She didn’t hesitate. “October 12th, 2010.”
That’s what he thought. He held up the date for her to see, and her eyes widened.
“October 10th, 2010.” She collapsed on the edge of the bed, gripping the fabric in both hands. Wonder filled her voice. “She never had a chance to mail it.”
“Sounds to me like she wrote it, then stashed it in her trunk until she could make it to the post office alone.”
“But she never did.” Sorrow immersed her expression. “I don’t even know . . .”
It was a lot to process. He wanted to sit next to her, to comfort her, but wasn’t sure that was wise—for about a dozen reasons. One being that if he got that close, he’d also want to press her back against the bed and kiss her senseless. He’d almost done so a dozen times during their picnic but had restrained. It hadn’t been about that—and tangling up their ties before he rode out of town wouldn’t be beneficial to either of them.
She sniffled and pressed her fingers under her eyes, dabbing at the remains of her makeup.
Well, maybe just a quick hug wouldn’t hurt.
He moved to her side on the bed and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She leaned in automatically and fit so perfectly into the curve of his arm that he shivered. He tucked her in close and held her, breathing in the vanilla scent of her hair even as his heart thudded a warning.
He’d never been one to appreciate red lights.
He turned toward her, tilting her chin up with one finger, and grazed the curve of her jaw. Her skin was painfully soft, her breath warm. Her tear-filled eyes closed and her lips parted.
That was all the motivation he needed to close the distance.
The kiss was shorter than their last one, but it fanned a flame a dozen times hotter. His lips moved against hers as he pulled her in closer. She sagged against him, filling any remaining space between them with soft sighs and fingers clutching the folds of his shirt.
He kissed her as if he wasn’t leaving. As if her life wasn’t in turmoil. As if either of their futures weren’t up in the air. He just kissed her, as easily and naturally as he breathed.
She pulled away first, sucking in a gulp of air and dabbing the corners of her mouth. “Gerard.”
He wanted to pull her back in but didn’t. He didn’t trust himself or the gallop of his heartbeat. “Hey.”
Her hair was mussed, and her eyes were bright with leftover tears and a shining emotion he couldn’t quite name. “Thank you.”
He laughed. “Thank you, Cupcake.”
She blushed, and he loved that he could make her do so. “I meant for listening. And for the hug. And—you know.”
Boy, did he. “I know.”
“But you’re—”
He sobered. “I know.” He was leaving. And she was staying. And that was most likely the end of their story in Story.
A careful guard took over her expression. “I never showed you the picture.”
Dodging the new subject worked for him. “Show me.” It didn’t really matter to him to put a face with a name, but it seemed important to her—and offered a distraction from the mass of feelings trying to talk him into kissing her again.
Bri stood and went for her purse across the room, and he immediately missed the warmth of her presence at his side.
She returned but didn’t sit, just stood in front of him and extended the slightly crinkled photo. “This is him.”
He took the photo, glanced down, and started to nod. Then his grip tightened and his heart accelerated. “Wait. This is who?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “T.R.”
He stared down at the dark swoop of slicked hair, the thin mustache, the camera strap slung over one shoulder.
Remy.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
Her mom always baked when she was upset.
Bri remembered that now, the way her mother’s anxious whisks around a mixing bowl slowly turned into careful, therapeutic strokes. The way her tense shoulders eased as the warmth of the oven filled the kitchen, the way her expression softened as she slid her hands into pink, checkered oven mitts and withdrew delicious-smelling trays.
Bri stirred with that same anxiety now, another halfhearted effort at matching her mother’s famous macarons. She was a glutton for punishment, wasn’t she? Attempting an impossible recipe for the hundredth time. Developing feelings for a man who would be leaving any day now. Trying to hold on to a bakery that her ex was determined to steal from her.
Her grip tightened around the whisk as the hands on the clock above ticked closer to noon. Charles couldn’t succeed. He might have backed off for now, but she wouldn’t relax until Mabel and Agnes specifically told her that they would never sell to him. That they planned to die of old age in another decade or longer and leave the bakery to her.
That nothing else would change.
Her cell phone on the bakery counter buzzed with an incoming text. It was Casey, texting a selfie of her new family of four with a dozen heart-eye emojis. Bri smiled, grateful her friend had found her happily ever after—one that wasn’t quite as complicated as the chapter Bri found herself in.
The memory of Gerard’s lips on hers last night shot a tingle up her spine, and her smile faded. How long until he left Story? After she’d shown him the picture last night, he had acknowledged it with less interest than she’d imagined he would have and soon after ushered her out the door to finish his article. She would have been concerned at the abrupt change of mood if that kiss hadn’t held such . . . well, everything. Passion. Gentleness. Comfort. It’d been even more genuine than the kiss at the fountain. It’d been real, no doubt.
But those kisses couldn’t lead anywhere other than to the trail of exhaust from Gerard’s motorcycle.
The door to the bakery opened, and a brisk wind swept across the room ahead of Mr. Mac.
