Page 190 of Fake it ’Til Fall

Daisy’s mouth parts, then closes. For once, no joke saves either of us.

“I don’t know what that means yet,” I say. “Building a rink. Maybe buying a lot or two to create a center in Boston—maybe here too.”

“Damn it,” she whispers.

“What?”

“That was very attractive.”

“Occupational damage?” I ask.

I look at her.

She looks at me.

The barrel room is quiet again, but different now. Less like a room waiting for guests. More like something has started without asking either of us if we’re ready.

“You know,” she says, too casually, which means nothing about this is casual, “if we do this, we can’t do it halfway.”

She taps her chin, which makes me want to kiss it because she’s adorable.

“I’m not saying I’m quitting my job tomorrow and becoming the patron saint of hockey snacks,” she says. “To be clear. I have rent, a troubling relationship with dental invoices, and enough unresolved family drama to keep a therapist in luxury footwear.”

“Noted.”

“But I know programs. I know donors. I know how to build something people can trust before they know why they trust it.” Her fingers tap once against the notebook. “And you know the sport. The players. The former players. The ugly parts no one puts in alumni brochures.”

“Also noted.”

She exhales, and this time the sound is less panic than decision.

“So, yes,” she says. “I’ll help you build it. The program. The center. Whatever it becomes.”

She is offering belief, and I love her for that.

Fuck.

Did I just say love?

Probably.

Probably more than I’m ready to admit.

The worst part is, the word doesn’t scare me as much as it should.

“You sure?” I ask, trying not to fixate on the part that I’m in love with Daisy Thorn. That’s something to deal with a little later, right?

Her eyes soften. “No. I’m not sure.”

I almost smile.

“There’s our brand.”

“No, I mean it.” She lifts one hand. “I am terrified. Professionally intrigued, emotionally overcommitted, and at least thirty percent worried this becomes another thing I pour myself into until I’m yelling about grant compliance in a grocery store parking lot.”

“Thirty percent?”

“Fine. Forty-five. I was trying to seem breezy.”