Anymore. Interesting. She toasted him with her bottle of Evian. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” He tapped his bottle against hers before opening the lid and taking a swig.
They ate in silence for a moment, Bri still desperately trying to make sense of the last twenty-four hours. The discovery of that telltale photo. The wedding. Her embarrassing meltdown at the fountain. Their kiss. Their conversation at her front door that had been two parts genius in sparing her heart but three parts agonizing in never getting to hear his.
Yet Gerard seemed at ease across from her, popping grapes into his mouth and stacking various meats between two slices of bread. Was it that simple for him to set aside what had transpired between them and just eat carbs?
If that was the case, she was envious. Men had it so much easier. Fewer emotions clouding up every action, every thought. To them, it was just: Kiss? Check. Potential relationship voided by porch brush-off? Check. Delicious dinner? Check, check.
Bri nibbled on a slice of Tomme de Savoie, and the nutty flavor burst across her tongue. Gerard was right—as usual, which was only half as annoying as it used to be. The cheese was amazing. But despite the desire to keep shoving cuisine into her mouth, the urge to know the truth beckoned louder. “Come on, be honest. Why did you do this?”
Gerard propped himself up on one elbow in his reclined position and grinned. “Because cheeseburgers are American?”
She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. Not this.” She held up her slice of cheese. “I mean, this.” She waved her hand to indicate the entire spread. “Especially after . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.
He didn’t particularly look like he wanted her to, thankfully. “You’ve been pretty down the last few days. I thought this would cheer you up.”
She blinked slowly. “You did?”
“Well, yeah. Who isn’t cheered up by food?” He ate another grape.
He had totally missed her point, but now she knew. It wasn’t a matchmaking ploy. This was his idea—not her aunts’.
She swallowed, her tongue still tangy from the cheese. This picnic was perhaps the most thoughtful thing anyone had ever done for her. It was the most thoughtful thing a man had ever done. Her dates—rare as they were—usually consisted of pizza at Taylor’s Sushi Barn, fries at the fast-food drive-in, or occasionally, the bowling alley. Fun but average. Not specified to her tastes or interests.
Gerard had taken the time to get really specific.
“You’ve lost your spark.” Gerard’s tone grew serious, despite the fact that he’d sat up and started juggling grapes. “I couldn’t take it anymore. I mean, I can’t exactly write an award-winning article to convince people to come visit the Midwest’s most charming bakery and its most sullen chef, now can I?”
She grunted a halfhearted protest but couldn’t be offended. He was right—she’d been really grumpy lately. But that didn’t change her new reality. It didn’t change her mother’s potential secret or the fact that her solid foundation had crumbled.
Bri reached out and snatched a grape from his jerky juggling cycle. The other one bounced off the tray of meat and the third dropped into his lap. “Hey. No fair.”
She popped the grape into her mouth. “True confession time.”
He raised his eyebrows at her. “You’re an avid juggler?”
“No.” She slid a few pieces of ham inside a croissant. “I’ve never heard of Tomme de Savoie.”
He nodded. “I figured.” She chucked another grape at him, and he laughed. “Tell me something you do know about France.”
She tilted her head to the side. “They didn’t invent French fries.”
“What about French toast?”
She swallowed a bite of bread, not as confident in the answer but determined to wing it. “Nope.”
“Very good.” Gerard leveled his gaze at her, and the look reminded her of the feel of his lips against hers the night before. Her stomach cartwheeled twice. “Now tell me about your mom.”
There it was. The weight she’d been carrying threatened to land squarely back on her shoulders. She’d carried her mother on a pedestal all these years, and now . . . it was as if she teetered precariously on the edge. If the truth fully emerged and her mother eventually fell—what did that mean for everything Bri had ever believed? About her parents? About love?
About herself?
Gerard must have noticed her hesitation, because he reached toward her across the blanket. “I mean, tell me something good. Something from her time in Paris.”
Bri drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. The good. Not the unknown . . . the bad . . . the incredibly ugly. But the good. Paris. “That would be when my mom met my dad.” That part would forever be unstained, regardless of how the rest of their love story played out.
It had to be.
He leaned back on his elbows, his gaze fully fixed on her. “Tell me.”
She tucked her hair behind her ears. “For the feature?” She wasn’t sure how much of this she wanted included in the article. The backstory of her parents’ relationship might help encourage reader interest, which could mean more potential customers—but it felt wrong to flaunt that part until she knew the whole story.
What if she’d been wrong about all of it?
“No.” He shook his head. “Tell me for you.”
The woman was painfully beautiful in twinkle lights.
Bri relaxed as she talked, as he’d hoped she would. She’d wrapped up in the extra blanket he’d packed to ward off the evening air, and the bright green stripes made her eyes shine.
Gerard snagged another slice of cheese as she chatted about her mother daring to leave her small town and learn from a professional baker in Paris, where she met Bri’s father—the baker’s son.
This was good. He’d needed to level her defensive wall so she’d hear him when he talked about the sisters potentially selling the Puff. Plus, she’d been wound so tight ever since she found whatever evidence she thought she had on her mother, that it
