Page 61

“You’re early,” she repeats. “Emotionally suspicious.”

“I’m not emotional.”

“That’s exactly what an emotional man would say.”

Puck drags me toward the back corner before I can answer.

He’s looking for Daisy.

So am I.

That’s not relevant.

“She’s in the office,” Bea says, nodding toward the narrow hallway behind the counter.

“I didn’t ask.”

“.;You looked.”

“I have to look around so I don’t trip while walking.”

She studies me over the rim of her glasses. “Try using your eyes with less longing.”

I glare at her.

Bea smiles, because apparently the café is also hostile for men minding their own business.

“Did you bring her food?” she asks. “I don’t think she’s eaten.”

I lift the paperback in my hand and don’t give her a second glance.

Bea is going on my shit list.

Not a formal list.

I’m not Daisy.

But a list.

That’s a lie. I like Bea fine. She bought treats for Puck, which she gives to him when she thinks I’m not paying attention, and once told a man arguing about a return policy that his opinion had expired before the receipt did.

Bea is all right.

Still, she knows too much.

I take my usual table. Puck settles beneath it but keeps his head pointed toward the hallway like a spouse waiting at a train station.

A minute later, Daisy comes out holding a notebook, her phone, and a stack of papers against her chest. Her hair is up and held by a pen, but pieces have already escaped. She’s wearing a cardigan over a dress and boots that make a small, ominous clicking sound with every step.

Fall has gotten to her too.

Not pumpkin spice. Daisy would rather testify in front of a hostile committee than drink anything pumpkin spice. But the cardigan, the leaf-shaped earrings, the little clip in her hair?

She’s participating in seasonal theater.

Badly hiding from it, but participating.

She stops when she sees me.