She blinked. What was wrong with her? She hadn’t even hit her head.
“Can I help you finish whatever you were doing before you tried to play Superman?” Gerard extended one hand in the air, one that could easily reach the knotted fabric. “Some of us don’t need stilts.”
“Very funny.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Can you fix that piece there on the end that’s bunched? It snagged on a nail.”
“And you thought that was worth face-planting for?” Gerard freed the gauze, and it fluttered perfectly into place. “What else have you done to take one for the team?”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, all of this.” He gestured to the arch and the love-lock wall, and she tried not to notice the way the sleeve of his shirt clung to his bicep. “You basically just volunteered to single-handedly put together this entire wedding.”
There he went again. Butting into her life, trying to analyze or criticize every move she made. “Well, then, lucky for me that someone like you volunteered to help.” Though clearly not for her sake. “Remember? For the article?”
He raised his eyebrows. “I thought I was writing a travel feature. Not a tragedy.”
“Look, do you want to help, or do you want to judge me?” She crossed her arms over her sweatshirt. “I don’t have time for should-haves. Hand me that broom.”
She’d do the whole thing herself if she had to. The drive to prove herself—and to run from the possibilities that haunted her attic trunk—loomed large, and she swallowed hard. She didn’t need Gerard’s approval. She needed to get to work. To keep moving.
He handed her the broom she had brought outside on her last trip. “Glad to see you’re back to your old self, Cupcake.”
She snatched the broom and started brushing off the stepping-stones. “What old self? The one that’s impatient with you? Or the one that’s annoyed by your attempts to control everything I do?” Dirt powdered through the air, and she coughed.
He smirked. “All of them. Do you hear their voices in your head too?”
She wanted to laugh. And cry—because there was still so much work to do. She chose to do neither and instead swept harder—maybe a little intentionally toward him.
He stepped back. “What can I do to help?”
“Stop bugging me.” She turned, leaning on the broom handle. “If you’re going to truly help, no more criticizing the fact that I volunteered. Casey is a good friend, and she’s been through a lot. She deserves a special day.” Her voice shook, and she wasn’t sure from which emotion. Too many were roiling around. Frustration. Fear. Stress.
That annoying zing of attraction still jolted through her midsection.
Gerard held up both hands in surrender. “Fair enough. I said I’d help, and I will. No more analyzing.”
“Great.” She breathed a sigh of relief. Both that he was backing off—and staying. Being alone with her racing thoughts felt like too much to handle, even with the distraction of the wedding preparations at large.
“The delivery truck with the chairs and tables should be here any minute.” She swept the next stone, then moved to the next. “On second thought, we should probably put the tables and chairs in storage and not actually set them out until Sunday morning. So, you can help the guy unload and carry them to the shed out back.”
“That’s not more expensive? We should just tell them to come Sunday morning.”
“No, she got them for the whole weekend, for the same price as one day.”
“Nice. I guess the business owners in Story don’t like to make money.” Gerard hiked an eyebrow.
Bri gripped the broom handle tighter. “More so, the people in Story like to help each other out.” She glanced up. “You could try mentioning that in your feature.”
“Roger.” Gerard saluted. “Why don’t you let me finish sweeping, and you can work on the petit fours.”
She gasped and the broom clattered to the ground.
The cakes.
Hopefully this wasn’t an omen for the whole wedding.
“Bon appétit.” Gerard extended a fork to Bri in her near-fetal position on the kitchen floor.
She sat up slightly, her head resting back against the island. Once she’d removed the ruined cakes from the oven and deposited them on the stove top, she’d sunk to the floor and had yet to find the energy or motivation to stand. Mabel and Agnes had flipped the “Closed” sign on the front door and left, probably to head out for a quick lunch break during the lull, and hadn’t been there to hear the timer going off. Of all the times for them not to tell her they were leaving. Another sign of their memories slipping?
She’d been with Gerard, though . . . maybe it was another attempt at matchmaking.
She couldn’t take much more of this.
Gerard shook the fork at her, breaking into her thoughts. “What are you doing?” She reached up and reluctantly accepted the fork from him.
“Come on, Cupcake. There’s got to be some perks to managing a bakery. Scoot over.” He lowered to the floor beside her, stretching his jeans-clad legs across the tiles, and plopped the ruined cake in his lap. He’d transferred it from the scorched pan to a serving plate, and it lay in broken chunks.
Sort of like her crumpled plans. Now she was going to have to bake an entire extra batch of petit fours, which would put her over an hour behind schedule. On top of that, worry about her parents’ letters still clung to the frayed edges of her thoughts.
Or were they just her mom’s letters, and not her parents’, after all? Her stomach knotted.
“Try it.” Gerard nudged her.
She stared at the carnage on the plate. “Are you crazy?”
“It’s good.” He chewed slowly. “Surprisingly moist—once you get past the charcoal exterior.”
Bri groaned. She didn’t have time for this. And yet she couldn’t convince herself to get up and start the next batch of batter.
She plucked a piece free
