Chapter 2 #2
That’s his problem. Well, one of them. The man has a whole subscription service of problems, most of which involve refusing joy as a lifestyle brand.
He reaches for the chair beside him and picks up a small brown paper bag. Then he holds it out.
I stare at it.
“What is that?”
“Food, take it.”
“Did you buy me dinner, Forrest?”
“No.”
“It looks a lot like you bought me dinner.”
“It’s a sandwich.”
“A dinner-shaped sandwich.”
His jaw moves once. “Bea said you pretend you ate.”
I turn toward the counter.
Bea suddenly becomes fascinated by wiping down an already clean espresso machine.
Betrayal is alive and well in independent retail.
I look back at Forrest. “You and Bea are discussing my eating habits now?”
“No.”
“You just said—”
“She mentioned it. I listened. Don’t make it weird.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll try to be normal about the grumpy retired hockey player buying me a sandwich through a third-party informant.”
“I didn’t buy it through Bea.”
“So there was no informant?”
“There was an informant.”
“Then you did buy it through Bea.”
“I bought it from the deli.”
“While informed.”
His eyes hold mine.
The corner of his mouth moves again.
My stomach does something reckless and deeply inconvenient. Which is embarrassing, honestly. It is a sandwich. Women have survived wars, plagues, and low-rise jeans. I should be able to survive rye bread handed over by a man with sexy forearms.
“Take the sandwich, Daisy.”
I hate how my name sounds different when he says it like that. Like an order, but not a command. Like he already knows I’m one joke away from falling apart and intends to block the door until I sit down.
I take the bag.
Our fingers brush.
Barely.
It is nothing.
A tiny accident of skin.
It is also enough to make my entire body file a report with Human Resources, Legal, and whatever department handles bad decisions involving emotionally unavailable men with excellent shoulders.
Forrest’s hand stills.
So does mine.
The contact lasts less than a second, but his eyes shift. Not much. Just enough. Something aware. Something restrained. Something that makes me wonder whether he felt it too, then immediately hate myself for becoming a woman who wonders about hand chemistry in public.
Then he lets go first.
Forrest Wolfcraft probably has a training plan for not touching people too long.
“Thank you,” I say, and the words come out quieter than I mean them to.
He looks away. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Make it a thing.”
“It’s a sandwich.”
“You can make anything a thing.”
“That’s unfair.”
“It’s accurate.”
I want to argue, but my phone buzzes in my apron pocket before I can. The sound cuts straight through the little pocket of warmth between us.
I don’t have to look.
I know.
Wedding. Mother.
Probably Carla’s aisle runner, now requiring a blood oath and a mood board.
Forrest notices my face change.
That’s the problem with him. He catches the shift before I can cover it. Before the smile arrives. Before Daisy Thorn, professional woman and amateur disaster, can step in with jazz hands and a joke about sandwiches.
His gaze drops to my pocket.
“Wedding?” he asks.
I freeze, then force a smile.
Look at me. Brave little toaster with health insurance anxiety.
“Probably,” I say. “Or my bank asking whether I’ve considered being born wealthier.”
Forrest doesn’t smile.
His face goes still in that way I’ve learned means he’s not ignoring me. He’s doing the opposite.
“Daisy.”
“Nope.” I lift the sandwich bag between us like a tiny edible shield. “No serious voice. I just got here. I have mustard on my sleeve, nine emails from my mother, and a sandwich I’m legally obligated to pretend didn’t move me emotionally.”
His eyes stay on mine.
The café keeps humming around us, but there’s a thinness in the air now. A place where a person could say too much.
Forrest leans back, giving me room.
“Eat,” he says.
One word.
Gruff.
Annoying.
My eyes sting for one terrible second, which is unacceptable behavior from a woman in an apron holding pastry tongs.
I blink it back and lift my chin.
“Yes, Coach.”
His mouth finally curves.
Not fully.
Not enough for anyone else to catch.
Enough for me.
“That was a hockey reference,” he says.
“I’m culturally aware.”
“You once asked if icing was a dessert penalty.”
“It should be.”
Puck huffs against my shin like he agrees.
I open the bag because Forrest is still watching me, and apparently I have decided the best way to preserve my dignity is to unwrap a sandwich under the gaze of a man who looks like he could bench-press my rent.
It is turkey, cheddar, apple slices, and honey mustard on thick bread.
I stare at it.
Then at him.
“You remembered my sandwich.”
“No.”
“You absolutely remembered my sandwich.”
“I remembered a sandwich.”
“With turkey, cheddar, apple, and honey mustard?”
“Common sandwich.”
“It is not a common sandwich. It is a woman-with-a-Pinterest-board sandwich.”
“Then eat your board sandwich.”
I take a bite because arguing with Forrest is easier when my mouth is full and less likely to say something humiliating like, You noticed me.
The first bite is warm and crisp at the edges, and my body reacts with an embarrassing amount of gratitude. Truly humiliating. A sandwich should not make me close my eyes unless it contains a legally binding proposal and dental insurance.
Forrest’s gaze drops to my mouth.
Only for a second.
Maybe less.
Still enough.
I chew slower than necessary because I am a terrible person and, apparently, one turkey sandwich away from becoming a flirt. Honey mustard sits at the corner of my lip. I know because his eyes go there again, and every sensible thought I own trips down a flight of stairs.
“You have—” he starts.
“I know,” I say, too quickly.
He reaches for a napkin.
I reach for the same napkin.
Our hands collide again.
Because apparently the universe has taken an interest in my undoing and chosen deli products as its medium.
Forrest stills.
I still.
Puck, traitor and witness, leans his chin against my knee like this is dinner theater.
Forrest’s fingers close around the napkin. He doesn’t hand it to me right away. His knuckles brush mine, and his eyes lift to my face.
The café is too warm.
Or I am.
Both seem likely. I am a woman wearing affordable boots, emotional denial, and a cardigan that has already seen too many fiscal quarters. Overheating is basically my brand.
Forrest gives me the napkin.
Not touching me this time.
Careful now.
Worse.
“Thanks,” I say, wiping my mouth like a normal person, and not a woman whose pulse just attempted a jailbreak.
“You always talk this much while eating?”
“You always stare this much while denying basic kindness?”
“I wasn’t staring.”
“No, of course not. You were conducting sandwich surveillance.”
“You’re a hazard.”
“I’m a fucking delight.”
“You have mustard on your sleeve and your face.”
“A multi-location delight.”
His mouth curves again.
This time it lasts longer.
Not a smile exactly. Forrest does not give out smiles. He releases them on parole.
I take another bite and pretend I don’t feel it all the way down. The food. His attention. The ridiculous tenderness of being fed without being asked whether I deserve it first.
The wedding can wait three minutes.
My mother can wait.
Carla’s aisle runner can suffer without me.
For once, I let myself stand still in the warm café with a sandwich in my hand, mustard on my sleeve, and a man I do not adore looking at me like he sees the lie and has decided not to expose it.
Which is rude.
Kind.
Dangerous.
And absolutely not something I have time to survive.