Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Daisy
There are several places a woman should not wake up after sleeping with her fake boyfriend.
Her childhood bedroom is high on the list.
Her childhood bedroom while rain taps the window, her mother makes coffee downstairs, and said fake boyfriend is asleep behind her, probably looking far too peaceful for a man who committed emotional arson in her bed less than eight hours ago?
That is less a situation and more a formal inquiry with throw pillows.
I wake slowly, which is not my usual style. Usually, I wake immediately, suspicious of daylight, like it’s here to collect payment.
This morning, I wake to warmth.
A very large, very male, very naked-under-the-quilt warmth pressed against my back, one arm tucked around my waist like it belongs there.
Which it does not.
Legally.
Emotionally.
According to the contract.
And yes, there is a contract.
Of course there is a contract. I am the sort of woman who made rules for a fake relationship and then violated several of them in my childhood bedroom like a horny notary with abandonment issues.
My eyes fly open.
Last night we broke the rules.
I know we did.
I just can’t remember which ones, because apparently my brain has replaced all legal documentation with the memory of Forrest’s mouth on my neck and his hand sliding over my hip like he had every right to ruin me.
Helpful.
Very professional.
Excellent work from the department of self-preservation, which has clearly resigned and moved to Vermont.
The room comes into focus in pieces. Rain-soft light through the window. My old bookshelf. The chipped ceramic pumpkin on the desk. The quilt tangled around my hips. One of my socks hanging from the corner of the desk chair like a tiny flag of surrender.
And Forrest Wolfcraft’s hand resting low on my stomach.
Bare skin on bare skin.
My body, treacherous little committee that it is, immediately votes yes.
To what?
Irrelevant.
It votes yes across all categories.
I hold completely still.
Not because I regret anything.
I don’t.
That is the problem.
Regret would be useful. Regret has structure. Regret could get dressed, brush its teeth, make a spreadsheet, and say things like, We made an understandable error due to weather, proximity, and unresolved tension.
But I don’t regret it.
I remember it.
Forrest’s mouth on mine. His hands were careful until they weren’t.
His voice against my skin, rough with restraint and need.
Forrest inside me, forehead pressed to mine like the whole house, the whole town, the whole fake relationship had vanished down to one impossible room and the sound of us breathing.
No.
Absolutely not.
This morning has been ongoing for less than thirty seconds, and already I need legal counsel, hydration, and maybe a priest with modern views.
Behind me, Forrest’s breath shifts.
“Stop thinking so loud,” he mutters, then kisses my back.
One warm, sleepy press of his mouth against skin he knows now.
Terrible.
Horrifying.
Sexy, unfortunately.
That mouth should be illegal. Not because it is pretty, though obviously it is, which is deeply annoying. Because it remembers things. Because last night it learned me with an attention I am not prepared to file under fake anything.
“I’m not thinking loudly,” I whisper.
“You stopped breathing.”
“That is a private respiratory matter.”
His arm tightens by a fraction.
Not enough to trap me.
Enough to remind me that I am with a man who knows what I sound like when I stop making jokes.
“You okay?” he asks.
I turn my head just enough to glare at him over my shoulder. “That question has become your brand.”
“Answer.”
Bossy.
Warm.
Naked.
Fake boyfriend.
Real problem.
“I am processing.”
“Processing what, Day?”
His mouth moves along my shoulder, slow and sleep-soft, and my brain starts deleting whole categories of concern. Breakfast. My mother. The contract. The fact that Puck was banished from the room and probably knows everything.
“The collapse of several systems,” I say.
“Which systems?”
“Rules. Dignity. Skepticism. Possibly my ability to look your mother in the eye over breakfast.”
I feel his mouth almost curve against me.
“That last one was already questionable.”
I gasp. “Rude.”
His hand shifts slightly on my stomach, thumb brushing once, slow enough to ruin every argument I had lined up.
I stare at the chipped pumpkin on my desk like it might offer guidance.
It ignores me.
Traitor.
“You’re doing it again,” he says.
“What?”
“Trying to talk yourself out of what already happened.”
“I’m not talking myself out of anything. I’m simply reviewing the minutes from last night’s meeting.”
“Meeting?”
“Very productive. High engagement. Several motions passed.”
His breath warms my shoulder. “Motions?”
“Don’t make me say that word while we’re still naked.”
He goes quiet for one beat.
Then I feel him laugh.
Not hear it.
Feel it.
Low against my back.
My heart, which has never respected workplace boundaries, immediately considers applying for a joint account.
I close my eyes.
This is bad.
Not because last night was a mistake.
Because it wasn’t.
Of course I turn to look at him.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You smiled.”
“Didn’t.”
“You released a micro-expression into the room.”
“Sounds serious.”
“It is. This room has seen enough.”
His eyes are still half-lidded, hair sleep-rough, face too open in the morning. Forrest without armor is worse than Forrest with it. The gruffness is there, but softened at the edges, and I hate how much I want to touch him just to see if he’ll let me.
He reaches up and brushes his thumb along my jaw.
Small.
Simple.
Devastating.
“Do you regret it?” he asks.
“No.” I roll onto my back, pulling the quilt with me because I am brave but not ready to have this conversation fully exposed beneath the gaze of a former hockey player with a body built by violence, discipline, and several unfair genetics departments.
“I regret that Puck was exiled. I regret that my mother was here. I regret that my childhood room has excellent acoustics.”
His eyes brighten.
I slap a hand over my face. “Forget I said that.”
“I will not.”
“Forrest.”
“Daisy.”
My name in his morning voice should be a federal offense.
A scratching sound comes from the hallway.
Then a huff.
Then one tragic paw tries to slide beneath the door.
“Oh, no,” I whisper. “Your son knows.”
“He’s a dog.”
“He knows. Didn’t you hear the paw? That is a formal accusation.”
Forrest exhales like he is trying not to laugh, which is rude because laughter means facial movement and facial movement means I have to look at him.
“I’ll let him in,” he says.
“Wait.”
He pauses.
The quilt sits low at his waist. His chest is bare. There is a mark on his shoulder that might be from me, which is information I will be taking to my grave or possibly my next crisis meeting with Bea.
“What?”
“You can’t answer the door like that.”
His brow lifts. “Like what?”
“Like a vineyard scandal with abs.”
His mouth almost curves. “Puck won’t care.”
“My mother might be in the hallway.”
“She shouldn’t be outside your bedroom.”
“She’s a mother. Boundaries are a suggestion.”
Another scrape at the door.
Puck whines, long and wounded.
I point toward Forrest’s jeans on the floor. “Pants first. For the dog.”
“For everyone’s recovery.”
He rolls away from me, which I hate for approximately one second until the quilt slips and I see his back.
Then I hate everything else.
He pulls on his jeans, and I stare at the ceiling like a woman of dignity who did not spend last night making sounds in this exact bed that my ancestors may have heard from beyond the veil.
Forrest opens the door.
Puck barrels in with the offended dignity of a creature excluded from poor choices.
He jumps onto the bed before either of us can stop him.
“Puck,” Forrest says.
Puck ignores him and flops across my legs.
“See?” I say, petting his head immediately because I am weak and he is emotionally persuasive. “He forgives me.”
“He’s mad at me.”
“As he should be. You abandoned him in the hallway like a Dickensian orphan.”
“I gave him a blanket.”
“A luxurious Dickensian orphan.”
Puck groans and presses his head against my hip, clearly prepared to testify on my behalf if this ever goes to court.
Forrest stands beside the bed in jeans and no shirt, looking like a man who belongs in a very specific category of bad decision—Wide shoulders, morning stubble, and the audacity to ask if I’m okay after ruining my ability to interact with quilts normally.
I look away before my body starts another committee vote.
“Let’s head to the backyard,” Forrest says to Puck.
Puck huffs, as if he has several follow-up questions.
“Go,” I tell him. “Before you start submitting evidence.”
Forrest grabs his boots with one hand and looks back at me.
For half a second, he just looks.
Not at the bed.
Not at the quilt.
At me.
The room goes quiet in that annoying way rooms do when they want women to have feelings before coffee.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks.
I pull the quilt higher, which is pointless because he has already seen every inch of me and, tragically, treated the experience with focus, care, and other things I cannot responsibly process before breakfast.
“Define okay.”
His mouth almost moves. “Day.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Obviously. I’m a modern woman. I can wake up in my childhood bedroom next to my fake boyfriend, survive his dog’s judgment, and attend breakfast with his mother like my nervous system isn’t currently being operated by raccoons.”
He studies me.
I hate that he can tell.
I hate more that he doesn’t make me say it.
“Okay,” he says.
It is not agreement.
It is patience.
Which is worse.
“Go,” I tell him, softer this time. “Before Puck files a formal complaint.”
Forrest nods once and heads for the door.
Puck follows him, but not before giving me one last look over his shoulder.
Betrayal.
Concern.
Possibly hunger.
Honestly, same.
He leaves with Puck, shutting the door halfway behind him.
Enough to give me privacy.
Enough not to make it feel like he’s gone.
I sit in my childhood bed, my body still remembering his, and the contract somewhere on the wrong side of useless.
I should feel ruined.
I don’t.
I feel seen.
Which is much worse.