Page 193 of Fake it ’Til Fall

I look at her.

The fake relationship.

The real sex.

The way she said “we.”

“Yeah,” I say. “We will.”

“At the end, I know we’ll build the thing, won’t we?”

And that is when I know.

I didn’t come here for the job.

I came here for the reason.

She’s my reason.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Daisy

By Friday night, Liam’s wedding is dead, my toothbrush lives in Forrest Wolfcraft’s bathroom, and I have somehow become the sort of woman who owns a drawer in a man’s apartment without ever officially agreeing to own a drawer in a man’s apartment.

To be clear, I did not move in.

Moving in requires intention, boxes, at least one argument about closet space, and a person brave enough to admit they are making a domestic choice.

I merely have practical items in practical places.

A toothbrush.

A cardigan—or four.

Two pairs of underwear—maybe seven.

One bra.

Face wash, moisturizer, serum, sunscreen, night cream, and three tiny bottles that promise to make me look rested despite decades of evidence to the contrary.

A hair clip.

Emergency socks.

Three books on his coffee table, because Forrest’s apartment had the emotional range of a hotel room designed by a man avoiding tax questions, and I refuse to be intimate with someone who thinks one biography, two hockey manuals, and a dog bed count as ambiance.

Also, Puck needed literature.

He is sensitive.

The apartment smells like takeout, rain, clean laundry, and Forrest. The last one is annoying because it has become less of a smell and more of a legal concern. There’s a gray blanket over the back of the couch that I bought because his old one felt like it had survived a minor war. There’s a mug in the sink that is mine because it says I’M NOT BOSSY, I’M THE PLOT, and Bea gave it to me with a face that suggested she knew more than any employer should.

Puck is sprawled on the rug in front of the couch, snoring like an elderly landlord.

Forrest stands in the kitchen, barefoot, in dark jeans and a long-sleeved shirt pushed to his forearms, opening takeout containers with the grim focus of a man disarming explosives.

I sit cross-legged on the couch with my laptop open, my resignation email minimized, and my phone face down because Winterberry Cove has been vibrating through it all day like a small town with a group chat and no boundaries.