“I’m Mrs. Beeker, proud owner. And housekeeper, and chef.” She laughed. “I would do the books too, but I can’t add to save my life. I leave that to my grandson.”
Noted. He shook her hand. “Pleasure is mine.”
“It’s not every day we get a traveler like yourself from the Rainy City.”
Close. “It’s Windy.”
“Is it?” She licked her finger and held it up, squinting. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“No, I meant—” Never mind. Time to switch gears so he could get to his room and write out his initial impressions of the Pastry Puff. Another image of Bri in her apron filled his mind, and he shook it away. “I’d love to see my room. It’s such a charming establishment you have here.” It wasn’t a blatant lie. Someone would find it charming. Just not him.
“Oh, you’re too much!” Mrs. Beeker swatted in his direction as a pink flush dotted her cheeks. “I do hope you’ll leave us a good review on the World Wide Web. Business has been booming since the love-lock wall got so much publicity.”
She should probably fix that stair, then.
Gerard followed her inside, catching the screen door she forgot to hold open in her excitement before it hit for the second time. This woman was like a redheaded tornado.
The foyer looked normal enough, with dark wood and old floral wallpaper. Outdated but harmless. And no candy decorations. He relaxed an iota. Maybe she just hadn’t taken down her Christmas decorations outside.
Mrs. Beeker rounded the corner of the front desk. “People want to come see it, you know.”
He dropped his bags at his feet and dug in his wallet for his company credit card. If this place had room service, he’d order it, just to get back at Peter. “It?”
“The love-lock wall, of course. They want to hang their lock on the fence and fall in love.” Mrs. Beeker sighed and batted her eyes. “Every single one of them.”
“Is that how it works? You hang a lock and fall in love?” He handed her the card.
“Oh, my cheese and crackers, no. You have to fall in love first. The lock is the symbol of your commitment.”
“I see.” So, it was sort of like prison. Fitting.
“Is that why you’re here?” She wiggled her eyebrows.
“Heck no.” He caught himself. “Well, sort of. It’s related. But I can assure you, it’s not because I’m in love.”
“Never say never, dear.”
Technically, he hadn’t said never. He opened his mouth, then bit back the argument. “Yes, ma’am.” He waited for her to pull up his reservation in the computer, then realized there wasn’t one. She had a notebook—and a pencil.
Mrs. Beeker flipped open the thin calendar book and placed a checkmark next to his name. Elaborate system. “Well, I can’t run the card until my grandson gets here later this evening. I just don’t know how, dear. But don’t worry, I know where to find you.” She gave him back the card and dangled a room key from her other hand. “Room three.”
That didn’t sound so bad. After seeing the outside of the establishment, he’d half expected the rooms to be called Gumdrop Fantasy or something equally nausea-inducing. “Thank you.” He reached for the key.
She didn’t relinquish it. “That’s the third floor.”
“Right.” He held out his hand, waiting.
She pulled the key back and peered at him over the top of her glasses. “The color red doesn’t give you anxiety, does it?”
“Not that I’ve noticed.” Except it might now, after looking at her hair this long.
“Good.” She grinned, and her gold hoop earrings swung. “Then, here you go.”
He was definitely edging up on the anxiety now. He nodded with a brief smile, grabbed his bags, and headed toward the winding wooden staircase. Third floor. Apparently he wouldn’t be getting too big a break from his gym regimen on this trip, after all.
He needed to keep up the endorphins anyway. He was already grumpy. He just needed to do his job, write this silly article, and get out of Dodge.
Besides, the more miserable he was, the more Peter would gloat.
He creaked his way upstairs and stopped at the top of a short hallway leading to the door with a gold-scripted 3 on the front. He inserted the key, turned the knob, eased the door open—and saw red.
Literally. Red everywhere.
He took a step back, his eyes trying to process the red floor rugs, the red rose wallpaper climbing above the white wainscoting, the red floral bedspread draped over the queen-sized frame. The red vases holding faux red flowers on the small desk shoved under the window.
It was as if the color had vomited over the entire room. And if that wasn’t enough, a short Christmas tree stood guard in the corner of the room, decorated with red candy ornaments.
He was going to kill Peter.
“I didn’t know I could ruin something so thoroughly, so quickly.” Bri tossed a lacy oven mitt out of the way on the counter and leaned over the glass, not even caring about the smudges sure to follow. She couldn’t stop replaying that morning’s encounter with Gerard in her mind. Gerard Fortier—travel writer, insult doler, and sarcastic guru.
Figured he’d have a French surname. The Lord’s sense of humor never failed her.
“Well, I always thought you were part superhero, if that helps.” Casey grinned as she popped a pinch of macaron in her mouth. She’d been patiently listening to Bri bemoan her first impression with the Trek writer for the past half hour. They’d become closer friends since the viral video—one more pro that had sprung from the debut. Hopefully this travel feature wouldn’t become a con.
“Superhero?” Bri raised her eyebrows.
“Sure. You know—capable of anything?”
“In the kitchen, maybe.” Bri rolled her eyes. “And apparently I have mad skills in messing up what could be the bakery’s only chance at deterring Charles’s bullheaded offers.”
“Charles is no bull.” Casey took another bite of macaron. “Bulldog,
