Page 12 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“That’s not better.”

“It’s more accurate.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“You do that a lot.”

“Healthy people call it coping.”

“Healthy people eat lunch.”

“I have mustard on my sleeve. Clearly, I’ve interacted with food.”

Bea gives me a look that could curdle milk.

I refuse to look toward the back corner. I take off my coat, hang it behind the counter, and tie on my apron with the dignity of a woman who is not at all curious whether Forrest Wolfcraft is sitting beneath the crooked mystery shelf with his usual scowl, his plain coffee, and his giant dog tucked beneath the table like a furry bouncer.

The dog is new.

New-ish.

Forrest started bringing him in around July, after a thunderstorm knocked out power on two blocks and the poor thing tried to wedge himself under a parked car. Forrest took him to the vet, tried to find his owner, and adopted him. Or the dog adopted Forrest. It remains legally and emotionally ambiguous.

Bea declared him a service animal despite having no paperwork and even less interest in legality.

The dog’s name is Puck, which feels on the nose, but Forrest claims he didn’t name him. According to Forrest, Puck kept nosing the hockey memorabilia in his place until the name became unavoidable.

For a retired hockey player, Forrest is still too invested in his old profession.

Which is absolutely not my problem.

I have several problems already. Together, they all form a charming little parade.

Puck is enormous, soft-eyed, and built like a bear who made poor lifestyle choices. He has one torn ear and the moral compass of a drunk raccoon. He adores me, which Forrest insists is proof that rescue dogs can also suffer from terrible judgment.

I adore Puck back.

I do not adore Forrest.

I tolerate Forrest.

There is a difference.

A small one, perhaps. One that would struggle under cross-examination. Still. A difference.

Listen, Forrest’s biggest issue is that he is a Wolfcraft. Winnifred’s second cousin once removed, if you trust the family tree, which I do not, because Winterberry Cove people use genealogy the way other people use weapons. He only visited during holidays and grandparent birthdays when we were younger, then stopped visiting enough that no one could decide whether he was rude or simply allergic to human noise.

His mom, though, moved to Winterberry Cove after his father died, so the whole thing is fussy at best. Emotionally laminated. Genealogically suspicious. The sort of family situation that requires a flowchart, a stiff drink, and at least one aunt whispering, “Technically . . .”

After he retired from the Night Hawks, he moved to Boston.

There's a brother, Crew—still playing, somehow grumpier than Forrest, which I didn't think was remotely possible. Supposedly, Forrest is the warm one, which tells you everything you need to know about the Wolfcraft men and absolutely nothing reassuring.

Then, Forrest found this café.

I look toward the back corner.

Forrest is there.