Page 23 of Fake it ’Til Fall

It should annoy me.

It does annoy me.

It also does something warm and foolish inside me, which I plan to report to no one, including myself.

So I take another bite, because apparently this is who I am now.

A Thorn woman accepting sandwiches from a Wolfcraft.

A woman recommending romance novels to a man built like a locked door.

A woman pretending none of this feels like the beginning of something.

Which is probably how people end up making the exact mistakes they later describe as “complicated” over brunch.

Then my phone buzzes in my apron pocket.

Reality, as usual, has the timing of a drunk marching band.

I pull it out and glance down.

Carla Alden: Hi Daisy! So sorry for the late note. Liam’s mom mentioned you might be able to help with the welcome dinner flow. We’re so lucky to have you involved. I know this must be a little strange, but I truly appreciate how gracious you’ve been.

Gracious.

I stare at the word until the rest of the text softens at the edges.

There it is. The prize women receive when they don’t set anything on fire.

Gracious.

I can be gracious. I can be helpful. I can organize welcome dinner flow for the woman who fucked my fiancé while knowing exactly who he belonged to.

And no, I’m not blaming this only her. Liam carries most of it. He made the promise. He broke it. He knew where to put his hands, his lies, and his future.

Still.

Carla does not get to hand me gracious like a ribbon for standing still while she steps over the life I thought was mine.

“Daisy.”

Forrest’s voice cuts through the café noise.

I look up too quickly. “What?”

He is watching me from his table now. Puck remains pressed against my leg, warm and trusting and terribly inconvenient.

“Are you doing that thing again?”

I tuck my phone away. “You’ll have to be more specific. I do many things, beautifully. Badly, sometimes, but with excellent punctuation.”

“The smile.”

My mouth closes.

“What smile?”

“The fake one.”