She lifted her chin, determined not to let him see any more vulnerability. She had to redeem what little shred of dignity might still be lingering. He hadn’t come to find her after their kiss, and now she knew why. “I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He frowned. “I wasn’t worried.”
“Don’t be. I know it was just a high-emotion night.” Her hands shook, so she crossed her arms over her robe. “You’re not obligated to anything here.”
“I wasn’t going—”
Her wounded pride wouldn’t hush. “Weddings are romantic, and you got caught up in the moment. I totally get it.”
He flinched. “That’s not—”
“You’re leaving soon, so that’d be ridiculous to even think that we could be—”
“That’s enough, Cupcake.”
She snapped her mouth shut. Then had to ask. “Why did you come?”
His eyes were unreadable now, guarded. He reached into his pocket. “I came here to give you this.” He held up a key.
A golden key.
With initials stamped on the side.
Oh. She took it with trembling fingers. “Gerard . . .”
He didn’t look at her. “Good night, Bri.” He let himself out, shutting the door behind him.
She sagged against it, the metal cold in her hand. He’d gone back for it. All that time he’d been gone while she told Casey goodbye and finished the wedding responsibilities, all that time she’d thought he was avoiding their kiss—he’d gone back to the fountain. Alone. In the cold.
For her.
And she’d just babbled on, rejecting him before he could reject her. She was such an idiot. Now she’d never know what he thought or felt.
But wasn’t that for the better? He was leaving—and they were as opposite as opposites could be. Even Mabel and Agnes had backed off on the matchmaking attempts, not making a single peep or giving them a single glance during their shared dance at the wedding. It was as if they, too, had realized the inevitable end.
There was, however, one thing she had to know.
She flung the door back open. “Gerard, wait!”
He turned, already halfway down the walk. The night breeze wafted against her face and chilled the small patches of skin showing above her knee-high socks.
Heat flushed her cheeks, despite the cold. “What were you going to ask me?”
“Oh, yeah.” He shrugged, then offered a half smile. “I was just wondering what you did with the leftover petit fours.”
Monday had never felt more like a Monday—and this was most likely his last one in Story.
And it was his birthday.
Bacon sizzled in the kitchen of Taylor’s Sushi Barn as Gerard typed his next sentence, deleted half of it, then tried again. He’d never had writer’s block like this before. Trying to highlight the bakery’s charm and small-town appeal, all while keeping the report balanced, was exhausting—especially when he believed more and more that Charles was right. Not that the love-lock wall was an eyesore, necessarily, or that Story needed a coffee chain in its stead.
More so, it was what Bri needed.
He took a sip of coffee and glanced up from the corner booth, where his back was planted firmly against the wall. At least this time he didn’t have to worry about running into her—unless she suddenly traded her Friday pizza treat for a Monday one.
That was just one of the many unique facts—or maybe quirks—he had discovered about Bri.
Another being how well the woman could kiss.
His stomach dove remembering their encounter in the fountain last night. In hindsight, he wondered how in the world he’d made it this long without doing so. When he’d held her in his arms, she fit so perfectly, it was like he’d discovered a piece of himself he hadn’t realized was missing. It had lit and stoked a fire he’d effectively doused since Kelsey. It had felt . . . right. Natural.
It had felt a lot like setting down roots.
His stomach knotted again. He didn’t do roots. He did wandering much better. So it was good that she’d put him off at her door last night before he could mutter any mumbo jumbo about home and puzzle pieces and macarons for the rest of his life—even if it’d stung pretty bad. She’d saved him from a big mistake. It was his own fault, anyway. He’d crossed the line and was paying the consequences for it today with an emotional hangover.
He pinched the bridge of his nose as his head pounded. Travel features had never been this personal before—and not just because he’d made out with the main subject. He was firmly wedged between the proverbial rock and a hard place, and his writing was suffering for it.
It wasn’t like public opinion mattered here, since the decision ultimately lay with Mabel and Agnes, but if he slanted the article toward Charles’s potential plans at all, Bri would be crushed. The feature had the potential to draw a lot more business to the Puff—which could possibly convince the sisters not to sell and silence Charles’s persistent offers once and for all.
He hated to admit it, but Charles had had a bit of a point when he’d alluded to the power of the pen.
Gerard drummed his fingers on the table beside his laptop. He just wished Bri could see what he saw. That her identity wasn’t in the bakery. It wasn’t even in her parents and their story—she had her own to live out. Her strengths and talents lay far outside baking petit fours and macarons in the same place her mother had.
But she was too close to the situation to see it. Literally too close—she’d never even left Story besides a four-hour jaunt to Nashville. The woman needed to cut the apron ties—and see the world. See Paris, for crying out loud.
Maybe he could talk to her later today, friend to friend. Help her see reason—not for Charles’s sake, but for hers. And for the sake of his finally writing “the end” once and for all on this
