Page 168 of Fake it ’Til Fall

Not enough.

That is the worst part.

Daisy clears her throat and reaches for a carafe. “Black coffee. For the man whose personality has fewer ingredients than a survival kit.”

Bea slides her a cup without looking up. “Careful. That almost sounded affectionate.”

“It was customer service,” Daisy says quickly. “Hostile customer service. Very on brand.”

“Sure,” Bea says.

Daisy points at her. “Do not cardigan at me.”

“I’m standing still.”

“You’re standing still with narrative judgment.”

She moves behind the counter like coffee is a life raft. Bea steps beside her, murmurs something I don’t hear, and Daisy glares with the force of a woman trying to prevent a witness from testifying.

I take my usual table because standing in the middle of the café wanting Daisy Thorn is not a sustainable plan.

Puck settles under the table but keeps his eyes on her.

“Pathetic,” I mutter.

His tail thumps.

The café rush gives Daisy something to do for the next thirty minutes. She makes coffee. Hands over receipts. Answers questions. Reorganizes the pastry case. Pretends not to look at me.

She looks at me six times.

I count.

I shouldn’t.

I do.

When the crowd thins, she brings my coffee to the table herself instead of letting Bea do it.

“Your coffee,” she says.

“Thanks.”

“Of course.”

“You left fast.”

Her fingers tighten on the edge of the saucer.

“I had a shift,” she says.

“I know.”

“Then why did that sound like a question wearing boots?”

Because you didn’t look at me.

Because you held my hand for almost half the drive and then let go like Boston city limits came with emotional laws.