Page 13 of Fake it ’Til Fall

Six-fifteen exactly, because apparently even his emotional avoidance keeps appointments.

He sits with his six-foot-three frame folded into his usual chair, one long leg stretched beneath the table, shoulders taking up too much space, dark hair still damp from a shower, jaw set like someone personally offended him by inventing indoor lighting. A book is open in front of him. One hand rests near a mug. The other rubs Puck’s head with the absent tenderness of a man who would rather fake his own death than be caught doing anything gently.

Puck sees me and immediately thumps his tail against the floor.

Forrest looks up.

Our eyes meet.

His expression does not change, which is how I know he is pleased to see me.

After all these months, I’ve become fluent in Forrest against my will.

It is humiliating to develop a second language for a man who mostly communicates through grunts, coffee orders, and disapproval.

“Well,” I call, walking behind the counter, “if it isn’t my favorite haunted bookshelf.”

His gaze moves over me. Apron. Tote bag. Mustard sleeve. Face.

He notices too much.

The worst part is that he does it without seeming interested. As if my tiny failures have simply been entered into a private file he’ll never admit exists.

“You’re late,” he says.

“I’m early.”

“You’re late to being early.”

“Do you practice being unbearable, or is this natural talent?”

“Natural.”

“Tragic. Imagine what you could achieve with training.”

Puck lets out a soft, eager sound and lifts his head from beneath the table.

I leave the counter before I can talk myself out of it, crossing the café with the pastry tongs still in one hand because apparently I intend to greet this dog like an emotional hostage holding kitchen equipment.

Puck rises halfway to meet me, tail sweeping the floor. I crouch beside him and rub behind his torn ear. His whole body tips into my touch with a sigh so dramatic it should come with subtitles.

“See?” I tell Forrest. “Puck missed me.”

“He has abandonment issues and low standards.”

“Or he has taste.”

“He ate a receipt yesterday,” Forrest says, watching my hand disappear into Puck’s fur.

“Maybe it was a good receipt.” I scratch under Puck’s chin. “Maybe he’s building a financial portfolio.”

“He’s currently in debt to a ham sandwich.”

“A relatable king.”

Forrest’s mouth moves.

Barely.