She met his gaze with red-rimmed eyes, not even a flicker of surprise registering. “Hey.”
He tucked his laptop bag on the seat beside him. “You look like you got as much sleep as I did.” Then he looked closer. Untouched pizza. Bags under her eyes. Pale face.
And that Wanderlust sweatshirt.
What could have happened overnight to merit this? His resolve not to care too much wafted away like the smell of burnt bacon. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, looking back at the single slice on her plate. She poked at a pepperoni.
“Is it Charles? Are you losing the war?” Maybe he’d launched a media sneak attack overnight. He’d been waiting for Charles to pop back up with a new scheme, but aside from a few posters stuck around town advertising the potential of the upcoming chain, he’d laid relatively low.
Which was good, because Gerard still needed to swing by Charles’s office to give him back that cash he’d slipped him—and he didn’t want any drama. But it was also bad, because how was he going to write an exciting conclusion to his two-part series in Trek if there was no drama or exciting conclusion?
“No, it’s not Charles.” Bri rubbed her hands over her face, which was free of makeup except for something glossy on her lips. Freckles he’d never seen before dotted her nose. They just added to her charm and innocence. “I’d almost forgotten about him.”
Gerard’s eyebrows shot up. Forgetting about Charles? He had been her priority since the moment he’d met her. Something was way off. “Okay, level with me. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Maybe. Hopefully, anyway.” She pulled a pepperoni free of its cheesy prison. “You wouldn’t understand.”
He leaned back in the booth, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, it doesn’t sound like you fully understand either, Cupcake.”
She glared at him as she popped the pepperoni in her mouth. “Quit calling me that.”
Relief flooded his veins. There was the Bri he knew. The one who was going to get him in trouble if he didn’t put up a guardrail. He’d never been this invested in an article subject before. He’d interviewed shark cage divers, restaurant owners in Fiji, hula dancers, mountain bike designers, YouTube hiking experts, you name it—and never once had he checked on one having a bad day.
Nor given one a nickname.
A band of something suspiciously like fear tightened around his chest. Maybe last night had been exactly what he thought it’d been.
Gerard opened his mouth, but words wouldn’t come. The noise of the diner—the clanking of silverware, the buzz of low conversation, the screech of chair legs sliding across the floor, the fuss of a toddler two tables back—faded to a low murmur. His heartbeat roared in his ears, and his mouth dried.
She watched him, as if she could sense his fear. Blood in the water. He’d never had a weakness around women before. Not since Kelsey, especially.
He couldn’t afford to start now.
But the way she stared at him was almost his undoing. Vulnerable and seeking, as if he held some kind of answer. As if he could bring her hope and fix all her unspoken problems if he only knew which questions to ask. He sort of wished he could.
And that terrified him more than anything else.
She kept her blue-eyed gaze riveted on him, lips parted slightly. He was suddenly overcome by the urge to see if that pale pink gloss tasted as sweet as it looked.
He swallowed. “Bri—”
“There you are!” Casey appeared at their table, sliding into the seat beside Bri and bumping her over with her hip. “I had to tell you first. Well, second, because I had to tell the preacher first.” Her face flushed, and her eyes shone under the lid of her red ball cap. “We moved up the wedding.”
“Up? As in, sooner?” Bri’s gaze shifted from Gerard to Casey, surprise pitching her previously monotone voice.
“Yes! Nathan had a scheduling conflict with another guy at the fire station—long story.” Casey flipped her hand dismissively, as if the details weren’t important. As if this wasn’t her actual wedding day she was talking about rearranging. Gerard wasn’t sure if he was concerned or impressed at how chill she was about it—the exact opposite of a bridezilla. Interesting.
Casey crossed her arms on the table and leaned forward, bouncing a little in the booth. “So, to help make it easier on everyone, we’re getting married Sunday.”
“Sunday.” Bri’s face paled a shade lighter. “As in, this Sunday?”
“Yes!” Casey beamed.
Uh-oh. Gerard glanced at his watch. “You mean, the day after tomorrow?”
“Yes!” Casey grabbed Bri’s arm and shook it. “You’ll still be able to get the petit-four tower ready by then, right?”
“Of course.” She didn’t hesitate, but Gerard saw the flicker of doubt in her eyes. Whatever was going on with her was still attempting to take priority, but being Bri, she was going to push past it for the sake of someone else. He’d never met anyone who was such a pushover. He frowned. Or was it just plain selflessness on her part?
Maybe both. There had to be a balance, though, and Bri teetered precariously toward the extreme. Did she always get taken advantage of in Story?
“You’re the best.” Casey squealed and hugged Bri before popping back out of the booth. “I’ll come by tomorrow and help get stuff cleaned and set up outside by the wall.”
“You better not.” Bri pointed at Casey. “You better be getting your nails done and pampering yourself, like every other bride the day before her wedding. I can handle the setup. Just have the chairs and tables delivered ASAP, and I’ll get everything in place. In fact, I’ll start this afternoon.”
She was going to decorate the grounds and bake all the petit fours? Fat chance. “I’ll help.” The words cleared his lips before he could
