. He had finally swiped off the smudge of icing.
“You can’t say that to the leftovers.” She eased down onto the wooden slats, careful not to touch him. She didn’t trust that emotional side of her, the part that still wanted a hug and appreciated his chivalry in the bakery. Leaning against that broad, solid side of his would possibly do her in.
“I’ll be honest. You’ve got a ways to go with the coffee. But these—” He finished the macaron. “These have officially arrived.”
She didn’t have the strength to argue the coffee comment. She’d just take the compliment on the other. “As long as you write the latter in the feature.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Gerard brushed crumbs off his dark T-shirt. Mid-November, and here he was sitting outside in short sleeves while her sweatshirt was barely warm enough to keep her comfortable.
She fought back a shiver. “How long have you been out here?”
“A few hours.” He pointed to a laptop sitting on the wicker end table under the window. “Ran out of battery.”
“Did you finish?” She pushed off with her feet to move the swing. Gerard lifted his boots to allow the movement.
“I’ve got the ending to iron out.” He tilted his head back to rest against the swing’s top rung. “Just wasn’t ready to give up the fresh air yet.”
She looked away from his strong profile and chiseled, stubbled jaw, focusing instead on the wicker strands making up the table under his computer. “I’m surprised you haven’t painted the red room blue yet.”
“I’ve debated hunter green, actually.”
She laughed. “Mrs. Beeker would kill you.”
“Some risks are worth taking.”
She nodded slowly. “Some.” Others, not so much. Change was overrated, while comfortable and safe were way underrated. Familiar was much better.
But she had a feeling the traveling man next to her wouldn’t agree.
He turned his head to glance at her, still reclined back against the swing. “What risks have you taken?”
“Lately? Not many.” Bri shrugged. “Been busy with the bakery.” Not to mention avoiding risks in general.
“Well, you’ve traveled a bunch, I’m sure. Ms. Wanderlust.” He nudged her, and his elbow in her ribs sent a jolt of electricity that immediately warmed her to her core. “Let me guess. Favorite sweatshirt?”
“It is.” She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about him noticing—yet she found herself slowly relaxing against his elbow, still slightly resting against her side. The warmth of his arm through her shirt spread across her torso. “But I really haven’t gone anywhere.”
Yet. She’d make it to Paris. Eventually.
“Why not? Money?” He sat up straighter on the swing, shifting to face her. She immediately missed his warmth. “I’ve got some articles
