Page 166 of Fake it ’Til Fall

She didn’t look at me when she said goodbye.

That shouldn’t matter.

It does.

Did I want a kiss goodbye? Probably. Or even better, I wanted her to stay with me. I needed more of her. Hence, I’m here like a lost puppy.

The café is warm, full of old paper, espresso, cinnamon, rain-damp coats, and the particular kind of noise Daisy seems to thrive in. Honestly, this is what she should do. Run a bookstore with coffee issues, tea with emotional range, and a rescue shelf for paperbacks no one admits they bought on purpose.

There’s a line of tiny pumpkins in the front window. A handwritten sign near the register says, Today’s special: apple cider cake, which sounds like something Daisy would argue has seasonal integrity. A woman in the corner is crying into a laptop. Two students are whispering aggressively over a textbook. Bea stands behind the counter, looking at me like she has been expecting my bad decisions to arrive exactly on schedule.

Then I see Daisy.

She is by the tea display with a tin in one hand, wearing a black apron over a sweater, her hair twisted up in a clip that has already lost control of the situation.

She freezes when she sees me.

Not much.

Enough.

Her body knows me now.

Mine knows her too.

That is the first problem.

The second problem is Puck.

He sees Daisy and loses every bit of training I have ever pretended he has.

“No,” I say.

He lunges anyway.

Daisy drops to her knees before I can stop him, and Puck shoves his big head under her chin like a tragic orphan reunited with the only woman who ever understood him.

“Hello, traitor,” she whispers, rubbing both hands over his ears. “Did you survive your hallway exile? Should I call a lawyer? Blink once if Forrest violated your emotional rights.”

Puck licks her jaw.

“Forrest denies all allegations,” she tells him.

“He had a blanket,” I say.

“A blanket,” Daisy repeats, looking up. “How generous. A textile and abandonment. Truly, the luxury package.”

Her eyes hit mine, and for one second the whole café disappears. Everything narrows to her on the floor with my dog, the faint pink in her cheeks, and the fact that I know exactly how those cheeks looked last night when she was trying not to come apart under me.

Fuck.

I take one breath.

Then another.

Neither one helps.

My hands want things they have no business wanting in a café full of people, paperbacks, and a woman crying into a laptop like her spreadsheet personally betrayed her.