Page 103 of Fake it ’Til Fall

A pause.

Forrest: Like what.

Daisy: A hardware store.

Forrest: A hardware store?

Daisy: Think about it. Nobody fake-dates at a hardware store. There’s no ambiance. There’s no flattering anything. There’s probably a man named Gary who wants to talk about grout. It’s the least romantic place on earth, which makes it the most believable. We go in. We look at things. You hold a level with deep masculine intent. Someone from Winterberry’s Boston cousin spots us and reports back that Daisy Thorn is so settled she’s buying drawer pulls with a man. Domesticity. Permanence. Drawer pulls.

Forrest: Win mentioned Denver. Sightseeing. Her social media and the bakery’s, so neither of us has to post but it still looks organic.

Daisy: Ugh, the word organic is there. Let’s do the hardware store. It’ll be painless.

Forrest: Might not be the worst idea you’ve had.

Daisy: I’m framing that. “Not the worst idea you’ve had” — Forrest Wolfcraft. Going right above my desk.

Forrest: That’s not what I said.

Daisy: It’s more convenient the way I phrased it. Grammar matters.

Forrest: Don’t.

Daisy: Too late. It’s in ink.

Forrest: Everything with you is in ink.

Daisy: Ink is commitment. That’s probably why you hate it.

Forrest doesn’t answer right away.

Which is fine.

Completely fine.

I am a grown woman. I do not require immediate validation from a man who once described a romance novel as structurally irresponsible.

Still, I stare at the screen like it owes me child support.

Forrest: Ink is evidence. Different thing.

Daisy: Spoken like a man who has never owned a planner with stickers.

Forrest: Proudly.

Daisy: Stickers create morale.

Forrest: Stickers create clutter.

Daisy: And here I was, thinking fake dating would broaden your world.

Forrest: It’s Sunday morning. My world can stay narrow until noon.

I smile.

Then I immediately look around my apartment like someone might have witnessed it.

No one has.