Page 174 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“Snack partnership,” I continue. “Talk to the diner. Grocery store. Bakery. Anonymous donor covers the gap if businesses won’t.”

“You have an anonymous donor?”

“I might.”

Her eyes narrow. “Is it you?”

“No.”

“Wolfe.”

“I said ‘might.’”

“That means it’s you.”

“It means continue.”

Her face does that thing again, softening before she can weaponize sarcasm.

“You can’t just throw money at my notebook.”

“I’m not throwing money. I’m respecting infrastructure.”

The corner of her mouth lifts despite herself.

“That was almost hot.”

“Almost?”

“Don’t get greedy. We’re in a storage room.”

“It didn’t stop you from saying Wolfe.”

Her cheeks warm.

She glances toward the café door, then back at me. “We’re at work.”

“You’re on break.”

“That is a very generous interpretation of hiding in a back room with empty syrup bottles and a fake boyfriend who thinks funding models are foreplay.”

I step closer. “Day.”

“No,” she says quickly.

I stop.

Everything in me stops.

“No?” I ask.

“No, as in don’t say my name like that unless you plan to do something about it, because I am a tired woman with limited defenses and a dangerous appreciation for competence.”

The words come out funny.

The look on her face doesn’t.

That’s what gets me.