Page 16 of Fake it ’Til Fall

His jaw moves once. “Bea said you pretend you ate.”

I turn toward the counter.

Bea suddenly becomes fascinated by wiping down an already clean espresso machine.

Betrayal is alive and well in independent retail.

I look back at Forrest. “You and Bea are discussing my eating habits now?”

“No.”

“You just said⁠—”

“She mentioned it. I listened. Don’t make it weird.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll try to be normal about the grumpy retired hockey player buying me a sandwich through a third-party informant.”

“I didn’t buy it through Bea.”

“So there was no informant?”

“There was an informant.”

“Then you did buy it through Bea.”

“I bought it from the deli.”

“While informed.”

His eyes hold mine.

The corner of his mouth moves again.

My stomach does something reckless and deeply inconvenient. Which is embarrassing, honestly. It is a sandwich. Women have survived wars, plagues, and low-rise jeans. I should be able to survive rye bread handed over by a man with sexy forearms.

“Take the sandwich, Daisy.”

I hate how my name sounds different when he says it like that. Like an order, but not a command. Like he already knows I’m one joke away from falling apart and intends to block the door until I sit down.

I take the bag.

Our fingers brush.

Barely.

It is nothing.

A tiny accident of skin.

It is also enough to make my entire body file a report with Human Resources, Legal, and whatever department handles bad decisions involving emotionally unavailable men with excellent shoulders.

Forrest’s hand stills.

So does mine.

The contact lasts less than a second, but his eyes shift. Not much. Just enough. Something aware. Something restrained. Something that makes me wonder whether he felt it too, then immediately hate myself for becoming a woman who wonders about hand chemistry in public.

Then he lets go first.