Page 4 of Fake it ’Til Fall

That almost makes me laugh. Soren Thorn apologizing is like spotting a deer in traffic. Beautiful. Startling. Probably a sign something has gone terribly wrong.

“Why are you sorry?” I ask. “You didn’t agree to marry him when he proposed.”

“No, but I offered to break his nose once he cheated on you.”

“Which I appreciated,” I say. “Very medieval. Very on-brand. Honestly, one of your better brotherly moments.”

My free hand slips into the pocket of my apron before Bea can see my fingers curl.

“But it’s all good.”

Soren goes quiet.

Not because he believes me, but because he loves me enough not to make me prove I’m lying.

“The wedding is the first week of November,” he continues, because apparently we’re seasoning the wound now.

Of course it is.

Fall in Winterberry Cove isn’t a season. It’s a full production with wardrobe, sponsors, baked goods, family expectations, and committees that believe cider requires governance. The whole town turns gold and red and deeply invested in other people’s business. There will be twinkling lights. There will be tasteful pumpkins. There will be women who knew me at seventeen watching my face to see if it cracks, which is exactly why I won’t be going.

I’ll never go back to Winterberry Cove.

Never.

Unless someone dies, marries rich, opens a bakery with emotional seating, or my mother says my full name in a voicemail.

So, probably by Tuesday.

“Perfect,” I say. “Why have emotional closure when you can have a destination wound with foliage?”

“Day—”

“So is it Carla Alden?”

Carla Alden is elegant in a way that feels hereditary. She probably wakes up in matching pajamas with her hair arranged by woodland creatures with graduate degrees. I bet she owns thank-you notes so thick they could be used as coasters. I bet her spice cabinet has labels. I bet her bras match her underwear on weekdays.

She has never, to my knowledge, spilled red wine on herself at a gala, cried in a public bathroom, or accidentally slept with someone’s fiancé.

Not accidentally, actually.

That feels generous.

She slept with mine on purpose.

“Yeah,” Soren says. “It’s Carla.”

Something hot moves behind my eyes, then retreats when I blink. Good. Fine. Wonderful. I can function with nearly any organ compromised, apparently, as long as my public face stays employed.

“Of course,” I say, and smile because Bea is watching me now with the attentive horror of a woman trying not to interfere. “That makes sense. She has excellent hair and the bone structure of a duchess who has never forgotten a password.”

“Are you okay?”

I look down at my apron.

My phone battery is at nine percent. My bank account has forty-seven dollars. A pharmacy charge is lurking somewhere in the near future like a little financial gremlin in orthopedic shoes. My mother is probably preparing a speech that starts with I only worry because I love you, and ends somewhere near Maybe it’s time to come home.

Home.