Page 24 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“I don’t fake smile.”

He arches an eyebrow. “You just did.”

“That was my customer service face.” I pull back a chair and sit in it with more temper than necessary. “There’s a difference.”

“No, there isn’t.”

“We’re done here.”

“No, we’re not.”

My eyes cut to his. “Excuse me?”

He leans back. Not relaxed. Forrest never looks relaxed. He looks like a man who could sit through a house fire and complain about the chair. “Is it wedding related shit?”

I should tell him no.

I should tell him it’s none of his business.

I should remind him we are not friends, despite what his dog and Bea seem to believe.

“Mom keeps me updated on Winterberry Cove gossip,” he says. “I know about the wedding.”

“It’s not gossip,” I say, too fast. “It’s more like a community-wide hostage situation with hors d’oeuvres.”

His mouth moves.

Barely.

Still, I see it.

“Stop being impossible,” he says.

“I am not impossible.”

He gives me a look.

“Fine,” I say. “I am possible with notice. And snacks. And ideally a written agenda so I can prepare my denial in advance.”

His mouth does the almost-smile thing again, and this time I hate how badly I want the full version. I want it like a ridiculous person. Like someone with no sense of self-preservation. Like a woman who has been living on stress, coffee, and other people’s expectations for so long that one half of a sandwich and this man asking about the wedding I’m dreading feels dangerously close to care.

“This doesn’t mean we’re having a moment.”

He nods. “Good. I hate moments.”

“It doesn’t mean we’re friends either.”

“Finally. I thought you were going to drag me onto your friend list. Sounds exhausting.”

“You’d never survive. There are emotional check-ins.”

“Cruel.”

“And birthdays.”

“Brutal.”

“And sometimes people hug.”