Page 178 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“You called me Wolfie.”

“I did. It felt less emotionally naked than Wolfe.”

I step closer.

Just enough.

Her breath catches, then she tries to cover it by lifting the notebook between us again.

Bad shield.

Useful tells.

“Day.”

“No.” She points at me with the notebook. “Don’t ‘Day’ me when I have to go handle the man disrespecting used books.”

“Pre-owned books.”

Her face tightens with immediate outrage. “I hate that more.”

“I know.”

She studies me for half a second, mouth soft, eyes bright, trying to decide whether to run, kiss me again, or make a joke about workplace safety.

The joke wins.

Barely.

“This conversation is adjourned,” she says.

“For now.”

“For now,” she agrees, and the words feel like a door left open.

Then she slips past me into the café, close enough that her shoulder brushes my chest.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Daisy

By the first Monday in November, I have learned that fake dating a grump is much easier when the relationship is still fake.

Fake has rules.

Fake has exit ramps.

Fake has clear terms, limited scope, and the comforting possibility of dissolving the entire arrangement with a carefully worded text and maybe a muffin basket.

Real, unfortunately, has habits.

Real is Forrest showing up at The Turning Page at six-fifteen with Puck, coffee on his mind, a new novel under one arm, and a look on his face that says he has absolutely not missed me since the last time he saw me twenty-three hours earlier, he definitely, truly hasn’t.

Real is my phone lighting up at eleven at night when I’m alone, at home. Which I must confess it’s not that often with some complaint about Puck. Like last night’s:

Forrest: Puck ate a receipt.

Daisy: What kind of receipt?