Page 65 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“On a scale from one to humiliating,” she says around the careful edge of the sandwich, “how bad is it that I don’t know what a hockey meet-and-greet is supposed to look like?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you call icing a ‘dessert penalty’ again.”

She points her pen at me. “It should be. I could have the baker make an ice-rink cake with icing on top.”

“No.”

“You can’t control it.” Her smile turns dangerous in a way no woman holding a sandwich should legally be allowed to manage. “I’m organizing this dinner, Wolfcraft. I can absolutely put Dessert Penalty on a menu.”

“That would be inaccurate.”

“It would be charming.”

“It would make me leave.”

“Then I’ll put it near the exit.”

My mouth almost moves.

She notices.

I hate that she notices.

“What?” she asks, too pleased. “Did I almost make you smile?”

“No.”

“Your face twitched.”

“Allergies.”

“To joy?”

“To you.”

“Understandable.” She takes another bite and sits back, smug as hell. “I am potent.”

I look at the notebook because looking at her when she says things like that is unsafe.

There are neat bullet points across the page. Community dinner flow. Donor seating. Parent tables. Coach questions. Youth athletes? Rink fundraiser tie-in. Food allergies. Avoid hockey puns? Ask Forrest.

Ask Forrest.

My name in her handwriting does something stupid to the back of my neck.

Then the rest of it catches up.

She’s going to be there during the event.

“You’re going home,” I say.

Her pen stops moving.

Daisy looks down at the notebook. “For a week.”