Hopefully that would change tonight.
Gerard finished his last bite of sandwich. “How long did it take your dad to ask your mom out?” Probably not as long as it’d taken him to ask Bri out—although technically, this still wasn’t a date. Was it? He didn’t really know the game anymore. Didn’t want to play it even if he did.
Bri was different, though. Despite their kiss, despite the awkward conversation at her front door, and despite the unofficial status of their current dinner, here they were, relaxed and having a good conversation.
It was just hard not having permission to lean over and kiss her senseless again.
She wiped her fingers on the napkins he’d remembered to stick in the basket at the last minute. “Six days.”
“Where was the bakery, anyway? By the Seine?”
“No, it was on Boulevard Fleur Rouge.” She smiled. “I’ve always loved that name.”
“Red Flower Boulevard.” Gerard sat up. “Wait a minute. Is that a few blocks from Rue de Vaugirard?”
“Yes, I think so.” Bri twisted the cap back on her bottle of water. “She talked about walking that particular road often with my father after work while they were dating. Why?”
“Hang on. I think I might have a picture.” He tugged his phone from his pocket and pulled up his photo album. He distinctly remembered having a conversation with Remy on that particular road—a conversation before the one that eventually led to warning Gerard off women and small towns.
“What?” Bri’s eyes lit, and she scooted closer on the blanket to lean over his shoulder. She smelled like vanilla, as always. “You’ve seen the bakery where she interned?”
“There are so many bakeries in Paris, I’m not sure I went to that one or would remember if I had.” He scrolled through his iPhone photos until he found the album marked “European trips,” then “Paris.” “But I’m pretty sure I’ve walked past it. That street name rings a bell.”
Bri’s short intake of breath over his shoulder reminded him how big of a deal this was to her. He’d stood on the street where her mother had met her father. Hopefully this visual would be more sweet than bitter for her.
The picture he’d been looking for finally appeared on his screen. “Here it is.” He surrendered his phone to her eager hands.
Remy had offered to take his photo—just so Gerard’s starry-eyed self could say he’d had a picture taken by the famous travel photographer. In hindsight, he could see the humor in how he’d fawned over his idol. Travel photographers didn’t typically have a cult following. But the man had humored him, like an uncle figure, and let Gerard shadow him all afternoon. It wasn’t until later that Remy’s bitterness emerged in the form of a life lesson for Gerard—one he’d taken to heart.
Until Kelsey, anyway.
Bri gasped. “That’s you. And that’s the bakery in the background! Brioches Croisées.”
Hot Cross Buns. Catchy. He tilted the phone to see the photo again, his hand brushing hers. The bakery had been unintentionally included in the back. Half of the store’s low-hanging wooden sign was clearly visible to the right of the photo, its white cursive print beckoning pastry lovers inside.
“I can’t believe you’ve stood where my mother spent her early adulthood.” Bri shook her head, wonder etched across her face. Then her expression dampened.
“Hey.”
He waited until she looked up, meeting his eyes. The vulnerability in them made him desperate to soothe the ache. “You’ll get there one day.” If she didn’t stay glued to the safety of the Puff, anyway. He opened his mouth to say as much—it was the perfect opening for his message. But it didn’t feel right. She was too raw.
She offered a half smile as she handed back his phone. “Who took the photo?” The flicker in her eyes made him briefly wonder if she was jealous it might have been a girl.
“A travel photographer idol of mine, actually. Remy.” Gerard shook his head. “I’d tell you how obsessed I was with this guy at the beginning of my career, but it’d be really embarrassing.”
“Tell me anyway.” Bri shifted positions on the blanket, settling in for the story.
He would. But only because he wanted to keep that achy look out of her eyes, even if it was at his own expense. “Well, he’s not usually a typical twenty-one-year-old’s hero, but he was mine. Remy’s the reason I got into this job in the first place.” He still remembered that particular glossy photo. Submerge Magazine, page 29. It’d been a full-color shot of a man standing on a sailboat, wind whipping the sails, ropes pulled taut as he fought for control—man against ocean. Gerard could almost feel the mist from the waves, and in that moment, he knew what he wanted to write about.
Bri tugged the striped blanket up to her chin. “How is that?”
Gerard plucked another grape from the bunch and rolled it between his fingers. “His photos are art. They let people travel without ever leaving their living room.” He shrugged. “It made me realize I wanted to be on the other side of that page.”
Remy’s warning against roots, against love, against anchoring oneself down at the expense of life had settled deep, right alongside that oceanic action shot. It’d shaped who he was for most of his twenties. Had shaped the way he’d treated Kelsey once they got serious. He’d always resented her a little for it. Was that why she’d sought attention elsewhere?
The sandwich settled like a rock in his stomach.
He knew he’d played a role in their difficult relationship—after all, it took two to fight. But it only took one to leave, and he’d been prepared to stay. Kelsey had wanted otherwise.
Maybe she had sensed his commitment was halfhearted. Remy’s words had always stayed in his mind, a constant tension between the glittering diamond on Kelsey’s left hand and his fear
