Page 204 of Fake it ’Til Fall

There is a category of Forrest nervousness that usually means an important phone call, a hard truth, or something involving feelings he has decided to handle by becoming physically rigid near cabinetry.

This is that.

My body sits up before my brain can approve the motion.

“Wolfe.”

He looks at me then says, “Come here.”

“Absolutely not.”

His brows pull together. “What?”

“You sound like a man who has planned something, and I am emotionally underdressed.”

“You’re wearing my sweatshirt.”

“Exactly. Vulnerable. Soft fabric is where women make poor long-term decisions.”

His mouth almost curves. “Daisy.”

“No, don’t ‘Daisy’ me. Daisy-ing me is how you get away with things.”

“Day, baby.”

Worse.

Much worse.

I stand anyway, because apparently love has ruined my survival instincts and left me with nothing but fuzzy socks and curiosity.

Puck rises too, stretching dramatically before trotting to Forrest’s side. There’s a ribbon tied loosely around his collar, red velvet with a tiny brass key hanging from it.

I stare at the key.

Then at Forrest.

Then at Puck.

The room tilts a little.

“Is that . . . ?”

“For the apartment,” Forrest says.

My throat tightens.

“Oh.”

“It’s not a spare. Not the one under the ugly ceramic planter you think I don’t know about.”

I blink. “You know about that?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do you let me think I’m sneaky?”

“You enjoy it.”