“Okay?” Wait a minute. That was easy—too easy. He narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean, okay?”
She adjusted the strap on her purse. “I mean, okay. I hear you. Maybe you’re right.”
He was right. But her realizing that so readily seemed wrong.
Bri swung back by the bakery after leaving the library. Mabel had texted in her clumsy, not-so-tech-savvy way full of typos and misused emojis, and asked her to make sure she and Agnes had locked up. The older woman couldn’t remember if they had done it before they’d left for the night an hour or so earlier, and they worried about a break-in.
Highly unlikely in Story. No one locked any doors, and besides, they didn’t even leave any desserts in the display overnight, much less cash in the register. What could anyone want?
Regardless, she’d appease Mabel. Whatever gave her peace of mind.
For a moment, Bri hesitated. Was this a sign of the sisters getting ready to sell? Were their memories slipping? They were in great health for their ages, but Bri knew they couldn’t go on full speed forever. Still, somehow, in the back of her mind, she had always assumed she’d just take over when that unfortunate day came. Surely they’d leave the Puff to Bri in their will.
But if they were considering Charles’s offer, was that truly the case?
Bri pulled into the bakery parking lot and cut the engine. Crickets chirped in the sudden stillness, and she momentarily rested her head against the seat, exhausted from the mental debate. The night’s events played vividly like slides on a projector screen.
She’d wanted to ream Gerard at the library for eavesdropping and offering his unwanted two cents—but something about the look in his eyes when he said he knew stole the pending indignation right from her lips. She couldn’t help but think of his earlier comments, about how he must have been burned at some point, and she just couldn’t bring herself to prove his opinion about women and love and romance correct by spewing back.
So, she’d swallowed her pride—and her gum, on accident—and taken the high road. Accepted his unsolicited advice and calmly walked away.
Then she frantically called her friend’s cell to encourage counseling, because what if he really did know? It still irked her that he’d been right about her expectations of Paris. What else was he right about?
It was all just too much to think about right now. She wanted to go home, take a hot bath, and read their latest book club find in bed—and forget all about Gerard Fortier.
Bri opened her car door and headed for the front door of the bakery just as headlights cut through the darkness. She squinted. Make that one headlight.
She turned at the door of the bakery and shielded her eyes from the sudden brightness. The vehicle turned a tight donut and parked next to hers, tires skidding.
But it wasn’t a car. It was a motorcycle. A dark figure emerged from the back of it—Gerard.
“Are you okay?” He rushed toward her, one hand resting on his back pocket.
She blinked, but the image charging directly at her didn’t change. “Are you kidding me?” Bri, heart racing with fury and frustration, planted her hands on her hips. He was everywhere—literally everywhere. “What in the world are you—”
He stretched out one arm and used it to quickly flatten her against the wall, just to the left of the bakery door. He pressed his back against the wall beside her, his breath tight. The dim porch bulb highlighted his tense expression, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. “Did you see anyone?” His other hand still rested cautiously behind him, his gaze flickering to the right and left.
“Is that a gun?” Her eyes widened.
“Shh.”
That was it. He’d lost it—everyone had lost it. Had she somehow made a left turn and accidentally fallen down Alice’s rabbit hole?
She shoved his arm away. “Shh, or what—the crickets will call the cops? There’s no one here. Are you even allowed to have that thing?”
“Yes,” he hissed. “Now, shut up. We don’t know if the intruder is gone.”
“What intruder?” Her heart rate quickened. Irony of ironies. Of all the nights for Mabel to be unsure of the door. “Someone really did break into the bakery?” She couldn’t believe it. She pressed back against the wall, straining to hear evidence.
But there was only silence—plus a cricket choir and the sound of Gerard chewing gum.
“I don’t know.” He was still whispering. “Mabel called and said she thought someone was prowling around and asked if I’d come check it out. Said she was worried about the media having stirred up negative attention.”
Negative attention . . . Bri frowned. That didn’t sound like Mabel. She had been more concerned about what lipstick color she wore for her TV debut than about something bad happening as a result of the publicity. That almost sounded more like Agnes.
Wait a minute.
Bri reached over and tested the bakery door.
Locked. Of course.
The love angels had struck again.
Bri groaned as reality dawned. “It was me.”
“Huh?” Gerard still had one hand in his back pocket.
Bri swatted at his wrist. “Stop it with that thing. I’m the prowler.”
He frowned. “You have keys. And you work here. What are you talking about?”
“I meant, we’ve been set up. Mabel told me to come and make sure she’d locked up for the night.”
“She lied? To get me to come here too?”
Bri waited.
Understanding finally dawned in his eyes, and his hand slipped empty to his side. “Nice. Clever ol’ love angels.” He shook his head. “I wondered why she didn’t just call the police.”
“Why would she, when she has a willing Robo Cop right down the street at the B&B?” Bri snorted. “This is a new extreme, even for them.” She wasn’t sure if she was offended or impressed.
