Page 131 of Fake it ’Til Fall

Daisy keeps one hand on the banister and the other on her notebook.

Ridiculous.

The notebook isn’t going to save either of us from spending the night in her room.

Unless she has two beds.

I hold on to that thought longer than I should.

Two beds would be good.

Two beds would be safe.

Two beds would be the universe showing rare maturity.

The hallway upstairs is narrow and warm, lit by old brass sconces and gray afternoon light leaking through rain-streaked windows. Family photos line one wall. Soren as a kid in a too-serious blazer. Daisy with a missing front tooth and a pumpkin half her size. Eleanor Thorn with a man who has Daisy’s eyes and a smile that looks like it knew how to get away with things.

Probably her father.

I don’t ask.

Daisy has gone quiet.

I’m starting to hate Daisy quiet.

Daisy loud means she’s fighting. Daisy funny means she’s bleeding but standing. Daisy organizing means the building is on fire, and she’s already assigning exits.

Daisy quiet means something got past the locks.

She stops in front of a door with her hand on the knob and takes one breath.

Then another.

“You can still fake your death,” she says.

I groan. “Nope. Too tired.”

“That’s emotionally uninspired.”

“You’ve had a long day, Thorn. Insult better.”

“Give me coffee and thirty minutes. I’ll emotionally devastate you with original material.”

I shake my head. “Tomorrow, maybe. I might just ditch you in this town before dawn.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” she says, offended.

“No,” I agree. “I wouldn’t.”

Which is a problem.

I’m not good with people around me. I can handle a team. A room. A locker full of guys pretending pain is a personality. I can handle reporters, coaches, agents, kids who want autographs, parents who want promises, and men who think anger is the same as authority.

People are manageable when there are rules.

Daisy is becoming more than people and follows only her own rules.

That’s the problem.