His eyes lowered to her lips, then darted back to her eyes, as if seeking permission.
Her stomach dipped, and her gaze followed the same path, noting the stubbled dimple in his jaw. A small scar she’d never noticed before barely clipped the edge of his chin.
His fingers flexed around her hips, and she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t push herself up. Couldn’t decide if she wanted to.
She wanted him to kiss her.
No, she didn’t. It would change things. Change was scary.
But something about being this close to Gerard didn’t feel scary at all.
His head rose toward her, closing the narrow distance between them. She closed her eyes in anticipation, heart pounding an unsteady beat in her chest. This was it. He was going to kiss her. His hands gripped tighter.
And propelled her up and off of him.
Her eyes flew open as she sat upright on the tile beside him. Their gazes collided, and she wondered if he could see the myriad questions racing through her mind. Wondered if she could even put words to them if she tried.
Agnes popped her head through the swinging kitchen door. “We thought we heard a commotion back here. What’s going on? What’s that smell?”
“Bri, is that you?” Mabel’s head appeared beneath Agnes’s in the doorframe, and a slow smile spread across her overly lipsticked mouth as she took in the scene before her. “Hush now, Agnes. It looks like everything is exactly as it should be.” She winked before disappearing back into the storefront. Agnes followed suit with a grumbled protest.
Gerard stood and offered his hand to Bri to help her up. She accepted it, knees trembling, and avoided eye contact.
Nothing was as it should be.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
That had been a huge mistake.
Which part, he wasn’t sure. But somewhere, there had been a mistake—plenty of them. Telling Bri about his upcoming birthday. Opening up about running from the hard stuff. Almost kissing her.
Not kissing her.
Gerard shoved one hand wearily through his hair as he peered up at the steeple atop the nondenominational church. He’d offered to help with the wedding and hated to go back on his word, but he couldn’t stay in the kitchen with Bri any longer. He needed fresh air. Bri must have gotten the hint—or maybe she wanted space as badly as he did—because she’d given him the task of delivering Casey’s wedding vows and updated order of ceremony to the minister, who apparently didn’t have a functioning printer.
Only in Story.
Gerard hesitated in front of the small brick chapel. Late afternoon clouds billowed above, shadowed with the threat of rain. Hopefully it wouldn’t downpour, since Bri already had the arch decorated and a dozen tables set out. They’d stored the seventy-five folding chairs in the shed. He could just see Bri asking him to wipe everything down with a towel tomorrow if it rained.
And he’d probably do it.
Because something had shifted in that kitchen. He felt like he was holding his breath, careening around a mountain bike trail on a seaside cliff, balancing precariously on two fast-moving wheels. One false move and he’d tumble straight off the rocks and into the breakers. He refused to stop and breathe—or acknowledge what exactly was shifting.
It was easier to just keep moving.
He pulled open the solid door of the church. Muted green carpet muffled his steps as he crept inside. A long hallway led to the right, with several shut doors that were probably offices. To the left was another set of oak double doors. One was propped open with a small wooden triangle.
He peered inside. The sanctuary. “Hello?”
His voice echoed in the dimly lit room. He turned a full circle in the lobby, but there was no answer. Did they not lock their doors here either? Or maybe the staff had already left for the day.
On second thought, how big of a staff could a small church in Story, Kansas, even have in the first place?
He pulled the folded papers with Casey’s vows and instructions out of his back pocket and hesitantly moved inside the sanctuary. “Mr . . . Pastor John?” His church lingo was rusty—too rusty. His mama would be disappointed in him.
Not that she’d gone to a service either in the past twenty years. And who could blame her, after the judgmental comments about her slipping lifestyle made their way from the choir loft to her ears, until they finally landed in print on a Wednesday night prayer list.
Gerard ambled down the aisle between the rows of simple wooden pews. A pulpit stood on the stage, atop a carpeted altar. A stained-glass window took the place where the baptistry typically was, back in the church he grew up in, anyway.
When was the last time he’d walked an aisle like this? The travel-writing life didn’t leave much room for a home church. Or a home at all, for that matter. He’d visited several of the cathedrals on his last venture through Europe. Had taken communion in Rome two years ago.
None of those churches had felt quite like this one, though. Quiet. Unassuming. Peaceful.
Or maybe he just hadn’t been still long enough to feel it those times.
Gerard stopped at the end of the aisle by the second pew and slid onto the empty bench. The serenity of the room calmed the churning emotions in the pit of his stomach, and he inhaled his first deep breath since coming to Story. Maybe he should start going back to church—if he could find one in Chicago like this.
Put down roots.
The late-afternoon sun spilled through the stained glass, sending shards of rainbow-speckled light across the carpet.
He swallowed and glanced down at the papers in his hand, brushing off the imposing thoughts. Church was a thing of the past for him—he didn’t need a building full of hypocrites to point out his sins. He knew them well.
Gerard leaned forward, pressing his fingers against his throbbing forehead. He shouldn’t be stalling. He needed to get these documents
