Page 163 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“Same thing if you’re fragile enough.”

“You’re currently arguing with tea.”

“I’m processing.”

“Day, you’re officially spiraling.”

“I’m spiraling with product knowledge.”

Bea folds her arms.

I hate when people fold their arms at me. It suggests confidence. Boundaries. Adequate protein intake.

Three things I currently cannot relate to.

“Everything has a vibe,” I insist. “Puck has a vibe. Your espresso machine has a vibe. Forrest has an extremely complicated vibe with legal exposure.”

Bea sets a box of mugs onto the counter with more force than necessary. “Ah.”

“No.” I point at her as if forbidding her from becoming a woman with insight. “Absolutely not.”

“I didn’t ask anything.”

“You ah’d.”

“That was a neutral syllable.”

“That was a syllable wearing reading glasses and holding a deposition.”

Bea folds her arms harder.

I hate when she does that. Bea is five-foot-five in clogs and a cardigan, yet she folds her arms like a woman who has personally outlived several empires and found them poorly managed.

“How was Winterberry?” she asks.

“Seasonal.” I shrug, because technically that is an answer, and “technically” is where cowards with good punctuation go to hide.

She narrows her gaze. “Seasonal?”

“Yes. Pumpkins. Rain. Family tension. Floral threats. Donuts. Very brand compliant.”

“And Forrest?”

I drop a tin of chamomile.

Not dramatically.

Just enough to betray my entire bloodline.

Bea looks at the tin.

Then at me.

“Don’t,” I say.

“I am trying very hard not to.”

“Try harder.”