“That’s the YouTube commentary, not mine.” Peter grinned.
“How bad is the magazine doing, for real?” He needed to know, needed to send his mom another check at the end of the month. “Just between us.”
Peter met his eyes, which let Gerard know he was telling the truth. His friend—and boss—had zero poker face and never, ever bluffed. “The magazine is holding its own, and our digital sales are still trending up. But there was enough of a sales dip last quarter, combined with the reader feedback, that corporate was prompted to make some suggestions. They say readers want ‘relatable.’” Peter leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “And, unfortunately, most readers can’t relate to racing bicycles around cliffs or skydiving in the Amazon or deep-sea fishing in Alaska.”
All recent stories Gerard had written. “I see what you did there.”
“Look, this isn’t about a bakery in Kansas.” Peter leaned forward. “I’m trying to help you out, man.”
Gerard set his jaw, wanting to believe that. Peter knew him better than anyone else outside of his family. Knew about his mom. And knew how Kelsey ripped his heart out in her cold, manicured hands three years ago. He also knew that it had taken Gerard a year of extra assignments to pay off the ring she never wore but decided to keep anyway. “How is that, exactly?”
“By giving you a chance. If the big, exotic stories aren’t selling, and you’re the one writing the big, exotic stories . . .” Peter’s voice trailed off, and he leveled his gaze at Gerard. “If you won’t write this feature on the love-lock wall in Kansas, then I’ll find someone who will.”
CHAPTER
THREE
I still can’t believe we’re getting featured in a global magazine.” Mabel poured her second cup of coffee, then surrendered the carafe to Bri’s waiting hand. “Who would have thought? Little ol’ Story, Kansas!”
Bri poured the steaming brew into her favorite mug, the one with the pink Eiffel Towers. “Not just Story, Mabel—the Pastry Puff, specifically. Us.” Unbelievable didn’t quite cover it, although she supposed less worthy causes had gone viral on the internet before. It only took a few cat videos to realize that.
“What’s that thing they discovered us on, again?” Agnes stirred creamer into her mug, then tapped the spoon twice against the side as she always did before sitting down at one of the black iron tables. “View-a-Tube?”
Bri tried to hide her laugh. “It’s YouTube, Agnes.” A week after Casey and Nathan had strolled out of the Pastry Puff, loaded down with macarons and cinnamon coffee, little cartoon hearts pulsing between them, Mabel made a comment about wishing she could have been a fly on the wall on their first date. Bri remembered her earlier thought about how if she’d filmed the sisters’ matchmaking tactics, they’d have been an internet sensation. So, she got permission from Casey to document her and Nathan’s developing story.
That led to going back and getting quotes from all the couples Mabel and Agnes had successfully matched over the years and filming them standing by their love locks that hung all around the gate in the café’s backyard—the gate Bri had incorporated at the bakery years ago, before city officials had shut down the famous love-lock bridge in Paris.
Her plan to generate more business for the bakery and dissuade Charles’s annoying requests for the sisters to sell had worked like a charm. Business had picked up the past few weeks—along with the matchmaking requests. They had been approached by everyone from mothers dragging their gamer sons in by the ear to ol’ Mr. Hansen, who until now rarely left his perch at the checker table outside Johnson’s General. But he’d bought six petit fours in three days and kept eyeballing Agnes like she was the next dessert on the menu.
Bri took her cup to Agnes’s table and pulled up a chair. Mabel joined them, and they all stared into their mugs, processing the impossible. Bri wished her parents were there to see her success. They’d been gone almost a decade, but on days like this, it felt like mere weeks. The pain pinched fresh. Her mom got her start at the Pastry Puff, too, and she’d have been so delighted to see what had developed on her home turf.
“When is the reporter supposed to come?” Mabel asked.
Good question. They hadn’t been given much information on the phone, and Bri had been so blown away, she hadn’t thought to ask for any additional specifics. “The editor from Trek only said he was sending someone this week.”
“Well, I hope she’s nice.” Mabel propped up her chin in one hand, pursing her hot-pink lips.
Bri eyed their overflowing display case. “I hope she likes macarons.”
“I just hope she’s a good writer.” Agnes frowned. “This could go south on us if she’s not.”
“Come on, now. Haven’t you ever heard there’s no such thing as bad publicity?” Bri playfully tapped her arm. “What could go wrong?”
Mabel agreed. “She’s right, Agnes. I doubt they’re sending a reporter all this way just to say bad things about us.”
“I beg to differ.” Agnes lifted her chin, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of a motorcycle revving past the bakery. “We have no idea of their agenda. The media can be very shady.”
The motorcycle revved louder.
“Media? It’s a travel magazine.” Bri grinned. “Hey, I bet Mr. Hansen will read the feature.”
Agnes bristled, a deep red working its way up her throat. “I wouldn’t know anything about his reading habits.”
The door chimed, and Bri swallowed back the next tease threatening to leave her lips. The bubbling laugh died in her throat as a tall, dark-haired man stepped into the bakery, sober-faced, his broad shoulders stretching taut the fabric of a navy T-shirt. He had a leather bomber jacket draped over his arm and a tan backpack hitched on the opposite shoulder. A tattoo crawled out of the sleeve of his shirt