Page 18 of Fake it ’Til Fall

Gruff.

Annoying.

My eyes sting for one terrible second, which is unacceptable behavior from a woman in an apron holding pastry tongs.

I blink it back and lift my chin.

“Yes, Coach.”

His mouth finally curves.

Not fully.

Not enough for anyone else to catch.

Enough for me.

“That was a hockey reference,” he says.

“I’m culturally aware.”

“You once asked if icing was a dessert penalty.”

“It should be.”

Puck huffs against my shin like he agrees.

I open the bag because Forrest is still watching me, and apparently I have decided the best way to preserve my dignity is to unwrap a sandwich under the gaze of a man who looks like he could bench-press my rent.

It is turkey, cheddar, apple slices, and honey mustard on thick bread.

I stare at it.

Then at him.

“You remembered my sandwich.”

“No.”

“You absolutely remembered my sandwich.”

“I remembered a sandwich.”

“With turkey, cheddar, apple, and honey mustard?”

“Common sandwich.”

“It is not a common sandwich. It is a woman-with-a-Pinterest-board sandwich.”

“Then eat your board sandwich.”

I take a bite because arguing with Forrest is easier when my mouth is full and less likely to say something humiliating like, You noticed me.

The first bite is warm and crisp at the edges, and my body reacts with an embarrassing amount of gratitude. Truly humiliating. A sandwich should not make me close my eyes unless it contains a legally binding proposal and dental insurance.

Forrest’s gaze drops to my mouth.

Only for a second.