Page 74 of Fake it ’Til Fall

Unfortunately, I have never been accused of being that in writing.

Forrest stares at me.

This isn’t his regular stare either.

His regular stare is grumpy, observant, and mildly prosecutorial. This one is worse. This one is the stare of a man watching someone toss a lit match into a hay maze while saying, Isn’t this festive?

“No,” he says.

I blink. “That was fast.”

“It didn’t require thought.”

“Most of your opinions could benefit from more thought.”

“No.”

“You already said that.”

“I’m saying it again, for clarification.”

Puck sighs beneath the table, which feels judgmental coming from someone who tried to eat a napkin two days ago.

I look down at him. “Don’t take his side. I thought we had something.”

Puck’s tail thumps once against the floor, which I choose to interpret as support, because my emotional infrastructure is currently being held together by interpretation, turkey, and rye.

Forrest leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest.

I hate when he does that. Not because it’s intimidating. I am a Thorn woman. I have survived family brunches where three generations discussed land boundaries, Catholic guilt, and whether a centerpiece was trying too hard. A man folding his arms will not be my undoing.

Probably.

The problem is that Forrest folding his arms makes his shoulders do things.

Unnecessary things.

Broad, irritating, former-professional-athlete things.

“You’re not making yourself part of my mess,” he says.

“That is adorable,” I tell him. “You think you invented my mess.”

“Daisy.”

“No, really. Very sweet. Every man assumes he has proprietary rights to consequences.” I set the sandwich down and wipe my fingers on a napkin, because if I’m going to propose a mutually beneficial lie, I should not have honey mustard on my thumb. Standards are important, even when committing emotional fraud. “I am already in a mess. Liam is marrying Carla at my family’s vineyard. My mother has turned me into a daughter-event-planner-emotional-speed-bump hybrid. Principal Whitcomb thinks I’m now coordinating a sports-adjacent community bonding event with fundraising included, and Carla just threatened to sue if your dinner interferes with her final walkthrough.”

Forrest’s jaw shifts.

I point at him. “Don’t make that face.”

“What face?”

“The face that says you’re mentally moving Carla and Liam into a penalty box.”

“They’d fit.”

“Probably, but that’s not the point.”