Page 14 of Fake it ’Til Fall

Almost nothing.

To the untrained eye, it would look like a twitch. To me, it is a parade with permits.

I straighten and pretend the small victory doesn’t warm places I should not be letting Forrest Wolfcraft affect. Places currently underfunded and poorly supervised.

“What are you reading tonight?” I ask.

“No.”

“That’s not a title.”

“It’s an answer.”

“You can’t keep coming into a bookstore café and refusing book discourse.”

“I can if the coffee is good.”

“The coffee is fine. The books are the point.”

“The books are decoration.”

I gasp so loudly that Bea looks over.

Puck startles, then decides my outrage is probably edible and licks my wrist.

“Decoration?” I repeat.

Forrest takes a slow sip of coffee. “Pretty decoration.”

“Oh, good. Misogyny, but for literature.”

“That’s a leap.”

“I’m a woman in customer service. Leaping is part of the job.”

His eyes drop to my sleeve again. “Mustard too?”

“I’m expanding my skill set.”

“You eating it or wearing it?”

“Both. I believe in versatility.”

He looks at me for a beat too long.

Not at the mustard this time.

At me.

The café seems to pull in around that look. The rain, the cups, Bea’s low voice at the counter, the turning of someone’s page near the front window. Everything keeps moving, but slower, as if the room has noticed what I refuse to name.

Forrest’s gaze lowers to my mouth, then lifts.

My pulse does something embarrassing.

A cartwheel, maybe.

Something with no dignity and poor core strength.