“Don’t lose the best part of you. Your faith.”
Faith. In God? In love? Were they connected at this point? She didn’t feel connected to anything anymore.
And then it hit her, another memory. Of her parents, slow dancing in the kitchen while tears streamed down her father’s cheeks.
Her chest tightened. No. That couldn’t be real. But more details flooded her mind, convincing her otherwise. The crack in the cabinet behind her father’s head that looked exactly like a lightning bolt. The feel of the cool tile under her thin shorts as she spied from the corner of the kitchen, hidden by the doorframe. She’d always loved to watch her mom twirl, as she’d called it. But they weren’t twirling this time. Just holding each other and swaying.
Like Gerard was doing with her now.
Bri tensed, the sights and sounds of the reception morphing into one big blur. Anxiety took over, filling her mind and her mouth with cotton. She felt Gerard’s arms still holding her close, firm yet gentle, but it was like looking through a distorted mirror. All reflection, no contact.
An overwhelmingly lonely sensation washed over her from head to toe. She was falling for Gerard. Her prince had finally come—on the same night she discovered love didn’t exist.
She couldn’t breathe. Needed to scream. Wanted to hide.
She tore free of his grip, hating how easy it was to do so. He didn’t fight to hold on, which only proved her greatest fears. “I’ve got to go.” She stepped backward, farther from his outstretched hand. If her parents’ love hadn’t been real, maybe there was no such thing.
“Go?” Gerard frowned, moving a few steps toward her. Confusion pinched his features. “Bri. Wait!”
She left him alone on the dance floor.
He’d never understand women. He never had before, and the odds of him figuring them out now at thirty years old were pretty slim. Nonexistent, to be exact. And yet here he was, patching up strangers’ weddings and chasing after crying pastry chefs.
“Bri! Where did you go?” The music trailing from the dance floor all but drowned out his voice. She’d run in the direction of the love-lock wall and the fountain, which was to the left of the gazebo where the wedding reception was underway. Thankfully, it seemed like no one had noticed her dramatic exit. Or his.
A pair of light-colored pumps lay in the grass just ahead of him. He scooped them up and kept walking, following the scattered leaves that trailed toward the fountain. The trickle of water let him know he was close, even before his foot landed on the first stepping-stone. He saw the one marked “Wanderlust” as he neared, and his heart hitched in memory. “Bri! I know you’re here.”
The lights from the reception didn’t stretch this far, even though the moon above offered a bit of assistance. He stepped carefully from stone to stone, her shoes hooked on two fingers. These were the same ones she’d been tottering around in the first day he met her, when she showed him the love-lock wall and the fountain. He couldn’t believe he remembered that.
He shouldn’t remember that. Shouldn’t have danced with her. It was too dangerous. But his time in Story had become exactly that.
Man, she’d looked gorgeous—stunning, even, in that pink dress. All big eyes and flushed cheeks looking up at him, something withdrawn and haunting under the surface. This thing with her parents—what had she said, an affair?—had apparently cut her deep.
He didn’t get it. Her parents weren’t even alive. How had she found out? And why had it shaken her so thoroughly?
A frantic splashing of water sounded a few yards away, and his eyes finally adjusted to the shadows. Bri was standing knee-deep in the stone fountain, pawing anxiously through the water.
Was this what had been bothering her for the last several days? He cleared his throat. “Come on, Cupcake. Out of the fountain.”
She ignored him, water splashing up onto the hem of her dress. “It has to be here somewhere.” Her gaze remained riveted on the small waves she was creating.
“Unless you’re looking for a goldfish, I don’t think it is.” He took a few steps closer so he didn’t have to speak quite as loudly. If the wedding guests saw their beloved pastry chef swimming with her clothes on . . . Charles could have a media heyday with that one if word got out. Revenge would be easy. Thankfully he hadn’t shown up to see for himself.
Bri dove into the water up to her elbows, and the clang of metal hitting rock made him squint to decipher through the shadows. “What are those?”
“Keys.”
“Keys.” Nope. Repeating it didn’t bring clarity.
“To the love locks.” She brushed damp hair back from her face, her expression a twisted mask of hurt and panic. “I have to find my parents’ key.”
Oh no. His heart stammered a sympathetic beat. “There’s probably a hundred keys in there.”
She stirred the waters again. “More than that by now.”
“Are you familiar with the phrase ‘needle in a haystack’?”
She ignored him, or maybe didn’t hear him. “I have to get their lock off the fence.”
“Why?”
She shook her head, refusing to answer as she scooped up another handful of keys.
He tried a different route of reason. “How are you going to recognize it?”
“I hung it up there after they died. It’s gold and has their initials stamped on one side.” She held a key up to the moonlight, then tossed it back into the fountain. Grabbed another handful from the fountain floor. Checked. Tossed.
Checked.
Tossed.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “This is going to take you all night, Bri.”
“Then help me!” Her voice cracked as she looked up, fully focusing on him for the first time since their dance. Wet hair straggled down her shoulders, and dark makeup ran under her eyes. From water? Or tears?
Something surged in his chest. Irritation. At her, for her foolish mission. At himself, for getting mixed up in it. But mostly
