Page 31 of Fake it ’Til Fall

It sounds like a muzzle when she says it.

“So be bitter,” I say.

She blinks.

I shrug. “He cheated. She knew. Your family took the booking. Sounds like bitterness is earned.”

Daisy stares at me for a second as if I’ve spoken in a language she used to know but hasn’t heard in years.

Then she looks down at her sandwich.

Takes another bite.

Chews slowly.

A crumb clings to the corner of her mouth.

My attention goes there before I can stop it.

Her eyes narrow. “You’re doing the forensic sandwich face again.”

“You eat like you’re trying to prove you don’t need the food.”

That wipes the joke from her expression.

Not all of it.

Enough.

The air between us changes. The rain ticks against the glass. The espresso machine hisses behind the counter. Puck shifts under the table and presses harder against her leg, as if even my dog knows I’ve said too much.

Daisy swallows.

For one second, she doesn’t have a comeback.

For one second, she looks tired in a way that makes my hand flex on the table.

Then she lifts her chin.

Danger sign.

“That is a wildly intrusive observation from a man who thinks books are decoration.” Daisy huffs. “This is why your reading life is in such a devastating condition.”

“We’re not discussing my reading life again,” I glare at her. “Just finish dinner.”

For the next five minutes, Daisy sits across from me with my dog at her feet, half a sandwich in her hand, and the first real quiet I’ve seen on her face all night.

It isn’t peace.

Not yet.

It’s just a table.

A book.

A dog choosing sides.

And a woman who does not have to make being hurt look pretty in front of me.