The Key to Love by Betsy St. Amant

Author:Betsy St. Amant
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Contemporary Romance;Love stories;FIC042040;FIC027020
ISBN: 9781493426676
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2020-09-10T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

That had been a huge mistake.

Which part, he wasn’t sure. But somewhere, there had been a mistake—plenty of them. Telling Bri about his upcoming birthday. Opening up about running from the hard stuff. Almost kissing her.

Not kissing her.

Gerard shoved one hand wearily through his hair as he peered up at the steeple atop the nondenominational church. He’d offered to help with the wedding and hated to go back on his word, but he couldn’t stay in the kitchen with Bri any longer. He needed fresh air. Bri must have gotten the hint—or maybe she wanted space as badly as he did—because she’d given him the task of delivering Casey’s wedding vows and updated order of ceremony to the minister, who apparently didn’t have a functioning printer.

Only in Story.

Gerard hesitated in front of the small brick chapel. Late afternoon clouds billowed above, shadowed with the threat of rain. Hopefully it wouldn’t downpour, since Bri already had the arch decorated and a dozen tables set out. They’d stored the seventy-five folding chairs in the shed. He could just see Bri asking him to wipe everything down with a towel tomorrow if it rained.

And he’d probably do it.

Because something had shifted in that kitchen. He felt like he was holding his breath, careening around a mountain bike trail on a seaside cliff, balancing precariously on two fast-moving wheels. One false move and he’d tumble straight off the rocks and into the breakers. He refused to stop and breathe—or acknowledge what exactly was shifting.

It was easier to just keep moving.

He pulled open the solid door of the church. Muted green carpet muffled his steps as he crept inside. A long hallway led to the right, with several shut doors that were probably offices. To the left was another set of oak double doors. One was propped open with a small wooden triangle.

He peered inside. The sanctuary. “Hello?”

His voice echoed in the dimly lit room. He turned a full circle in the lobby, but there was no answer. Did they not lock their doors here either? Or maybe the staff had already left for the day.

On second thought, how big of a staff could a small church in Story, Kansas, even have in the first place?

He pulled the folded papers with Casey’s vows and instructions out of his back pocket and hesitantly moved inside the sanctuary. “Mr . . . Pastor John?” His church lingo was rusty—too rusty. His mama would be disappointed in him.

Not that she’d gone to a service either in the past twenty years. And who could blame her, after the judgmental comments about her slipping lifestyle made their way from the choir loft to her ears, until they finally landed in print on a Wednesday night prayer list.

Gerard ambled down the aisle between the rows of simple wooden pews. A pulpit stood on the stage, atop a carpeted altar. A stained-glass window took the place where the baptistry typically was, back in the church he grew up in, anyway.

When was the

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