“How much do I owe you?” He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a wad of bills.
She fought the urge to roll her eyes. Not shocking that Mr. Motorcycle didn’t carry a wallet like a grown-up but instead fisted Hamiltons in his pocket like a teenager with lawn-mowing money. “It’s on the house. In fact, it’s on that end of the house, to be exact.”
She pointed to the table farthest away from her, throwing a quick glance at Mabel and Agnes. Couldn’t they see she was desperate for backup here? Agnes especially had to be steaming right now at his demeaning attitude . . .
Nope. Both women were staring with wide eyes and cat-ate-the-canary grins, chins braced on their palms. Mabel whispered something to Agnes, who nodded intently and murmured back.
Oh no. No way. She knew that look.
Mr. Motorcycle slowly backed away from the counter and raised one eyebrow again. She hated how much the feat impressed her. “You trying to get rid of me?”
“Finally, we’re speaking the same language.” Bri folded her arms around her middle, determined to get her message across to both this rude customer and the love angels. Back off. In fact, she’d step it up a notch, for all their sakes. “And for the record, if you’re trying to flirt with me, you’re doing a horrible job.”
Mabel gasped. Agnes’s mouth dropped open.
The corners of Mr. Motorcycle’s lips twitched. “Glad to hear it.” He glanced down at the counter and nodded twice, as if processing her proclamation. “I appreciate the clarification. That’ll certainly make writing this article easier.” He picked up his coffee.
Her heart slid down into her stomach. “Article?”
He smiled, revealing even, white teeth. “Perhaps you’ve heard of Trek Magazine?”
Her stomach began to churn into her sinking heart. This wasn’t happening. No. This was a dream.
She closed her eyes, hoping all of this had been a really bad nightmare, and she would open her eyes, and there’d be a nice woman in a pencil skirt and really cute shoes breaking apart a petit four and gushing over how adorable the café was.
Three, two, one . . .
But no. She opened her eyes, and there he was, their feature writer—the one she’d just insulted in about ten different ways—saluting her with his heart-decorated mug. “Cheers.”
CHAPTER
FOUR
Gerard had worked with—and dated, before realizing it wasn’t worth it—his share of women over the years. But never had he seen one pale to the point of making Casper look tan.
When Bri had realized who he was, she’d stammered some strange apology, something about free petit fours and pencil skirts that he hadn’t quite grasped, before finally offering her name and another cup of that awful coffee.
It would have been humorous if this whole assignment wasn’t still so grating. He’d tell Peter and have a good laugh—later, anyway, after this initial annoyance wore off.
Assuming it did.
He flipped his kickstand down and hiked his duffel on his shoulder as he peered up dubiously at the three-story frame house before him, covered in stretching vines and trimmed in gingerbread. Dainty flower boxes lined each window, while wooden stakes decorated to look like lollipops peeked out of the landscaping. A swinging sign on the picket fence boasted the name of the bed and breakfast in elaborate pink cursive.
The Gingerbread House.
He was going to kill Peter.
When his boss assured him the lodging in Story was sufficient for the assignment and his assistant would handle it, Gerard assumed he’d meant clean sheets and free continental breakfast. Not a B&B torn from the pages of a children’s book.
He glanced back at his bike. He could leave now—roar away, forget the love angels and their mediocre coffee and this silly love-lock wall. Forget the assignment altogether.
An image of Bri’s welcoming smile filled his mind, and he shoved it away. He could forget that too. Pretty blondes were a dime a dozen.
And she was pretty, he’d give Peter that one.
He didn’t, however, want to forget the paycheck or his one opportunity to become a lead writer at the magazine’s sister publication, Traipse Horizon. Everything in him needed to provide content beyond summer vacation prospects. He wanted to write about the government’s dealings in Pakistan and the latest drug raid in Colombia and the economic statistics in Guam. He wanted to write something that mattered—a byline he could be proud of. That his mom could be proud of.
And maybe one day, his father too—if he ever bothered to pick up a magazine. Or even remembered Gerard’s name.
So, into the witch’s house it was.
He grabbed his duffel, pushed open the picket gate that matched the swinging sign, and plodded up the three stairs to the front door.
His black leather boot cracked through the second step and he lunged forward, catching himself on the splintered railing. A wood chip dug into his palm just as his duffel hit the dusty porch floor with a thump. His backpack swung off his shoulder and smacked him in the face.
Welcome to Story.
“Oh, my cheese and crackers!” The screen door opened, nearly nailing him in the head, and a red-haired, spectacled woman rushed outside, an apron tied around her ample waist. Her hands fluttered like she was shooing birds. Or perhaps trying to fly herself. “Are you okay, sir?”
“Yep.” Gerard straightened, tugging his boot from the step. He’d probably be a little sore from the sudden lunge, but there was no need to point that out. “Looks like that stair needs repairing.”
“They’ve been rotted for a while now.” The woman leaned over and winked dramatically at him. “Don’t tell my insurance agent.”
Right. “Your secret’s safe.” He adjusted his backpack, just as she handed him his duffel. Thankfully his laptop was in a padded case inside. He never traveled on his bike without the extra protection.
“Hopefully the rest of your stay at the Gingerbread House will be top-notch.” She extended her hand. Up close, he could tell now her
