Page 22 of Fake it ’Til Fall

I narrow my gaze. “You don’t know they’re fake.”

“Trust me.”

That should not do anything to me.

It does.

The words are dry. Almost bored. Still, for one awful second, my eyes betray democracy and drop to his chest. Not low enough to be indecent. Just enough to notice the breadth of him under his black sweater, the easy strength in his arms, the way he looks too large for this little café and somehow perfectly placed inside it.

I look back up fast.

Tragically, not fast enough.

Forrest catches it.

Of course he does.

His expression barely changes, but the air between us gains teeth.

“Oh, I trust you,” I say, too brightly. “You seem like a man with extensive experience in abs. Professionally. Platonically. In a hockey way.”

“In a hockey way,” he repeats.

Puck presses his big head against my thigh with a sigh of theatrical devotion.

Forrest looks down at him. “Traitor.”

I rub behind Puck’s ear again. “He understands literary growth.”

“He understands you drop crumbs.”

“Love has many languages.”

Forrest’s gaze stays on me.

There is something in it I don’t know what to do with. Something quieter than flirting and more dangerous than kindness. It makes me want to keep talking until I outrun it. It makes me want to stop talking and see what happens.

Both options feel medically inadvisable.

He taps the romance with one finger.

“I’ll take that one.”

I blink. “You’ll take the shirtless fake-abs romance?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“I’m sorry, I just need a moment. This is historic. Bea, do we have a bell? A ceremonial gong? A witness with notary powers?”

“Daisy,” Forrest says.

“What?”

His eyes drop to the sandwich in my hand.

Then back to my mouth.

“Eat.”