Page 167 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“Hi,” I say.

One word.

Still too much.

Daisy stands too fast, steps back, and knocks into a display table.

Three paperbacks slide toward the floor.

I bend as she does.

Our fingers brush around the same book.

Nothing.

Barely a brush of skin.

Still enough to send last night straight through my blood.

She snatches the book back like I handed her a live wire. “Thank you. Coffee for here or emotionally unavailable?”

Bea makes a sound from behind the counter.

Daisy closes her eyes.

I wait.

“I meant to-go,” she says. “Obviously. I’m a professional. A professional woman. With words. Sometimes.”

Her face goes pinker.

“Great start, Daisy,” she mutters to herself. “Very normal. Very woman who did not wake up with consequences.”

I should help her.

I should say to go. Give her space. Let her rebuild whatever wall she needs between the woman who woke in my arms, and the woman who works in this café with customers watching and Bea judging the whole room through cardigan energy.

Instead, I say, “For here.”

Her eyes open.

“Great.” She turns to the counter. “Wonderful. One emotional coffee.”

“Black.”

“I know.”

The words leave her too quickly.

I see the second she realizes it.

I know.

I know too.

I know she prefers cider donuts to any other pastry but pretends it depends on quality. I know she says “pumpkin spice” like a moral accusation. I know she taps her pen twice before saying something that matters. I know the soft, broken sound she makes when she stops trying to be funny and lets herself feel good.

I know too much.