Page 19 of Fake it ’Til Fall

Maybe less.

Still enough.

I chew slower than necessary because I am a terrible person and, apparently, one turkey sandwich away from becoming a flirt. Honey mustard sits at the corner of my lip. I know because his eyes go there again, and every sensible thought I own trips down a flight of stairs.

“You have—” he starts.

“I know,” I say, too quickly.

He reaches for a napkin.

I reach for the same napkin.

Our hands collide again.

Because apparently the universe has taken an interest in my undoing and chosen deli products as its medium.

Forrest stills.

I still.

Puck, traitor and witness, leans his chin against my knee like this is dinner theater.

Forrest’s fingers close around the napkin. He doesn’t hand it to me right away. His knuckles brush mine, and his eyes lift to my face.

The café is too warm.

Or I am.

Both seem likely. I am a woman wearing affordable boots, emotional denial, and a cardigan that has already seen too many fiscal quarters. Overheating is basically my brand.

Forrest gives me the napkin.

Not touching me this time.

Careful now.

Worse.

“Thanks,” I say, wiping my mouth like a normal person, and not a woman whose pulse just attempted a jailbreak.

“You always talk this much while eating?”

“You always stare this much while denying basic kindness?”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“No, of course not. You were conducting sandwich surveillance.”

“You’re a hazard.”

“I’m a fucking delight.”

“You have mustard on your sleeve and your face.”

“A multi-location delight.”

His mouth curves again.