“I did my best.” And he had. But it’d been hard—he’d had to force some of the words of praise onto the page, despite his instincts to the contrary. Not because of Bri. Not because of the bakery’s uniqueness and quality desserts. Rather, because he knew she needed more than this. Her wings were clipped, and he wanted her to soar. Charles wasn’t the anvil holding her down.
The Pastry Puff was.
“Good.” She dusted crumbs from her fingers. “Maybe that will finally hush Charles up.”
Blast. That money was still in his room. After Sandra interrupted them at Taylor’s the other day, he’d forgotten to ask Charles when he could swing by his office.
“Maybe.” Gerard shrugged, tearing the napkin into smaller pieces. His leg bounced beneath the table, and he realized that this was the longest he’d gone in years without some sort of adrenaline rush.
Unless he counted kissing Bri. Which he did.
She smiled. “I can’t wait to read it.”
He could. Because once it was in print, that meant he was back in Chicago or on to his next adventure.
Alone.
His leg jiggled harder.
“Here.” Bri handed him the last half of her macaron, and he ate it. It was good—surprisingly good. She’d nailed the recipe this time, no doubt about it.
Bri frowned slightly, holding up another macaron an inch from her face and peering into the filled middle. “Do you think it’s missing something?”
“No. I think it’s exactly as it should be.” He couldn’t hold back any longer. They had to talk about the inevitable. He reached across the table for her hand. “Look, Bri—about last night.”
She set the dessert down and laced her fingers through his. The simplicity of that natural motion nearly destroyed him. He fought to focus. He had a plan. He was about to be handed his dream job at Traipse Horizon—lead writer. He’d get to write things people truly wanted to read. His opinion—his voice—would matter. His paychecks would increase. He could get his mom the help she needed. He had to leave.
But that didn’t mean that whatever was sparking between them had to die.
She raised her eyebrows. “Do you mean the picture?”
That too. He took a deep breath. Which to divulge first?
“Or do you mean this?” She gestured between them with her free hand. The blush tinging her cheeks was almost as adorable as the hesitant pitch in her voice.
Oh man. He’d just thought the word adorable in a non-sarcastic way. This town had changed him.
Bri had changed him.
A sliver of fear pricked. Did he want to be changed?
It was far, far too late for that to be relevant. And just like that day on the rocky cliffs of Hawaii overlooking the turquoise waters, he took a deep breath and dove in. “What are you doing for New Year’s?”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
For the first time in four years, Bri had a date for New Year’s Eve.
Unless you counted two years ago, when Mrs. Beeker’s grandson bought her pizza at Taylor’s Sushi Barn while she was out drowning her non-festive holiday sorrows with a gallon of sweet tea and denial. But she didn’t count it.
She couldn’t stop smiling, which drew a few curious stares from the stay-at-home moms and elderly gentlemen in suspenders standing in line around her at the bank. Gerard was leaving, which dimmed her smile a little every time she let it soak in. But he was coming back.
For a date with her.
Her smile widened automatically, and her stomach flipped in anticipation. She eagerly swung the bank bag of receipts and cash between her fingers as she waited for her turn at the teller counter. Everything was looking up. The bag in her hands was full—which meant business was solid—Gerard wasn’t permanently roaring out of her life, and she’d finally figured out her mom’s oldest and best recipe. Nothing could bring her down.
“Well, well. Fancy meeting you here—again.”
Not even Sandra.
Bri turned, smile still easily in place. “Hello, Sandra.” The heater in the vents above shuddered off, as if sensing the need for less hot air at her arrival.
“You still haven’t come by the consignment shop, I gather.” The woman’s heavily made-up eyes flitted over Bri’s outfit, dusted in flour and coffee grounds. She smoothed the tailored lines of her hot-pink blazer and sniffed her disapproval.
Bri halfheartedly brushed at the stains on her sweater. “Been a little busy.” She couldn’t help the smile that twitched on her lips at the thought of what—make that who—she’d been busy with. Gerard wasn’t leaving for two more days, so he’d promised tonight they’d get some dinner and have a picnic at the B&B. She planned to absorb and appreciate every minute she could with him and make it last until December 31. After that . . . Her smile faltered for the first time that day.
“I assume business has picked up?” Sandra pressed a little too close and gestured to the zippered pouch in Bri’s hands.
Bri only nodded, unwilling to divulge more specifics to Charles’s right-hand man. Woman. Whatever. She inched up a few steps, hoping Sandra would get the hint. But she hadn’t gotten a hint for as long as she’d known her.
Still close on her heels, Sandra made a tsk sound under her breath. “Looks like the Puff didn’t even need that article, then.” She let out an amused cough. “Good thing.”
Bri frowned. “What do you mean?” She instantly regretted engaging—Sandra was clearly up to something, and it wouldn’t be anything Bri would want to be involved with.
“Just that I can’t imagine that feature having gone in your favor.” Sandra placed a cool hand on Bri’s arm, her matching hot-pink fingernails shockingly bright. “Even if you are sleeping with the enemy.” She wiggled her eyebrows.
“Sleeping with—no one is sleeping anywhere.” Bri’s chest heated, and she swallowed against the knot taking up residence in her throat. “Sandra, what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Charles and Gerard being all chummy.” Sandra leaned in, glancing over
