Page 75 of Fake it ’Til Fall

His mouth twitches.

“You need someone to show up with you so Winterberry Cove stops treating you like a grainy video with cheekbones,” I state the obvious. “I need someone to show up with me so Winterberry Cove stops treating me like the sad little cautionary tale Liam left near the vineyard dumpsters.”

“No.”

“We’re both going to be there.”

“No.”

“Plus, we already know each other.”

“Barely.”

I laugh. “Barely? Forrest, I know your coffee order, your dog’s digestive history, your hatred of adjectives, your suspicious attachment to this table, and the fact that you pretend not to like the cranberry orange muffins, but always buy them even when Bea says they’re ugly.”

“They taste fine.”

“They taste like regret with zest.”

“You eat them.”

“I am emotionally unwell.”

He grunts, and sometimes I wonder if I should start cataloging his grunts. They never mean the same thing. There’s the annoyed grunt, the reluctantly amused grunt, the don’t-touch-my-coffee grunt, and once, I swear, a happy grunt. Though calling it happy feels generous. It was more like joy trapped in a basement.

This one is not angry.

This one probably says I’m wearing him down.

So I keep going, because I am nothing if not a woman with no survival instinct and excellent follow-through.

“We can pull this off.”

“Day, this is different.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Because it involves lying?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, please. You played professional hockey. You can’t tell me you’ve never lied during a postgame interview.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Everyone knows those are lies.”

“Fine. This is theater.”

“No.”

“Community theater.”

“Worse.”

“Strategic narrative management?”

He stares at me, exasperated.