Page 47 of Fake it ’Til Fall

Then a third time, because apparently I enjoy watching the universe develop plot.

Of course, Mom already assumed I’d say yes.

Of course I am now organizing a wedding, a community dinner, and possibly a fundraiser with no official consent from my body, my bank account, or my increasingly hostile footwear.

Of course there’s a prospective hockey coach.

I stare at the phrase.

Prospective hockey coach.

“Mira,” I say slowly.

“Yes?”

“Do you think it’s too late to become a woman who ignores text messages, eats lunch, and has appropriate boundaries?”

“Yes.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

I look back at the message.

Winterberry Cove has found a new way to summon me home.

It has money.

It has my mother.

It has my ex and his soon-to-be bride.

And now, apparently, it has hockey.

I should say no.

I should type a professional response explaining that I’m not yet confirmed and will circle back once my schedule allows. I should open the granola bar. I should drink water. I should become the version of myself who treats red flags as warning signs instead of festive décor.

Instead, I unlock my phone.

Because I am Daisy Thorn.

I have a spreadsheet for disasters.

And apparently, I’m available in the dropdown menu.

Maybe while I’m at it, I’ll ask Forrest for some hockey guidance, so I don’t look like an idiot during this dinner.

A bold goal, considering my current brand.

Chapter Seven

Forrest

By Friday afternoon, Puck has decided the only thing standing between him and happiness is a squirrel with a death wish.

The squirrel sits on the brick wall outside my building, tail twitching, tiny paws held against its chest like it’s presenting a closing argument. Puck stares at it through the rain-specked glass of the front door with the full-body concentration of a professional athlete, a bounty hunter, and a man watching someone take the last parking spot in Boston.