Page 160 of Fake it ’Til Fall

His brow lifts. “Like what?”

“Like a vineyard scandal with abs.”

His mouth almost curves. “Puck won’t care.”

“My mother might be in the hallway.”

“She shouldn’t be outside your bedroom.”

“She’s a mother. Boundaries are a suggestion.”

Another scrape at the door.

Puck whines, long and wounded.

I point toward Forrest’s jeans on the floor. “Pants first. For the dog.”

“For everyone’s recovery.”

He rolls away from me, which I hate for approximately one second until the quilt slips and I see his back.

Then I hate everything else.

He pulls on his jeans, and I stare at the ceiling like a woman of dignity who did not spend last night making sounds in this exact bed that my ancestors may have heard from beyond the veil.

Forrest opens the door.

Puck barrels in with the offended dignity of a creature excluded from poor choices.

He jumps onto the bed before either of us can stop him.

“Puck,” Forrest says.

Puck ignores him and flops across my legs.

“See?” I say, petting his head immediately because I am weak and he is emotionally persuasive. “He forgives me.”

“He’s mad at me.”

“As he should be. You abandoned him in the hallway like a Dickensian orphan.”

“I gave him a blanket.”

“A luxurious Dickensian orphan.”

Puck groans and presses his head against my hip, clearly prepared to testify on my behalf if this ever goes to court.

Forrest stands beside the bed in jeans and no shirt, looking like a man who belongs in a very specific category of bad decision—Wide shoulders, morning stubble, and the audacity to ask if I’m okay after ruining my ability to interact with quilts normally.

I look away before my body starts another committee vote.

“Let’s head to the backyard,” Forrest says to Puck.

Puck huffs, as if he has several follow-up questions.

“Go,” I tell him. “Before you start submitting evidence.”

Forrest grabs his boots with one hand and looks back at me.