Page 117 of Fake it ’Til Fall

His mouth almost moves.

There it is.

My fake boyfriend, almost smiling at my family vineyard while my real life waits somewhere between the tasting room and the truth.

I should be terrified.

I am.

But I keep walking beside him anyway.

Chapter Sixteen

Forrest

Daisy Thorn moves through Winterberry Cove like she knows where every problem will be before it has the nerve to become one.

By eight-thirty, she has relocated two crates of mislabeled wine, rewritten the tasting room setup plan on the back of a harvest menu, convinced Marlene that a pumpkin arch is “visually ambitious” instead of saying it looks like autumn threw up on a trellis, and stopped Helena from replacing Carla Alden’s bridal bouquet with funeral flowers.

Barely.

Helena still looks tempted.

I respect it.

Support it, even.

“Absolutely not,” Daisy tells her cousin, standing beside a long wooden table covered in dahlias, mums, eucalyptus, and enough greenery to hide evidence. “You cannot use flowers as a Yelp review of someone’s character.”

Helena holds up a dark bloom. “This says betrayal with restraint.”

“That is not a wedding theme.”

“It has range.”

“It has a restraining order from good taste.”

“This is why people fear artists.”

“This is why people should fear brides.”

Helena scoffs.

Daisy points at the bouquet. “No funeral tones.”

“Carla asked for romantic fall drama.” Helena gives me a sharp nod. “I followed instructions.”

“Romantic fall drama means candlelight and tasteful longing. It does not mean vineyard widow with a secret.”

Helena looks toward me. “Wolfcraft, say something useful.”

I’m holding a crate of wine near the tasting room door, because my role today is large decorative labor with a fake-boyfriend subplot.

“Daisy’s right.”

Daisy turns to me, immediately suspicious. “That was too easy.”

“You’re probably right.”