Page 185 of Fake it ’Til Fall

Simple.

Not enough to repair everything.

Enough to change the next breath.

I nod because if I say more, I might cry in front of pumpkins, and I am trying to maintain a shred of brand integrity.

Forrest leans down, voice for me only. “You okay?”

“No.”

His mouth almost moves.

“But I can be productive anyway,” I add.

“Good.”

I look toward the tasting room, where the day is already waiting with its lists, its problems, its bride, its ghosts.

For the first time since we turned down the vineyard road, I do not feel like I am walking in as the woman Liam left.

I don’t feel fixed.

I don’t feel brave.

I feel like myself.

Which is inconvenient, overdue, and probably going to ruin someone’s seating chart.

I squeeze Forrest’s hand once.

Then I let go and pick up my notebook.

“Okay,” I say, looking at my mother. “Now we can get ready for the wedding.”

This time, I mean it differently.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Forrest

By Wednesday afternoon, I have moved fourteen tables, thirty-six chairs, eight crates of wine, one antique sideboard Eleanor Thorn described as “not that bad if you lift from the left,” and a wooden welcome sign large enough to qualify as architecture.

I still haven’t found the thing I’m supposed to want.

The coaching job.

That’s the reason I’m here.

That’s the reason this whole fake relationship started, if anyone wants the clean version. Daisy needed to walk into Winterberry Cove looking like a woman who had moved on. I needed to walk into a donor dinner looking like a man parents could trust around their kids, their checks, and their small-town opinions.

Simple.

Mutually beneficial.

Contained.

Which is hilarious now, considering I spent last night in Daisy’s bed at the vineyard guest house, with Puck snoring outside the door and Daisy’s mouth against my throat while she whispered that if I made her late for vendor calls, she’d invoice me for emotional disruption.