“What’s that? War and Peace?” He licked his fork, taking the opportunity to stand closer behind her and peer over her shoulder. She smelled like vanilla.
“Exactly.” She held up the thick volume.
He winced. “Oh man. I was joking.”
“Unfortunately, I’m not.” She replaced it on the shelf.
Guilt started to slowly seep into his thoughts. Charles. He kept forgetting to go by his office and give that money back. He hated to think what Charles assumed by his keeping it. If that money had been in Gerard’s pocket, it’d be burning a hole right now—especially standing this near to Bri. She’d never understand.
But it was safe in his wallet atop the nightstand, and his jeans were safe in his suitcase. He’d refused to fully unpack on this trip, refused to get comfortable or pretend he had any reason to stay a second longer than necessary.
Except now he really wanted to put his jeans in the red-lined dresser drawer.
Gerard swallowed, the last bite of cake drying out his mouth. One fact remained—playing Switzerland was growing more and more complicated. He still didn’t fully realize why it would be such a big deal if Bri lost the Puff. Who cared if Charles stuck a chain in its place? She could thrive anywhere in Story—heck, anywhere in the United States. Smart, gifted in the kitchen, beautiful, relatable. Caring. Kind. Generous.
Maybe she needed the push of losing the Puff to extend herself. Could it be that the sisters selling to Charles—weaselly as he was—could be a blessing in disguise for her? She’d never see it that way. But it could be true.
He wanted the best for her. He knew that was true.
He turned and set the crumb-ladened cake plate on the desk. When he turned back around, Bri was perched on the edge of his bed, thumbing through one of the books she’d plucked from the shelf.
Uh-oh. Not good.
He cautiously approached. “What’s that?” Hopefully she couldn’t hear his heart threatening to pounce out of his chest—and hopefully she wouldn’t turn to the open laptop screen behind her. His fingers itched to grab the machine.
She held up the book with a smile. “The Notebook.”
Oy. He fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Is that next on the book club list?” He sank down next to her and took the volume.
She smirked. “Why, are you going to come crash that session and argue everyone’s interpretation too?”
“If it’s on this, I sure will.” He wiggled the book at her.
She snatched it back. “This is a good story. True love, against the odds.”
“Hardly.”
She bumped him with her shoulder. “How can you argue the romance of The Notebook, of all things? It’s a new classic.”
“How is it romantic? They cheated.”
Bri opened her mouth, then closed it as his logic dawned in her eyes. “I suppose they did. But Allie wasn’t married yet.”
“Engagement isn’t enough of a commitment?” It sure hadn’t been to Kelsey.
Gerard rubbed his hand down his face, determined not to tread that path. Not tonight. Not when Bri was three inches to his left, all glossy-lipped and smelling like vanilla and reminding him of all the reasons why a relationship could be a very good thing.
But the memories taunted, begging to be remembered. The voices whispered—he wasn’t enough. Wasn’t enough to earn her. Wasn’t enough to keep her. He fell back on the bed and covered his eyes with his bent elbow.
Bri’s voice sounded above him. “I’m sorry. Hit a nerve?”
He lowered his arm, staring at the ceiling. “My fault.” He was slipping. He gritted his teeth.
She flopped down next to him on her side, propped on her elbow. “Sometimes the past sucks.”
“Only when it doesn’t stay where it belongs.” He shook his head. “Something about this town—something about . . .” His voice trailed off before he could say “you,” and he realized how weary he sounded. Weary, and sort of old. His birthday loomed, and the joy of the cake she’d made faded a little. He hadn’t accomplished nearly what he’d wanted to by thirty. What if he never did?
What if he ended up alone like his mom?
The thought churned his gut, and he briefly closed his eyes. This wasn’t him. He wasn’t sappy. Romantic. Yearning.
Bri’s vulnerable voice pierced the throbbing in his head. “Something about me?” Her words lingered barely above a whisper.
Desire to kiss her warred with desire to gain back control—to have, and keep, the upper hand. He didn’t need her. Or any woman. And he had to draw the line in the sand now.
“Did I say that?” He pushed himself onto his side, turning toward her and meeting her gaze full-on. The boldness of the move seemed to affect her newfound confidence, and she faltered at his proximity just like he’d expected she would.
“You—you almost did.” Her eyes dipped to his lips and back, and a pink tint coated her cheeks. “I thought you almost did, anyway. So, what about this . . . town?”
She meant what about her. But he could answer both at the same time. “It’s like a spell. Makes me think about things I haven’t thought about in forever. Makes me want things.” As if on its own, proving his point, his hand reached out and traced the line of her jaw. So much for his battle for control.
She closed her eyes, her voice growing husky. “What do you want?”
To kiss her. Her parted lips practically asked him to, and boy, he wanted to—every fiber of his being demanded it. He smoothed back a lock of her hair, tracing the curve of her shoulder. Against his own volition, he eased an inch closer, his hand finding her hip and tugging her toward him. She tilted her chin up, eyes closed.
But his mind was too jumbled. The last two weeks had been messy—he and Bri were too messy, for that matter. She’d conjured up all kinds of old longings and emotions, had reached down and soothed a scarred-over sore spot with that cake she’d baked for him. If he kissed her now, he
