Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Forrest
And I’m back at The Turning Page.
I have coffee at home. Bad coffee, but coffee. I have a dog who has already been walked, fed, forgiven for pastry crimes, and told twice that staring at the passenger door will not summon Daisy back into my truck.
Puck disagreed.
Loudly.
That is how I end up standing inside The Turning Page less than an hour after dropping Daisy off for a shift she claimed she couldn’t cancel. She was right. She had a shift. She also left Winterberry like the vineyard had caught fire behind her, and the only thing that could save her was inventory.
She didn’t look at me when she said goodbye.
That shouldn’t matter.
It does.
Did I want a kiss goodbye? Probably. Or even better, I wanted her to stay with me. I needed more of her. Hence, I’m here like a lost puppy.
The café is warm, full of old paper, espresso, cinnamon, rain-damp coats, and the particular kind of noise Daisy seems to thrive in.
Honestly, this is what she should do. Run a bookstore with coffee issues, tea with emotional range, and a rescue shelf for paperbacks no one admits they bought on purpose.
There’s a line of tiny pumpkins in the front window.
A handwritten sign near the register says, Today’s special: apple cider cake, which sounds like something Daisy would argue has seasonal integrity.
A woman in the corner is crying into a laptop.
Two students are whispering aggressively over a textbook.
Bea stands behind the counter, looking at me like she has been expecting my bad decisions to arrive exactly on schedule.
Then I see Daisy.
She is by the tea display with a tin in one hand, wearing a black apron over a sweater, her hair twisted up in a clip that has already lost control of the situation.
She freezes when she sees me.
Not much.
Enough.
Her body knows me now.
Mine knows her too.
That is the first problem.
The second problem is Puck.
He sees Daisy and loses every bit of training I have ever pretended he has.
“No,” I say.
He lunges anyway.
Daisy drops to her knees before I can stop him, and Puck shoves his big head under her chin like a tragic orphan reunited with the only woman who ever understood him.
“Hello, traitor,” she whispers, rubbing both hands over his ears. “Did you survive your hallway exile? Should I call a lawyer? Blink once if Forrest violated your emotional rights.”
Puck licks her jaw.
“Forrest denies all allegations,” she tells him.
“He had a blanket,” I say.
“A blanket,” Daisy repeats, looking up. “How generous. A textile and abandonment. Truly, the luxury package.”
Her eyes hit mine, and for one second the whole café disappears. Everything narrows to her on the floor with my dog, the faint pink in her cheeks, and the fact that I know exactly how those cheeks looked last night when she was trying not to come apart under me.
Fuck.
I take one breath.
Then another.
Neither one helps.
My hands want things they have no business wanting in a café full of people, paperbacks, and a woman crying into a laptop like her spreadsheet personally betrayed her.
“Hi,” I say.
One word.
Still too much.
Daisy stands too fast, steps back, and knocks into a display table.
Three paperbacks slide toward the floor.
I bend as she does.
Our fingers brush around the same book.
Nothing.
Barely a brush of skin.
Still enough to send last night straight through my blood.
She snatches the book back like I handed her a live wire. “Thank you. Coffee for here or emotionally unavailable?”
Bea makes a sound from behind the counter.
Daisy closes her eyes.
I wait.
“I meant to-go,” she says. “Obviously. I’m a professional. A professional woman. With words. Sometimes.”
Her face goes pinker.
“Great start, Daisy,” she mutters to herself. “Very normal. Very woman who did not wake up with consequences.”
I should help her.
I should say to go. Give her space. Let her rebuild whatever wall she needs between the woman who woke in my arms, and the woman who works in this café with customers watching and Bea judging the whole room through cardigan energy.
Instead, I say, “For here.”
Her eyes open.
“Great.” She turns to the counter. “Wonderful. One emotional coffee.”
“Black.”
“I know.”
The words leave her too quickly.
I see the second she realizes it.
I know.
I know too.
I know she prefers cider donuts to any other pastry but pretends it depends on quality.
I know she says “pumpkin spice” like a moral accusation.
I know she taps her pen twice before saying something that matters.
I know the soft, broken sound she makes when she stops trying to be funny and lets herself feel good.
I know too much.
Not enough.
That is the worst part.
Daisy clears her throat and reaches for a carafe. “Black coffee. For the man whose personality has fewer ingredients than a survival kit.”
Bea slides her a cup without looking up. “Careful. That almost sounded affectionate.”
“It was customer service,” Daisy says quickly. “Hostile customer service. Very on brand.”
“Sure,” Bea says.
Daisy points at her. “Do not cardigan at me.”
“I’m standing still.”
“You’re standing still with narrative judgment.”
She moves behind the counter like coffee is a life raft. Bea steps beside her, murmurs something I don’t hear, and Daisy glares with the force of a woman trying to prevent a witness from testifying.
I take my usual table because standing in the middle of the café wanting Daisy Thorn is not a sustainable plan.
Puck settles under the table but keeps his eyes on her.
“Pathetic,” I mutter.
His tail thumps.
The café rush gives Daisy something to do for the next thirty minutes. She makes coffee. Hands over receipts. Answers questions. Reorganizes the pastry case. Pretends not to look at me.
She looks at me six times.
I count.
I shouldn’t.
I do.
When the crowd thins, she brings my coffee to the table herself instead of letting Bea do it.
“Your coffee,” she says.
“Thanks.”
“Of course.”
“You left fast.”
Her fingers tighten on the edge of the saucer.
“I had a shift,” she says.
“I know.”
“Then why did that sound like a question wearing boots?”
Because you didn’t look at me.
Because you held my hand for almost half the drive and then let go like Boston city limits came with emotional laws.
Because last night wasn’t fake for me, and I need to know if you’re trying to make it fake for yourself.
I say the safest truth.
“Because you didn’t look at me when you said goodbye.”
Her mouth parts.
For once, nothing comes out.
Bea, behind the counter, suddenly becomes very interested in napkins. She is not subtle. No one in Daisy’s life is subtle. Maybe subtle people avoid her for self-preservation.
“I wasn’t leaving because of what happened,” Daisy says quietly.
“I know.”
“Stop knowing things. It’s invasive.”
“No.”
Her mouth pulls at one corner.
Small.
Almost unwilling.
Mine.
No.
Not mine.
That’s the third problem.
Daisy looks down at the coffee. “I was leaving because if I stayed long enough for anyone to ask me how breakfast went, I was going to say something deeply illegal for a woman in front of strangers.”
“That bad?”
“That good,” she says, then winces. “Ignore that. Delete it. Pretend I said something elegant, like the muffins were memorable.”
“They were?”
“No. They were dry, but I ate two because my anxiety has never met a baked good it couldn’t emotionally overuse.”
“Day.”
“No.” She lifts one hand. “Please don’t use the voice.”
“What voice?”
“The voice that makes me want to answer honestly before I’ve had enough caffeine to build a legal defense.”
I lean back.
She exhales, like she expected me to push and hates that I didn’t.
Then she sets the saucer down and nudges it toward me.
“There,” she says. “Coffee. Black. Broody. Emotionally under-seasoned.”
I take it. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She hesitates. “For the coffee. Not for the emotional under-seasoning. That’s your journey.”
Puck puts his head on her boot and sighs like the whole scene has exhausted him.
Daisy looks down. “Honestly, same.”