Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Daisy
By five-thirty, I have fixed the printer, updated the grant numbers, ordered more office snacks with money we do not have, apologized to a volunteer who thought RSVP and FYI were interchangeable, and answered six wedding emails with enough calm that I should qualify for diplomatic immunity.
By six-oh-three, I’m power walking toward The Turning Page with my tote bag smacking my hip, my hair escaping its clip, and my brain running through Liam’s seating chart like a woman trying not to admit she still remembers where his family likes to sit.
By six-fourteen, I push through the café door and get hit by warmth, coffee steam, cinnamon, and the scent of old pages.
For one second, my body believes it’s safe.
Then my phone buzzes in my tote.
Of course.
Because peace has never respected my calendar.
The Turning Page hums around me with low conversations, clinking cups, and rain tapping at the front windows. Bea stands behind the counter, wearing a cardigan and the expression of a woman who has already survived three customers asking whether oat milk is “too political.”
“You’re early,” she says.
“I’ve evolved.”
“You have mustard on your sleeve.”
Damn it.
I look down.
There it is, a yellow streak near my wrist. Not a subtle one either. A bold statement. A condiment with confidence.
“I’m becoming a woman who eats while walking,” I say. “There’s a learning curve.”
“You look like the sandwich won.”
“It did. But I made it work for the victory.”
“You should put that on a résumé.”
“I already have. Under crisis management.”
Bea’s eyes move past me toward the back corner, and her mouth does a terrible thing.
It twitches.
I don’t like when Bea’s mouth twitches. It’s never about anything helpful, like a surprise inheritance or someone deciding rent should be illegal. It’s always about me, being observed against my will.
“Your boyfriend is here,” she says.
My steps falter.
My body betrays me first. Not dramatically. Nothing worthy of a sonnet or medical attention. Just a pause. A tiny catch in the rhythm of my feet before my common sense grabs the wheel and reminds everyone on board that we are not doing this.
“He is not my boyfriend.”
“Fine.” Bea wipes the counter with one slow sweep. “Your daily, emotionally-constipated table ornament is here.”
I stare at her.
Not amused.
Not even café-adjacent amused.
“That’s not better.”
“It’s more accurate.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
“You do that a lot.”
“Healthy people call it coping.”
“Healthy people eat lunch.”
“I have mustard on my sleeve. Clearly, I’ve interacted with food.”
Bea gives me a look that could curdle milk.
I refuse to look toward the back corner.
I take off my coat, hang it behind the counter, and tie on my apron with the dignity of a woman who is not at all curious whether Forrest Wolfcraft is sitting beneath the crooked mystery shelf with his usual scowl, his plain coffee, and his giant dog tucked beneath the table like a furry bouncer.
The dog is new.
New-ish.
Forrest started bringing him in around July, after a thunderstorm knocked out power on two blocks and the poor thing tried to wedge himself under a parked car.
Forrest took him to the vet, tried to find his owner, and adopted him.
Or the dog adopted Forrest. It remains legally and emotionally ambiguous.
Bea declared him a service animal despite having no paperwork and even less interest in legality.
The dog’s name is Puck, which feels on the nose, but Forrest claims he didn’t name him. According to Forrest, Puck kept nosing the hockey memorabilia in his place until the name became unavoidable.
For a retired hockey player, Forrest is still too invested in his old profession.
Which is absolutely not my problem.
I have several problems already. Together, they all form a charming little parade.
Puck is enormous, soft-eyed, and built like a bear who made poor lifestyle choices. He has one torn ear and the moral compass of a drunk raccoon. He adores me, which Forrest insists is proof that rescue dogs can also suffer from terrible judgment.
I adore Puck back.
I do not adore Forrest.
I tolerate Forrest.
There is a difference.
A small one, perhaps. One that would struggle under cross-examination. Still. A difference.
Listen, Forrest’s biggest issue is that he is a Wolfcraft.
Winnifred’s second cousin once removed, if you trust the family tree, which I do not, because Winterberry Cove people use genealogy the way other people use weapons.
He only visited during holidays and grandparent birthdays when we were younger, then stopped visiting enough that no one could decide whether he was rude or simply allergic to human noise.
His mom, though, moved to Winterberry Cove after his father died, so the whole thing is fussy at best. Emotionally laminated. Genealogically suspicious. The sort of family situation that requires a flowchart, a stiff drink, and at least one aunt whispering, “Technically . . .”
After he retired from the Night Hawks, he moved to Boston.
There's a brother, Crew—still playing, somehow grumpier than Forrest, which I didn't think was remotely possible. Supposedly, Forrest is the warm one, which tells you everything you need to know about the Wolfcraft men and absolutely nothing reassuring.
Then, Forrest found this café.
I look toward the back corner.
Forrest is there.
Six-fifteen exactly, because apparently even his emotional avoidance keeps appointments.
He sits with his six-foot-three frame folded into his usual chair, one long leg stretched beneath the table, shoulders taking up too much space, dark hair still damp from a shower, jaw set like someone personally offended him by inventing indoor lighting.
A book is open in front of him. One hand rests near a mug.
The other rubs Puck’s head with the absent tenderness of a man who would rather fake his own death than be caught doing anything gently.
Puck sees me and immediately thumps his tail against the floor.
Forrest looks up.
Our eyes meet.
His expression does not change, which is how I know he is pleased to see me.
After all these months, I’ve become fluent in Forrest against my will.
It is humiliating to develop a second language for a man who mostly communicates through grunts, coffee orders, and disapproval.
“Well,” I call, walking behind the counter, “if it isn’t my favorite haunted bookshelf.”
His gaze moves over me. Apron. Tote bag. Mustard sleeve. Face.
He notices too much.
The worst part is that he does it without seeming interested. As if my tiny failures have simply been entered into a private file he’ll never admit exists.
“You’re late,” he says.
“I’m early.”
“You’re late to being early.”
“Do you practice being unbearable, or is this natural talent?”
“Natural.”
“Tragic. Imagine what you could achieve with training.”
Puck lets out a soft, eager sound and lifts his head from beneath the table.
I leave the counter before I can talk myself out of it, crossing the café with the pastry tongs still in one hand because apparently I intend to greet this dog like an emotional hostage holding kitchen equipment.
Puck rises halfway to meet me, tail sweeping the floor. I crouch beside him and rub behind his torn ear. His whole body tips into my touch with a sigh so dramatic it should come with subtitles.
“See?” I tell Forrest. “Puck missed me.”
“He has abandonment issues and low standards.”
“Or he has taste.”
“He ate a receipt yesterday,” Forrest says, watching my hand disappear into Puck’s fur.
“Maybe it was a good receipt.” I scratch under Puck’s chin. “Maybe he’s building a financial portfolio.”
“He’s currently in debt to a ham sandwich.”
“A relatable king.”
Forrest’s mouth moves.
Barely.
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.
“You look tired,” he says.
That should not feel intimate.
It is three words. Gruff ones. Not poetry. Not a confession. Not even good flirting, unless the bar is buried underground.
Still, my smile pulls itself together before I can stop it. Bright. Polished. Professionally fraudulent.
“I look employed.”
“You look like you forgot to eat.”
“Wow.” I press a hand to my heart. “You really know how to make a woman feel observed against her will.”
“Did you?”
“Did I, what?”
“Eat.”
Puck leans against my leg.
Traitor.
“I interacted with a sandwich.”
“For how long?”
“That feels invasive.”
“Daisy.”
“I had a granola bar,” I lie.
His eyes narrow.
“Okay it’s still sealed,” I admit. “But emotionally, we were very close.”
Forrest doesn’t laugh.