Page 17 of Fake it ’Til Fall
Forrest Wolfcraft probably has a training plan for not touching people too long.
“Thank you,” I say, and the words come out quieter than I mean them to.
He looks away. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Make it a thing.”
“It’s a sandwich.”
“You can make anything a thing.”
“That’s unfair.”
“It’s accurate.”
I want to argue, but my phone buzzes in my apron pocket before I can. The sound cuts straight through the little pocket of warmth between us.
I don’t have to look.
I know.
Wedding. Mother.
Probably Carla’s aisle runner, now requiring a blood oath and a mood board.
Forrest notices my face change.
That’s the problem with him. He catches the shift before I can cover it. Before the smile arrives. Before Daisy Thorn, professional woman and amateur disaster, can step in with jazz hands and a joke about sandwiches.
His gaze drops to my pocket.
“Wedding?” he asks.
I freeze, then force a smile.
Look at me. Brave little toaster with health insurance anxiety.
“Probably,” I say. “Or my bank asking whether I’ve considered being born wealthier.”
Forrest doesn’t smile.
His face goes still in that way I’ve learned means he’s not ignoring me. He’s doing the opposite.
“Daisy.”
“Nope.” I lift the sandwich bag between us like a tiny edible shield. “No serious voice. I just got here. I have mustard on my sleeve, nine emails from my mother, and a sandwich I’m legally obligated to pretend didn’t move me emotionally.”
His eyes stay on mine.
The café keeps humming around us, but there’s a thinness in the air now. A place where a person could say too much.
Forrest leans back, giving me room.
“Eat,” he says.
One word.
