Page 38 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“Go,” I tell her. “Before Bea starts throwing biscotti.”

Daisy’s mouth tilts. “That happened once.”

“Twice.”

“The second time was justified.”

“Customer asked if she had decaf.”

“Exactly.”

Her smile stays a little longer this time.

Then she walks away, mustard on her sleeve, hair slipping from its clip, carrying her half-finished sandwich like she has every intention of pretending that counted as a meal.

I watch her go.

I shouldn’t.

I do anyway.

Because The Turning Page is quiet enough for a man to think.

Warm enough for my dog to sleep.

Crowded enough that no one asks too many questions.

And Daisy Thorn is here, driving me out of my mind one argument at a time, making this place feel less like somewhere I hide and more like somewhere I keep returning to on purpose.

Which is exactly why I should stop coming.

Tomorrow.

Probably.

Chapter Six

Daisy

By Thursday morning, Boston has decided to become aggressively autumnal.

There are pumpkins in every storefront window, chrysanthemums outside every boutique, cinnamon-scented candles arranged in seductive little displays near cash registers, and a chalkboard outside the coffee place near the nonprofit that says, Pumpkin Spice Is Back, Baby! in handwriting too cheerful to be trusted.

I love fall.

Let’s be clear about that.

I love pumpkins as décor. I love gourds with strange little necks that look like they have secrets. I love plaid scarves, apple cider, foggy mornings, and the annual return of sweaters that make women believe they have their lives together because their sleeves are oversized.

But pumpkin spice?

No.

Pumpkin spice is what happens when a candle and a muffin enter a business partnership without consulting the public. It’s too much. Too loud. Too committed to making every beverage taste like someone liquefied a craft store.

I respect the aesthetic.

I reject the beverage.