Page 159 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“Didn’t.”

“You released a micro-expression into the room.”

“Sounds serious.”

“It is. This room has seen enough.”

His eyes are still half-lidded, hair sleep-rough, face too open in the morning. Forrest without armor is worse than Forrest with it. The gruffness is there, but softened at the edges, and I hate how much I want to touch him just to see if he’ll let me.

He reaches up and brushes his thumb along my jaw.

Small.

Simple.

Devastating.

“Do you regret it?” he asks.

“No.” I roll onto my back, pulling the quilt with me because I am brave but not ready to have this conversation fully exposed beneath the gaze of a former hockey player with a body built by violence, discipline, and several unfair genetics departments. “I regret that Puck was exiled. I regret that my mother was here. I regret that my childhood room has excellent acoustics.”

His eyes brighten.

I slap a hand over my face. “Forget I said that.”

“I will not.”

“Forrest.”

“Daisy.”

My name in his morning voice should be a federal offense.

A scratching sound comes from the hallway.

Then a huff.

Then one tragic paw tries to slide beneath the door.

“Oh, no,” I whisper. “Your son knows.”

“He’s a dog.”

“He knows. Didn’t you hear the paw? That is a formal accusation.”

Forrest exhales like he is trying not to laugh, which is rude because laughter means facial movement and facial movement means I have to look at him.

“I’ll let him in,” he says.

“Wait.”

He pauses.

The quilt sits low at his waist. His chest is bare. There is a mark on his shoulder that might be from me, which is information I will be taking to my grave or possibly my next crisis meeting with Bea.

“What?”

“You can’t answer the door like that.”