Charles lowered his voice, his urgent tone implying he might not be as confident about public opinion as he let on. “We’re on the same page, right? You know what to do.”
Gerard shrugged off his hand, fighting the urge to tell the selfish doofus and his crazy sidekick exactly what he thought of them. But that’d be just what the lawyer needed to start some sort of slander lawsuit against him—or worse, against Trek. “I’ve got an article to finish. You two have a good day.”
Gerard strode out of the diner before he could give in to his impulse. He’d return Charles’s money tomorrow and get the entitled shark off his back. For now, he had to convince Bri to do what was best for herself—and he knew exactly the way to do it.
Unfortunately, that would also mean convincing his heart to stay out of it.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
Mabel propped her elbows on the display counter at the bakery and leaned forward, a twinkle in her eyes. “So. Have you heard from Casey since the wedding?”
“Mabel, it was just last night.” Bri gave the eager woman a playful eye roll as she poured decaf coffee into Mabel’s pink-striped mug. She never drank leaded after 4:00 p.m. “I’m giving her time to settle in before bombarding her. Since they aren’t getting a real honeymoon yet, there’s no way I’m calling her the next day.”
She slid the mug across the counter to Mabel. If the older woman only knew what had transpired between Bri and Gerard over the last twelve hours, she’d be switching gears faster than the teenagers who always raced off the line at 3rd and Oak.
“I’m so proud of us.” Mabel beamed at Agnes across the room, who crossed one sensible shoe over the other from her perch on one of the nearby chairs. “Married! We really did it.”
“Yes. We did our civic duty.” Agnes offered a brisk nod in agreement before leaning down to buff a mark off her left shoe.
Bri couldn’t resist the opportunity to tease. “So, are you and Mr. Hansen next?”
Agnes jerked upright. “Well, I—I never . . .”
“Maybe that’s why she’s so grumpy.” Mabel took an intentional sip of her coffee.
Agnes narrowed her eyes. “Mabel Pauline—”
“I’m just saying, it wouldn’t hurt you to try one of my lipsticks some time. Or wear a blouse that’s actually a color.” She set down her mug with a clank.
“I don’t know. Mr. Hansen doesn’t seem to mind beige.” Bri shot a smile at Agnes, who looked equal parts miffed and giddy. “I saw how he was looking at her at the wedding. Crowding the dessert table.”
She straightened her shoulders. “He just likes petit fours.”
“He thought something was sweet, that’s for sure.”
Agnes pursed her lips. “Abrielle—”
“Okay, okay.” She held up both hands, grateful the matchmaking attention was elsewhere for once, especially with everything brewing between her and Gerard. Or was that brewed, past tense? She sobered. It’d been her own fault, verbally shoving him out the door without even hearing him out.
The door chimed, and all of their heads swiveled toward it.
Gerard.
There he went again, barging into her world unannounced every time she thought of him. Acting like he fit into her cozy little town, sauntering inside wearing that same leather jacket that smelled like evergreens, and carrying . . .
A picnic basket?
He grabbed the chair opposite Agnes at the table and spun it around backward before plopping down into the seat. The giant wicker basket settled on the floor between them. “Ladies, I need to borrow your head chef.”
Bri’s heart stammered with confusion. Mixed with excitement. Mixed with dread. What in the world was he . . .
Agnes and Mabel locked eyes across the room, trying—but failing—to hide matching smiles. “Of course,” they responded simultaneously.
Ah. Understanding dawned. Bri shook her head.
She hadn’t escaped their matchmaking efforts completely after all.
The gazebo by the love-lock wall, where just hours ago Casey and Nathan had pledged their vows, was still draped in sheer gauze and twinkle lights. Though the sun hadn’t quite set, the coming dusk provided a sufficient RSVP to the shining strand’s beckoning invitation.
“Have a seat.” Gerard pointed to the blue plaid blanket spread on the middle of the gazebo’s platform floor, and Bri obediently sat down, crossing her legs. Thankfully, she’d worn jeans to work.
“What is this?” She tried to keep the skepticism out of her voice, but this was clearly a setup. It had Mabel and Agnes written all over it. The question remained, though, why was Gerard succumbing to it? Surely he saw through the attempt too.
It had to be related to the article. He was probably trying to pacify Mabel and Agnes, get the rest of what he needed from her to complete the feature, and break the ice she’d created between them. She would like him to leave town on friendly terms too—even if that amazing kiss had made it more complicated.
“I thought you could use an authentic French picnic.” Gerard knelt next to her and began to unpack the wicker basket.
Her throat knotted. He’d packed all that—for her? Had Mabel and Agnes suggested it?
“For tonight’s dinner, we have your choice of bread—baguettes or croissants.” He pulled out a long, flat tray and unwrapped the aluminum foil covering the top. “And of course, charcuterie.”
She squinted. “Cured meats?”
“Pâté and ham, to be exact. And salami, because what’s a picnic without salami?” He set the tray on the blanket between them and reached back inside the basket, pulling out a bowl of grapes and a giant block of cheese. “And Tomme de Savoie.”
She’d never heard of it but felt embarrassed admitting as much—especially since it was clearly French. It would just further prove his theory that she didn’t know nearly enough about Paris as she’d always assumed. “Sounds good.”
“It is. Trust me.” He passed out utensils and paper plates, then handed her a bottle of water before settling on the blanket. “I’d debated bringing
