Page 114 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“Any of them. I’m versatile.”

Mom turns toward the hallway. “Let me call Calla. She can have breakfast with us before we head out.”

“Calla is here?” I ask, maybe too cheerfully. “Where is she?”

“Tasting room.”

Forrest pauses with a crate in his arms. “Who’s Calla?”

“My cousin,” I say. “She runs the flower farm and has the emotional warmth of a locked barn.”

“I heard that,” a voice says from the doorway.

Helena appears wearing mud-splattered boots, a sweater under a waxed jacket, and the expression of a woman who has already murdered three conversations before coffee. Her curls are piled in a clip, pieces escaping around her face. In one hand, she holds a bucket of dahlias. In the other, floral snips.

Her gaze slides to Forrest, assessing and unimpressed.

“Oh, wow,” she says. “You brought a Wolfcraft.”

“Miss Thorn,” Forrest says with a nod.

“Watch it, Helena,” I warn. “He’s protected by the Wolfcraft-Thorn treaty Soren and Winnie claim will keep their little bundle away from both families if we misbehave.”

Helena glares at me. “Fine. But I’m doing this under duress.”

“Noted.” I pretend to scribble in the air.

She looks me over, and I feel it before she says anything. The appraisal. The worry. The cousinly affection wrapped in blunt force trauma.

“So,” she says, “are you helping with harvest setup? It’s not the same without you bossing everyone around.”

“Thank you. I’ve missed being appreciated for my worst traits.”

Helena gives me a quick hug, the bucket pressed awkwardly between us. She smells like soil, eucalyptus, and cold morning air.

“You look tired,” she says.

“Wonderful. That’s becoming my brand.”

“You also look expensive-adjacent,” she adds, glancing at Forrest.

“I’m standing right here,” Forrest says.

“Then try to look less like a family complication.”

Mom makes a small sound into her mug.

I point at Helena. “This is why I missed you.”

“You didn’t call.”

“I was busy being busy and dating this grumpy specimen.”

Helena glances at Forrest again. “Acceptable.”

Forrest’s mouth does not move, but I know him now. That is his almost-smile trying not to become evidence.

Mom sets a plate of cider donuts on the island with the precise calm of a woman trying very hard not to ask forty-seven questions.