That particular subject change brought three more in its wake, and by the time midnight rolled through and they reluctantly locked up the bakery, Gerard felt the faint remains of a fairy tale hovering over him the entire way to his motorcycle. Okay, so maybe more like a Brothers Grimm tale. A little darker and edgier than the current stuff. But something—something—was happening between him and Bri, quicker than he cared to admit. Like worn pages of a book, flipping faster and faster. He wanted to shove a bookmark in place and yell, “Wait!”
He also wanted to see how it ended.
Gerard straddled his bike and lifted one hand in a wave as Bri climbed into her car. Was she on the same page? Did it even matter? Regret lightly tapped his shoulder. When was the last time he’d openly shared about his mother to a woman he cared about?
Cared about?
Crap.
He waited until Bri’s headlights faded from view before cranking his engine. His stomach knotted. This was such a bad idea, this thing between them, however developing it might be. He was messy. His background. His mom. His current situation. All messy. Even for the Brothers Grimm.
He gripped the handlebars of his bike and eased toward the road, swallowing hard. Whatever story he thought he might be reading, best to shut the book now. Before someone got hurt.
Again.
Before he got hurt again.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Bri couldn’t sleep.
She crept across the attic loft toward the trunk, drawn as always by the late hour and the insatiable thirst for something emotionally solid, sturdy.
Gerard—well, he was getting harder to read by the moment. First, he kept invading her space, offering his unsolicited advice and generally butting into her business and acting like she was such a burden to him.
Then he was the first to rush to her rescue—however unnecessary it’d been—to protect her and her favorite place on earth. All that just days after having made fun of her for never traveling and basically declaring it didn’t matter whether Charles bought the bakery.
If he were a book, he’d be written in a foreign language—and most definitely not French.
But some things were dependable—like her parents’ romance. She’d just focus on that for a bit until she felt more centered. It’d always worked before, after a breakup or a bad date or lonely nights wondering if her prince would ever come. Of course, prayer helped too. But sometimes it was nice to hold a tangible reminder that her story wasn’t over yet.
Bri pulled the stack of letters free of the trunk. She shut the lid, nestled into her beanbag chair, and decided to mix it up a bit. This time she grabbed a letter toward the middle of the stack.
She tugged it from the others, smiling at the letter’s seeming resistance to let go, and gently opened the creased fold.
Fairest love,
Your beauty is like the Seine. Steady, constant, fluid. I can’t wait to walk beside you once again, to appreciate your beauty up close. I miss you tremendously. You are the breath in my lungs that keeps me alive. Without the hope of your love, I would cease to exist.
Until we meet again.
From Paris, with love
Bri tucked the letter back into place and pulled another one free. Letter after letter, she read, absorbing the love that flowed from her father to her mother, the poetic rhythm of the words that pulsed directly from his heart. Her father had such a sweet, sensitive side she rarely got to witness firsthand, but knowing these letters existed had reminded her, since his death, how deep still waters could be. How everyone had multiple layers to their soul, despite a gruffer exterior.
Her thoughts flitted to Gerard, and she quickly focused back on the letter.
Her father had really pined for her mother. He clearly missed her badly while he was gone to France. The inheritance settlement from his dad’s passing had taken almost a year to come through, from what she remembered her mom talking about when she was younger. It must have been a tough time for her mother—to be back in America alone with a toddler to raise, unable to comfort her husband mourning his father’s death in another country.
They were so brave. Young, in love, and courageous against all odds. It was a love worth holding out for. Surely it could exist again, in its own form, for her story.
Surely.
Bri kept reading, then yawned, covering her mouth with her hand. One more letter, then she really needed to go to bed. She’d regret this late-night cram session in the morning if she didn’t stop.
She pulled another one from the back half of the pile.
My dearest flower,
It’s been too long since our last memory. Yet I’ll never stop writing to you. I’ll never stop dreaming, or remembering. Time can steal a lot of things, but it cannot—will not—steal my love. That is timeless.
I’ll never forget you or our last night together. It’s permanently embedded in my heart, as are you. Never doubt your position there, my Queen.
Always yours.
From Paris, with love
She studied the letter—the loops and tucks of the scrawled, familiar handwriting—and sighed. Such passion. They couldn’t afford in those early years of marriage to travel back and forth, or she’d have bet her father would have been racking up the frequent flyer miles that year.
But they’d made it, and clearly absence had made their hearts grow fonder.
Gerard was leaving in a week.
Not that she would miss him.
Why had she even thought that?
She quickly closed the letter and dropped it in her distracted haste. It fluttered a foot away, and with a sigh, she bent over to retrieve it from her beanbag throne. The beans shifted as she leaned, as if giving her an extra boost toward her goal.
The letter lay on the dusty attic floor, closed, the crease slightly off center. The bottom half of the page hung slightly ajar from the top, underlining the signature—her favorite part of her
