Maybe both?
“I guess I don’t need this.” He patted his back pocket.
She tucked her hair behind her ears, willing her adrenaline to come back down—and her thoughts of chivalrous Gerard to chill out. “Why do you even have that thing?”
He shrugged. “I got my conceal and carry license a few years ago, did some training courses. It comes in handy when traveling the world and getting yourself into various situations.”
She smirked. “Like ticking off various people with your explicit honesty?”
“That too.”
Bri pulled out her keys and held up the one to the bakery door. “While we’re here . . . macaron?”
He raised his eyebrows. “I thought you didn’t leave desserts in the bakery overnight—that’s why you’re always delivering to the B&B.”
“We don’t. But I have a few in the fridge from this morning, from my experimental batch.” Failed batch, but they would be edible.
Gerard nodded. “Why not? I think we’ve earned it.”
She unlocked the door, then hesitated before opening it fully. “Put the gun away while I get the macarons ready?”
He looked like he might argue but didn’t. Miracle.
“Deal.”
Gerard met Bri back inside just as she arranged the colorful macarons on a paper napkin at one of the bakery tables. “What, is all the hot-pink china dirty?”
She smiled, a real smile, and he couldn’t ignore the jittery feeling that ricocheted through him at the sight of it. Very unexpected and unwanted. Must be the adrenaline still coming down from the alleged intruder scare.
He sank into the nearest chair. “Is this a peace offering, or are you still mad at me?”
“It’s hard to be mad at someone who galloped up on a metal steed to rescue me.”
“Chrome. Chrome steed.”
“Whatever.” She wrinkled her nose. “Plus, the longer I think about it, the more I realize that, in your own twisted way, you were just trying to help my friend at the library.”
“Something like that.” That, along with correcting Bri’s misguided views. It was only going to hurt her in the long run. She didn’t deserve that.
He took a bite of macaron, paused, then took another. “This is different than last time.” Not worse. But different.
He took a third bite. But maybe not better.
“Cinnamon in that one. No almond this time.” She tilted her head. “And I think a dash of raspberry.”
“Interesting.”
“Is it good?”
He nodded, his mouth full.
“Not good enough, though.” She took a frustrated bite of a yellow macaron on the napkin. “It still isn’t right.”
He’d be happy to take all the wrong ones, then. “What did you mean by ‘experimental’?”
“I’ve been trying to find a missing ingredient my mom used—a secret recipe.” She pointed to the pink macaron that was next in line. “That one has a bit of rosewater.”
On second thought, maybe not all the wrong ones. He skipped over it and picked up the brown one. “Chocolate?”
“Ganache. That one was just for fun.”
He liked that one. He finished it in two bites. “What’s the deal with the secret recipe?”
“My mother’s macarons were luscious. Downright legendary.” Bri closed her eyes. “I can remember them like yesterday. But I can’t place the missing ingredient. It’s savory, and light, and not chocolate—but sort of like chocolate’s cousin.”
It sounded amazing. He could almost taste it too, the way she was describing it.
“They were comforting.” Bri opened her eyes, defeat shadowing her expression. “I’ve researched off and on for years, playing around with different recipes, googling. Nothing. I might never know what it was.”
“Nah, you’ll get it. Just keep trying. And who knows what yummy mistakes you might create along the way?” He pointed to the rose macaron. “But hey, some mistakes are actually just mistakes. Remember that.”
“Very funny.”
He wasn’t joking, but he’d let that one go. “What’s in the darker pink one?”
She stared at it. “Honestly, I can’t remember. But I know it wasn’t right.”
Was she a perfectionist with everything in her life, or just the things that had to do with her mom? He suddenly really, really wanted to know. But prying into her life hadn’t gone so well the last few times he’d tried it, and he didn’t want to throw off this truce vibe they had going.
“Did your mom ever bake?” Her eyes met his, the question slicing through his childhood like a carving knife through a turkey.
He swallowed. “No.”
“Why not?”
So much for the subtle don’t-pry messages. She apparently wasn’t going to return the favor. His mouth went dry, and he suddenly wished he had coffee—even the Puff’s bitter version. “I don’t know.”
But he did know. She didn’t have time to be a Pinterest mom, or whatever version of that existed in the early 1990s. She worked her rear off to provide for him, countless hours at the diner or cleaning houses on the side, for minimum wage and meager tips—and spent the rest of the time trying to find him a replacement dad. When that hadn’t worked, and she kept getting older and more exhausted, she defaulted to simply trying to find someone to care about her. Long nights turned into overnights and bruises on her cheekbones and alcohol-laced, pleading excuses for him to forgive her absence.
Not exactly prime opportunity to roll out some cookie dough from scratch.
Bri leaned forward slightly and squinted at him, her long hair falling across her slim shoulders. “You don’t lie very well.”
His jaw tightened. “Good.”
She tilted her head. “That’s a good trait to have, I suppose.”
“No, I was correcting you. You should have said, ‘You don’t lie good.’ Not ‘well.’”
“Whatever!”
“It’s true.”
“You should know basic grammar, Mr. Travel Writer.”
“Why? From my subscription to Grammar Weekly?”
She swatted at him. “Look it up.”
“You look it up.” He leaned back in his chair, casually raking the crumbs from the table onto the floor. Bri was right, of course, and from the way she eagerly pressed buttons into her phone, she would have visible proof here in about fifteen seconds.
No worries. His shoulder tension eased.
He’d gladly sacrifice being right
