Page 64 of Fake it ’Til Fall
“It’s an interview.”
“With donors and parents and dinner?”
“It seems like Winterberry doesn’t do simple.”
“No, Winterberry does casserole-level entanglements.”
She sits more fully now, then straightens as the pieces click into place. “Wait. So you really are the prospective hockey coach?”
“One of them.”
“The one with the clips?”
My jaw shifts.
Daisy sees it. Regret crosses her face instantly. “Sorry. That was—”
“True.”
“I was going to say rude.”
“Also true.”
She lowers herself back into the chair, quieter this time. Puck drops at her feet like he belongs there.
I reach into the paper bag I brought, pull out the sandwich, and set it in front of her.
She looks at it.
Then at me.
Then back at the sandwich.
“You’ve been bringing sandwiches every day since last week,” she says. “I’m starting to grow suspicious.”
“It’s a sandwich.”
“Exactly what a man with a sandwich agenda would say.”
“Eat.”
“Bossy.”
“Hungry.”
“You or me?”
“Yes.”
That shuts her up for two seconds, which might be a personal record.
She opens the bag, and the first real thing that happens in her face all night is hunger.
She hates that I notice.
I hate that she hates it.
She takes a bite and closes the notebook with her elbow, then opens it again like the answers might have rearranged themselves into confidence.
