Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Forrest
We spend the rest of the day working the vineyard.
Daisy gathers a list of clients who might want to do more than buy wine. Donate to the high school athletic program, maybe. Sponsor equipment. Support the community dinner. Get their names on something tasteful enough to impress the town and expensive enough to make a difference.
It’s smart.
Annoyingly smart.
The sort of idea I should’ve had if I weren’t busy carrying crates and pretending I don’t notice every time Daisy pushes damp hair away from her cheek with the back of her wrist.
I start thinking about former teammates. A few friends. Guys with foundations. Guys with money. Guys who owe me favors and could pay by donating.
It could work. A few calls, a few emails, a couple donations big enough to make Principal Whitcomb stop looking at me like I’m a lawsuit with shoulders.
That’s probably a great idea.
There are also bad ideas.
Like following Daisy Thorn up the stairs to her childhood bedroom while her mother makes tea downstairs like this is a normal night.
This is not normal.
This is a trap with a pink and purple quilt.
Puck thinks the entire thing is another adventure because Daisy is involved. He trots ahead of us, tail high, paws thumping against the old wooden stairs like he’s been invited to inspect a property he intends to buy with stolen cider donuts and charm.
Daisy keeps one hand on the banister and the other on her notebook.
Ridiculous.
The notebook isn’t going to save either of us from spending the night in her room.
Unless she has two beds.
I hold on to that thought longer than I should.
Two beds would be good.
Two beds would be safe.
Two beds would be the universe showing rare maturity.
The hallway upstairs is narrow and warm, lit by old brass sconces and gray afternoon light leaking through rain-streaked windows.
Family photos line one wall. Soren as a kid in a too-serious blazer.
Daisy with a missing front tooth and a pumpkin half her size.
Eleanor Thorn with a man who has Daisy’s eyes and a smile that looks like it knew how to get away with things.
Probably her father.
I don’t ask.
Daisy has gone quiet.
I’m starting to hate Daisy quiet.
Daisy loud means she’s fighting. Daisy funny means she’s bleeding but standing. Daisy organizing means the building is on fire, and she’s already assigning exits.
Daisy quiet means something got past the locks.
She stops in front of a door with her hand on the knob and takes one breath.
Then another.
“You can still fake your death,” she says.
I groan. “Nope. Too tired.”
“That’s emotionally uninspired.”
“You’ve had a long day, Thorn. Insult better.”
“Give me coffee and thirty minutes. I’ll emotionally devastate you with original material.”
I shake my head. “Tomorrow, maybe. I might just ditch you in this town before dawn.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” she says, offended.
“No,” I agree. “I wouldn’t.”
Which is a problem.
I’m not good with people around me. I can handle a team. A room. A locker full of guys pretending pain is a personality. I can handle reporters, coaches, agents, kids who want autographs, parents who want promises, and men who think anger is the same as authority.
People are manageable when there are rules.
Daisy is becoming more than people and follows only her own rules.
That’s the problem.
She has moved past a category.
Past ‘woman from the café.’ Past ‘fake girlfriend.’ Past ‘Thorn.’ Past ‘complication with a notebook and a mouth that should come with warning signs.’
I know the sound she makes when she’s about to laugh but refuses to give me the satisfaction.
I know when her smile is real, when it’s for customers, when it’s for family, when it’s for survival.
I know she taps her pen twice before saying something she’s afraid might matter.
I know she feeds Puck the crusts of her sandwiches when she thinks I’m not looking.
I know she apologizes to furniture when she bumps into it, then gets mad if anyone notices.
I know all that.
I don’t know her favorite color.
I don’t know if she had this room when she was twelve or twenty-nine. I don’t know if she lived here before college or during whatever part of her life Liam ruined with clean hands and a friendly voice.
I don’t know what she wanted before she became the woman who turns pain into schedules. I don’t know if she sleeps on the left side of the bed, or if she reads before falling asleep, or if she wakes up slowly, or like the world has already asked too much of her.
But I want to know.
That irritates me more than it should.
Wanting things has never improved my life.
Wanting makes a man stupid. Makes him miss the hit coming from the side. Makes him forget where the exits are.
Daisy opens the door.
The room is not what I expected.
I’m not sure what I expected. Pink walls, maybe. Childhood clutter. Something frozen in time. A museum of the girl Daisy used to be before Boston, before Liam, before she learned to smile like it cost her nothing.
Instead, the walls are pale cream. There’s an iron bed against the far wall with a quilt folded at the foot, the squares faded from years of washing.
A narrow bookshelf leans near the window, packed with paperbacks, old school notebooks, framed photos, and a ceramic pumpkin with a chipped stem.
A desk sits under the slanted ceiling, covered with vineyard menus, a dried flower in a glass bottle, and a lamp with a crooked shade.
It smells faintly like wood, rain, and lavender detergent.
Puck trots in like he owns the place, sniffs once, then circles twice on the rug before collapsing with a sigh.
Daisy stands in the doorway as if she’s trying to decide whether she left part of herself here and whether she wants it back.
“Well,” she says, too brightly. “Good news. No dolls staring into your soul.”
“Low bar.”
“I had a porcelain phase. Brief. Terrifying. Like bangs.”
“You had bangs?”
“Emotionally, I still do.”
I look at the bed.
One bed.
Of course.
The universe has decided maturity is for other people.
Daisy follows my gaze and lifts one hand. “Before you say anything, I did not personally design this ambush. I would’ve requested a trundle. Or a tasteful fainting couch. Maybe a chaise lounge.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“You were thinking very loudly.”
“I was thinking the floor looks comfortable.”
“It doesn’t. That rug is older than my regret.”
“I’ve slept in worse places.”
“That is not the romantic flex men think it is.”
“I wasn’t flexing.”
“You were emotionally squatting.”
I look at her.
She looks at me.
The room gets smaller.
Not because either of us moves.
Because neither of us does.
Then Daisy clears her throat and steps inside. “Okay. Plan. You take the bed. I’ll take the floor.”
“No.”
“See? I knew you’d be difficult.”
“I’m not letting you sleep on the floor.”
“I’m the host.”
“You’re exhausted.”
“You’re large.”
“That’s not an argument.”
“It is in small rooms.”
“You take the bed.”
“No.”
“Day.”
“Wolfe.”
Puck lifts his head, like even he knows she shouldn’t say it here.
My name in her mouth is worse in this room.
In the truck, it was careful. Here, surrounded by the girl she was and the woman she keeps trying to be, it sounds too close to real.
Daisy’s cheeks flush.
She notices me notice and immediately points toward the rug. “Fine. We’ll both take the floor and let Puck have the bed.”
Puck thumps his tail.
“Don’t encourage her,” I tell him.
“He’s the only one thinking clearly.”
“He tried to steal a donut earlier today.”
“Still a better decision-maker than either of us right now.”
I almost smile.
Almost.
Daisy catches it.
She always does.
Her expression changes by a fraction. Less panic. More warmth. The room loosens its grip.
Then her gaze drops to my mouth.
Just for a second.
Not enough to be anything.
Enough to be everything.
I look away first.
There are rules. Ten of them, which are written in ink. They’re reasonable, ridiculous, carefully written rules made by two people who should have known better than to trust themselves with a fake relationship and one real room.
“No floor,” I say.
Daisy blinks. “You’re still on that?”
“Yes.”
“I appreciate your commitment to the argument. Very masculine. Very upsetting for the pacing.”
“You take the bed.”
“And you?”
“I’ll take the chair.”
She turns toward the old wooden chair at the desk. One leg is shorter than the others. The seat has a cushion so thin it looks decorative at best and punitive at worst.
“That chair was built during a time when people believed discomfort improved character.”
“I have enough character.”
“You have a reputation. Different category.”
“Bed, Daisy.”
“You take the bed, Forrest Wolfcraft.”
Puck sighs again, deeper this time, as if our fake relationship has already exhausted him.
Daisy points at him. “See? Even Puck thinks we’re being immature.”
“Fine. I’ll sleep by the door,” I say. “That’s my final offer.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “Habit.”
“That is not a full answer.”
“It’s the one you’re getting.”
“Wolfe.”
I keep my eyes on the window, where rain taps the glass in uneven little strikes. “Because if you need out, you get out. If someone comes in, they get through me first.”
When I look back, Daisy is watching me like I’ve just put something breakable between us and refused to explain why.
“You know this is my mother’s house, right?” she says, but her voice has lost some of its shine. “Not a medieval siege.”
“I know.”
“And the biggest danger tonight is probably Puck farting after the illicit donut fiasco.”
“Still taking the floor.”
“Fine,” she says. “But if you sleep on the floor, I’m sleeping on the floor too.”
“Stubborn.”
“Decorative and stubborn. It was on my college applications.”
“That explains a lot.”
“It got me waitlisted at two emotionally unavailable universities.”
I almost smile.
Daisy sees it and her face changes by a fraction. There’s less panic and more warmth. The room loosens its grip around us, but the space between us does not.
That stays tight.
Too tight.
Then her gaze drops to my mouth.
Just for a second.
Not long enough to accuse her of anything.
Long enough to ruin me.
I should look away.
I do.
Too late.
Because when I look back, she is still there, still close, still pretending she didn’t just do it. Her cheeks have gone warm, and her hands are curled in the sleeves of her sweater like she needs somewhere to put all the nerves she keeps disguising as jokes.
“Don’t,” she says.
I go still. “Don’t what?”
“Make the face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you decide something for my own good.”
I breathe out once. “Rule Four.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m not deciding.”
“No?”
“No.”
Her eyes search mine.
There is a lot I could say. Too much. That she looks tired. That I hate this room for making her ache and love it for showing me pieces of her I don’t deserve. That I’ve been thinking about kissing her since before I admitted to thinking about anything.
That wanting her is starting to feel less like a bad idea and more like a fact I’m losing the strength to argue with.
Instead, I say, “If this happens, you tell me to stop, and I stop.”
Her breath catches.
Small.
Real.
My hands stay at my sides.
I do not touch her.
Daisy looks down, then back up. Her mouth curves, but it's nervous, almost frightened by its own honesty.
“This being the part where we continue arguing about rug custody?” she asks.
“No.”
“Oh.”
The rain keeps tapping the window. Puck exhales from the rug. Somewhere downstairs, a door closes, then the house settles again, old wood and old memories making room for a new mistake.
Daisy steps closer.
Not much.
Enough.
“I’m not telling you to stop,” she says.
My control goes quiet.
I lift one hand slowly, giving her time to move away.
She doesn’t. My fingers touch her jaw first, careful as a question.
Her skin is warm. Softer than I let myself imagine, which is stupid because I have imagined it.
I have imagined more than this, worse than this, in ways I have no business admitting while a fake relationship sits between us like a rulebook written by cowards.
Daisy’s lashes lower.
That does it.
I bend.
The first touch of my mouth to hers is not hard.
It should be. I want it to be. I want to kiss her like every hour of restraint has been building toward this exact failure.
I kiss her carefully.
For about one second.
Then Daisy makes a small sound against my mouth, half surprise, half relief, and careful stops being enough.
Her hands come to my shirt, fingers catching in the fabric.
Not pulling.
Holding.
Like she needs proof I’m here. I move closer.
The kiss changes.
Her mouth opens under mine, and the first touch of her tongue against mine wrecks whatever discipline I thought I had left.
Fuck.
It is not tentative after that.
Daisy makes a small sound, soft and startled, and I feel it everywhere.
In my hands. In my ribs. In the part of me that has been pretending this was strategy, pretending she was a problem to solve instead of a woman I’ve been wanting in slow, dangerous increments since she first looked at me like she could read the damage and still argue with it.
I kiss her deeper.
Her fingers tighten in my shirt, and I answer by sliding one hand to the back of her neck, thumb brushing the line of her jaw. Not holding her still. Not trapping her. Just keeping us both close enough that neither of us can pretend this is accidental.
She tastes like rain and sugar and the little bit of coffee she drank downstairs because she claimed cider made her “too seasonally vulnerable.” She kisses like she talks, too much feeling under too much control, a soft push followed by a braver one, a quiet dare, a breathless little surrender she’ll probably deny if I mention it later.
Then she kisses me back harder.
That is what does it.
Not the bed behind her. Not the storm against the window. Not the fact that we are standing in her childhood bedroom with ten fake-dating rules lying somewhere between us like a joke that stopped being funny.
It’s Daisy choosing it.
Choosing me.
Her tongue slides against mine again, and every thought I have about distance, exits, rules, and self-preservation leaves the room without looking back.
I slide my hand into her hair, careful enough not to scare her, selfish enough not to stop.
Not enough to trap her.
Enough to ask her to stay.
She does.
For one dangerous second, she presses closer, and I feel the shape of her against me, the tired breath in her ribs, the way her body decides before her pride can object.
Then she pulls back.
Not far.
Just enough to breathe.
Her eyes open slowly.
Wide.
Stunned.
A little furious, like I’ve created a scheduling conflict in her nervous system.
“That,” she whispers, “was not in the contract.”
“No.”
“We had rules.”
“Still do.”
“You kissed me.”
“You stepped closer.”
“I was investigating.”
“With your mouth?”
“It’s a valid research method.”
“Do you regret it?”