She picked up the carafe of black coffee, trying to hide her smile. It wasn’t polite to gloat, even at irony. “Not unless you go about thirty miles north of town.”
He narrowed his eyes, as if debating the potential commute.
Which meant one other thing. She reached for a mug to serve him. “Red room?”
He nodded, jaw tightening.
Bless Mrs. Beeker and her quirks. “It could be worse. It could be pink.” She casually poured his coffee into a pink polka-dotted mug and slid it toward him.
Gerard cradled the mug between his hands. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”
“Hey, a town that loves sweets is good for business. You might as well jump on board.” Bri placed the carafe back on the warmer. In fact, he needed to be completely on board, or this entire feature would tank. And when sales generated from the viral video tapered off, there wouldn’t be enough momentum to keep Charles from sniffing around with his briefcase and lowball offers.
She reached for Gerard’s mug again. “On second thought, let me put that in a to-go cup. There’s something you need to see.”
“Let me guess. The love-lock wall?”
Bri poured his coffee into a to-go cup and snapped the lid on tight. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“Well, I’m not here to drink the coffee, if that’s what you’re asking.”
She stiffened. “If you’d just sweeten up a little, it wouldn’t be so bad.”
“Did you mean sweeten it up?”
“That’s what I said.” Should have said, anyway. She sighed in an effort to relieve some frustration. “Try it with some cream or sugar.”
“That’s going to be the opening line of the feature.” Gerard framed the imaginary headline with his fingers. “Just a spoonful of sugar helps the coffee go down.”
“It’s not that bad.” She slid the cup toward him and reached to untie her apron. His eyes followed her hand movements, and she remembered his teasing earlier about wearing the allegedly useless garment. Her chest heated. “And don’t you start on my apron again.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He half managed to cover his grin with his coffee cup.
She wanted to swat him with said apron, but with her luck, Mabel and Agnes would return from the store before she could and start giving her that look again. Besides, swatting was definitely on the list of things she shouldn’t do to their feature writer.
Running her fingers through his waves of dark hair to straighten it out was also on that list.
She tossed the apron on a clean part of the counter, next to her favorite Wanderlust pallet sign, then stepped through the waist-high swinging door that separated the behind-the-counter area from the shop. “Come on. It’s not so bad.”
Gerard straightened. “The coffee or the love-lock wall?”
“Both.”
“You’re going to have to sell me.”
“Your coffee is already free.”
“I meant on the wall.” Gerard followed her outside, his begrudging presence heavy on her heels as they crunched through the leaves. “What’s the big deal about it, anyway?”
She stopped and turned so quickly that he stumbled not to run into her. “Am I trying to convince you or your readers?”
He took a sip from his paper cup and winced. “Both.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“Now, Ms. Duval, you haven’t known me long enough to make that declaration.”
She held up her hand to shade her eyes from the setting sun. A crimson leaf blew from a nearby maple and drifted down between them. “How do you know it’s not Mrs.?”
He opened his mouth, then immediately pressed his lips together, as if changing his words mid-verse. “My editor did his research.”
Wait a minute. “How is my relationship status part of the feature?”
“It might not be, but you know how it goes. A cute, single blonde sells copies a heck of a lot better than a cute, married one.”
He thought she was cute.
And now she couldn’t remember a single thing about the love locks.
CHAPTER
FIVE
This chick needed a hobby.
Gerard considered clicking off his recorder for the third time since she’d started rambling about the love locks. She stood in those cream high heels on a crimson carpet of leaves, gesturing toward each lock like a tour guide. And doggone it, she remembered the individual story behind most of them.
The wall, which was really a black wrought-iron fence wrapped around a stone fountain, held more than a hundred padlocks, some piled on top of each other on the same rod, others stacked on the bottom and waiting for a lock to fall on top of it. Some silver. Some black. Some chrome. A few spray-painted a bright color for easy recognition.
This entire feature was already grating on his nerves more than he’d anticipated—and that’d been a lot. “Just stop.” He needed a minute. Needed a breath. Needed her to take one, and stop babbling like a lunatic about some crazy matchmaking ideas she kept trying to make French.
Bri paused on her amble along the stepping-stone pathway and blinked, as if coming out of her host trance. The next step in front of her fancy shoe read Wanderlust, just like some of the décor he’d noticed inside the bakery.
For some reason, that annoyed him even more.
She blinked up at him. “I’m sorry, do I need to repeat something? Was I talking too fast?”
Heck no. And yes. But that wasn’t the problem. Gerard ran his fingers through his hair, trying to pinpoint the wave of frustration rising. “First of all, the name is ridiculous. Love locks. What even is that?”
Bri shrugged. “Take it up with Paris. They started it.”
There she went again. “And hated it, hence why they shut it down.”
“Oh, come on. Now you sound like Charles.”
Gerard clicked the recorder back on. “Who’s Charles?”
“This local lawyer who wants to buy the property from Mabel and Agnes.”
“Trying to find his match made in heaven?”
The breeze stirred her long blonde hair off her shoulders. “No, trying to tear it down and build something else. Probably some overpriced, corporate coffee chain.”
He sort of liked Charles already.
Bri crossed her arms over her pink sweater. “Why are you writing
