Page 116 of Fake it ’Til Fall

Not Liam. Not the gossip. Not the town watching me fail at being the woman they thought I’d become.

This.

The porch boards beneath my boots. The curve of the rows. The tasting room doors propped open. Helena walks ahead with her bucket. My mother moves through the property like she knows every inch by pulse.

Forrest falls into step beside me.

He doesn’t say anything.

Somehow, that helps.

We cross the yard toward the vineyard path, Puck trotting ahead as if he has been hired as security and paid in ear scratches. Mom and Helena walk a few paces in front of us, already discussing centerpieces, harvest timing, and whether Carla’s mother can be kept away from the flower order without requiring legal intervention.

Forrest’s shoulder brushes mine.

Once.

Accidental, probably.

Neither of us moves away.

“You’re quiet,” he says.

“I’m absorbing.”

“That’s my line.”

“I’m borrowing it. Fake relationships require resource sharing.”

His eyes stay forward. “You okay?”

I look out over the vines.

There are too many answers to that question, and none of them belong on a fall morning with my mother ten feet ahead and my fake boyfriend standing close enough that I can feel the warmth of him through my sleeve.

So I give him the truest one I can afford.

“I forgot how much I missed it.”

Forrest nods once.

No pity. No advice. No attempt to fix the thing in me that cracked open the moment I saw the rows.

Just that nod.

Like he heard me.

Like he’d keep the sentence safe if I needed him to.

Helena turns back and calls, “Daisy, are you coming, or are you and your Wolfcraft going to stare romantically at agricultural assets all morning?”

I smile because it’s that or start crying in front of grapes, and I do have standards.

“Coming,” I call.

Forrest leans in just enough for only me to hear. “Agricultural assets?”

“My family has never met a phrase they couldn’t make worse.”