Chapter 9 #2
“I like what I do here,” she says. “I do. But anyone back home is going to think I downgraded my life. From fiancée in charge of vineyard events to two jobs, barely affording rent, and eating emergency sandwiches from a man who judges my carbohydrate technique.”
“I don’t judge the technique.”
“You made notes with your face.”
“You made crumbs on my dog.”
“Puck volunteered.”
“He lacks boundaries.”
“So do our mothers, and yet here we are.”
The joke lands, then bruises.
She looks at the tiny pumpkins on the windowsill instead of me.
“I wanted to go back eventually with a better story,” she says. “A better job. Better shoes. Maybe a boyfriend who owns a blazer and has never cheated on me with a woman who uses the word ‘tablescape’ without irony.”
I say nothing.
Her mouth twists. “Or no boyfriend. That would’ve been fine too. I am a modern woman. I own a tote bag with feminist punctuation.” She glances down at the sandwich. “Just not . . . this.”
This.
Single. Tired. Broke. Useful.
I hate it for her.
I hate it more than I understand it.
“Winterberry Cove seems to like perfection,” I say.
She glances at me and holds there, studying my face in a way that feels too careful for a woman who was threatening dessert puns thirty seconds ago.
“What do they want from you?”
I look at the café window. Rain traces the glass. Inside, cups clink, milk hisses, and Bea tells someone that no, they cannot pay for a scone with “exposure,” whatever the hell that means.
“Someone who won’t ruin their program,” I say.
Her eyes stay on mine.
“A man who won’t scare the parents,” I add. “Who won’t make the school board nervous. Who won’t look like he’s one bad day away from proving every headline right.”
“You’re grumpy,” Daisy says. “Not violent.”
The words come fast.
Like she didn’t have to think before deciding.
That hits harder than it should.
“I’ve been both.”
She doesn’t flinch.
Fuck.
Most people do. Not always visibly. Sometimes it’s just their eyes changing. The quick inventory. The revised distance.
Daisy stays there.
Sandwich in one hand, pen in the other.
Puck on her boot.
Like I have given her a fact, not a reason to leave.
“So,” she says, “you’re going there to show them you can play nice?”
“Among other things.”
“What other things?” she asks, pen hovering like she’s already trying to solve me.
“You don’t have to help me.”
“Sure, but maybe—” She presses her lips together and shakes her head. “Never mind.”
“Say it.”
“No.”
“You know you’re going to.”
“I know many things. For instance, I know the difference between a macaron and a macaroon, and yet I do not force that wisdom on everyone.”
“Daisy.”
She looks down at the notebook and clears her throat. “Since I’m there, I could help you not look like a hockey gargoyle, and you help me not accidentally seat the boosters according to jersey number or whatever.”
I point at the notebook. “Answer your questions?”
“For starters.”
I pull the notebook closer.
At the top of the page, I write: Do not call icing a dessert.
Daisy leans over, reads it, and gasps.
“You’re censoring me.”
“I’m saving you.”
“From charm?”
“From yourself.”
“How dare you?”
Puck rests his chin on her boot again.
Daisy looks at him. “Can you believe this?”
“He agrees with me.”
“He is a gentleman and would never.”
“He ate my sock.”
“Allegedly.”
I write under the first note:
Parents care about safety. Donors care about optics. Kids care if you treat them like people.
Daisy goes quiet.
I feel her looking at me.
This time, I don’t look away.
“See?” she says softly. “You know how to do this.”
My hand tightens on the pen.
“Knowing and convincing are different.”
“Good thing I’m excellent at convincing people.”
“You’re excellent at overwhelming them.”
“That too.”
The bell over the door rings. A group of customers comes in laughing, bringing cold air, rain, and the smell of wet wool. Daisy’s phone buzzes on the table.
We both look at it.
MOM.
She flips the phone facedown.
“Look at that,” she says. “Boundaries. Someone call a journalist.”
It buzzes again.
She stares at the phone like it has personally betrayed the feminist movement.
This time, the preview shows a different name.
Carla Alden: So sorry to bother you again! Principal Whitcomb mentioned the coaches’ dinner may overlap with our final walkthrough. I don’t like that at all. We’re paying good money for this not to become a circus. If something goes wrong, we’ll sue.
Daisy stares at the screen.
All the humor drains from her face so quietly it makes me want to stand up.
“We’ll countersue,” I say. “Add emotional damage.”
The corner of her lip lifts slightly. “I don’t have money for that.”
“I’ll cover the legal fees. Unless we sue her for those too.”
“You are surprisingly supportive of litigation for a man trying to look safe.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You contain a bad attitude and a dog.”
“Also legal strategy.”
That gets me half a smile.
Half is better than none.
Then her eyes sharpen like a thought has just cut through the noise.
“You know what would help me?” she asks.
“If they move the wedding to somewhere far away, and you get to keep the deposit?”
She taps her chin. “Good one. Elegant. Ambitious. Sadly, no.”
“What?”
“If I show up with a boyfriend.”
The word hits the table between us.
Boyfriend.
I stare at her.
She stares back.
Puck sighs under the table like he’s been waiting for the slow humans to arrive.
“I don’t need a man,” she adds quickly. “Let’s be very clear.
I’m not standing here waving a tiny flag for outdated social validation.
But it’s Winterberry Cove. Optics mean a lot.
Stories matter. If I go back alone, everyone sees the woman Liam left.
If I go back with someone, suddenly I’m .
. . I don’t know. Thriving. Mysterious. Possibly sexually satisfied. ”
My eyes cut to hers.
Her cheeks heat.
Interesting.
She points at me. “Do not make a face.”
“I didn’t.”
“You thought one.”
“I think many things.”
“Tragic for all of us.”
I should say no.
Mark’s voice slides through my head.
Find someone who’ll come with you to Winterberry Cove and act happy to be there.
Daisy needs a better story.
I need proof I’m not one bad day from ruining mine.
Both of us are already going.
Both of us have mothers who should not be allowed near narrative development.
“What if it’s fake?” I ask.
Daisy frowns. “Fake?”
“The relationship.”
She stares at me for one beat.
Then two.
Then her eyes widen.
“I’m not paying an escort,” she squeaks. “Do you know how expensive they are?”
“How do you know?”
“I may have checked rates,” she confesses, then lifts both hands.
“For research. Weekend research. One of Carla’s bridesmaids texted me, and somewhere between ‘it’s so brave that you’re helping’ and ‘it’s so sad that you have nobody,’ I briefly considered hiring a man named Alessandro who promised luxury companionship and owned three blazers. ”
I stare at her.
“You researched fake dates?”
“I researched emotional armor with cheekbones.”
“Daisy.”
“What? I didn’t book him. I have fiscal restraint and a fear of being murdered.”
“It’s okay that you have nobody.”
Her smile fades.
“I know.”
“No,” I say. “You don’t.”
She looks at me then.
Really looks.