Page 61 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“You’re early,” she repeats. “Emotionally suspicious.”

“I’m not emotional.”

“That’s exactly what an emotional man would say.”

Puck drags me toward the back corner before I can answer.

He’s looking for Daisy.

So am I.

That’s not relevant.

“She’s in the office,” Bea says, nodding toward the narrow hallway behind the counter.

“I didn’t ask.”

“.;You looked.”

“I have to look around so I don’t trip while walking.”

She studies me over the rim of her glasses. “Try using your eyes with less longing.”

I glare at her.

Bea smiles, because apparently the café is also hostile for men minding their own business.

“Did you bring her food?” she asks. “I don’t think she’s eaten.”

I lift the paperback in my hand and don’t give her a second glance.

Bea is going on my shit list.

Not a formal list.

I’m not Daisy.

But a list.

That’s a lie. I like Bea fine. She bought treats for Puck, which she gives to him when she thinks I’m not paying attention, and once told a man arguing about a return policy that his opinion had expired before the receipt did.

Bea is all right.

Still, she knows too much.

I take my usual table. Puck settles beneath it but keeps his head pointed toward the hallway like a spouse waiting at a train station.

A minute later, Daisy comes out holding a notebook, her phone, and a stack of papers against her chest. Her hair is up and held by a pen, but pieces have already escaped. She’s wearing a cardigan over a dress and boots that make a small, ominous clicking sound with every step.

Fall has gotten to her too.

Not pumpkin spice. Daisy would rather testify in front of a hostile committee than drink anything pumpkin spice. But the cardigan, the leaf-shaped earrings, the little clip in her hair?

She’s participating in seasonal theater.

Badly hiding from it, but participating.

She stops when she sees me.