Page 78 of Fake it ’Til Fall

I point my pen at him. “Rule two. No lying about things that matter.”

“We’re already lying.”

“Fake origin story is allowed,” I say, ignoring him. “Fake emotional stability is negotiable. Fake liking pumpkin spice is prohibited.”

“Why would pumpkin spice come up?”

“It’s November in New England. It’ll absolutely come up.”

Rule Two: No lying about things that matter.

Rule Three: No fake liking pumpkin spice.

Forrest stares at the page. “That’s not a rule.”

“It is in my jurisdiction.”

“You don’t have jurisdiction.”

“I have the pen.”

I continue:

Rule Four: No rescuing, managing, fixing, or deciding things ‘for Daisy’s own good.’

Forrest’s expression goes still.

I look at him. “I mean it.”

He takes the pen from me, his fingers brushing mine just long enough to make my very professional nervous system behave like it has never seen a man before.

Then he writes beneath it: Unless Daisy asks.

I stare at the words.

Then at him.

“Acceptable?” he asks.

No. It is quietly devastating, and I am busy.

“Fine,” I say.

My voice behaves.

Barely.

He slides the pen back.

“Rule five,” he says. “No using The Turning Page version of us for performance.”

I frown. “Meaning?”

“This.” He gestures between us, then at the coffee, the notebook, the half-eaten sandwich, Puck’s head on my boot. “This stays private.”

Oh.

That is unexpectedly decent.