Page 165 of Fake it ’Til Fall

I am a lady.

A lady with no poker face, unstable tea organization, and a body that apparently believes “contract violation” means “fond memory.”

So I shrug and say, “He was Forrest.”

“Oh, honey.”

“No. Absolutely not. You are not Winnifred. Only one woman is allowed to ‘oh, honey’ me per fiscal quarter.”

“Did you call Winnifred?”

“No.”

“Did you text her?”

“Briefly.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing useful.”

“What did she say?”

I look at the shelf.

Bea waits.

“She said the fake-dating force had been disturbed.”

Bea laughs once. “I like her.”

“You would. You both enjoy watching women form attachments against their stated values.”

The bell over the front door rings.

I freeze.

Not because I know it’s him.

There are dozens of people who can walk into The Turning Page on a Sunday afternoon. Students with laptop chargers. Tourists hunting for used books. Men who think ordering “just coffee” makes them interesting. Women buying romance novels face down like the cashier has not read worse and loved it.

It does not have to be him.

My body, however, has already formed a committee, taken attendance, and begun panicking with purpose.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Forrest

And I’m back at The Turning Page.

I have coffee at home. Bad coffee, but coffee. I have a dog who has already been walked, fed, forgiven for pastry crimes, and told twice that staring at the passenger door will not summon Daisy back into my truck.

Puck disagreed.

Loudly.

That is how I end up standing inside The Turning Page less than an hour after dropping Daisy off for a shift she claimed she couldn’t cancel. She was right. She had a shift. She also left Winterberry like the vineyard had caught fire behind her, and the only thing that could save her was inventory.