Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Daisy
By Friday night, Liam’s wedding is dead, my toothbrush lives in Forrest Wolfcraft’s bathroom, and I have somehow become the sort of woman who owns a drawer in a man’s apartment without ever officially agreeing to own a drawer in a man’s apartment.
To be clear, I did not move in.
Moving in requires intention, boxes, at least one argument about closet space, and a person brave enough to admit they are making a domestic choice.
I merely have practical items in practical places.
A toothbrush.
A cardigan—or four.
Two pairs of underwear—maybe seven.
One bra.
Face wash, moisturizer, serum, sunscreen, night cream, and three tiny bottles that promise to make me look rested despite decades of evidence to the contrary.
A hair clip.
Emergency socks.
Three books on his coffee table, because Forrest’s apartment had the emotional range of a hotel room designed by a man avoiding tax questions, and I refuse to be intimate with someone who thinks one biography, two hockey manuals, and a dog bed count as ambiance.
Also, Puck needed literature.
He is sensitive.
The apartment smells like takeout, rain, clean laundry, and Forrest. The last one is annoying because it has become less of a smell and more of a legal concern.
There’s a gray blanket over the back of the couch that I bought because his old one felt like it had survived a minor war.
There’s a mug in the sink that is mine because it says I’M NOT BOSSY, I’M THE PLOT, and Bea gave it to me with a face that suggested she knew more than any employer should.
Puck is sprawled on the rug in front of the couch, snoring like an elderly landlord.
Forrest stands in the kitchen, barefoot, in dark jeans and a long-sleeved shirt pushed to his forearms, opening takeout containers with the grim focus of a man disarming explosives.
I sit cross-legged on the couch with my laptop open, my resignation email minimized, and my phone face down because Winterberry Cove has been vibrating through it all day like a small town with a group chat and no boundaries.
Carla found out Liam cheated again.
Not with me.
Not with some poetic full-circle punishment arranged by a generous universe with excellent narrative timing.
Just cheated.
Again.
Because apparently Liam did not need character development. He needed supervision, a locked phone, and possibly a warning label.
Carla left Winterberry Cove before lunch.
The wedding is off.
“I’m handling the cleanup, darling. You are not needed for this,” Mom said after we learned the news. Then she added, “And yes, your invoice is still being paid in full.”
So I came back to Boston with Forrest, put on soft pants, opened my laptop, and spent twenty-seven minutes staring at the resignation email I drafted yesterday.
Forrest sets a carton of noodles on the coffee table. “Eat.”
“Interesting management style.”
“You haven’t eaten since noon.”
“I had a muffin.”
“It was half a muffin.”
“It was emotionally complete.”
He gives me a look.
I pick up the chopsticks. “Fine. I will consume dinner because you have made it clear this relationship contains surveillance.”
His hands stop on the second takeout carton.
Relationship.
The word sits down between us and removes its coat.
I focus on the noodles with intense professional dedication, because I am a coward with carbohydrates.
Forrest comes around the couch and sits beside me. Not too close. Close enough that my body notices. My body has become unhelpfully fluent in Forrest proximity.
“You, okay?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He waits.
“No,” I amend. “Actually, yes. But, I’m also annoyed.”
“At Liam?”
“At karma.”
His eyebrows lift.
“It took forever,” I explain, stabbing noodles with more force than they deserve. “And it still expects me to receive updates about florals. I don’t want to be in the group chat of consequences. I want consequences to arrive, do their job, and leave me out of the administrative follow-through.”
Forrest’s mouth moves.
“Don’t laugh,” I warn.
“I didn’t.”
“You thought about it.”
“Briefly.”
I eat a bite of noodles and realize I am starving, which is embarrassing. My body has been doing this all week. Waiting until Forrest looks at me and says eat before remembering that food is a concept we support.
“I thought I’d feel more,” I admit.
Forrest’s gaze stays on me.
I shrug. “Vindicated. Triumphant. Maybe glamorous in a revenge dress, except I’m wearing sweatpants and one of your shirts, so really, the branding is confusing. Less femme fatale, more woman who knows exactly where you keep the extra forks.”
“You don’t have to enjoy it.”
“I know.” I take another bite. “That’s the weird thing. I don’t need to. I don’t need anything from it. Everyone finally caught up, and I’m just sitting here wondering if I should rewrite my resignation email to sound less like a woman sprinting toward dental coverage.”
His eyes drop to my laptop.
“You wrote it?”
“Drafted. Minimized. Judged silently.”
“You want to quit.”
“I plan to quit the nonprofit if you offer a good salary, Wolfie.”
His gaze comes back to mine.
“I offered a good salary,” he says.
“You offered a concept of salary.”
“I gave you a number.”
“You gave me a number while standing near votive candles, which makes it legally unstable.”
“It was six figures.”
“It was a deeply attractive number,” I agree.
“With benefits.”
“Stop.”
“And dental.”
I press my hand to my chest. “You can’t say dental like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like a man trying to get me out of my pants.”
His eyes lower.
Slowly.
Not to my pants.
To the bare skin where his shirt has slid off one shoulder.
My pulse immediately begins behaving like a poorly trained intern.
“I wasn’t,” he says.
I swallow. “Weren’t you?”
“No.” His voice drops. “I was trying to hire you.”
“Oh.” I look down at my laptop, because looking at him has become hazardous. “Right. Professional. Founding Executive Director. Salary. Benefits. Authority. Budget. Dental. A title that makes me sound like I should own blazers that don’t come from a sale rack.”
“You’d look good in any blazer.”
“That was not in the offer letter.”
“I can add it.”
“Please don’t write compliments into my employment contract.”
“Noted.”
I set the noodles on the coffee table and pull the laptop closer. The resignation email sits there, waiting.
“You know,” I say, typing nothing, “I did like the work.”
“I know.”
“I like literacy programs. I like after-school tutoring. I like donor packets and matching volunteers to the right kids and making chaos into something people can actually use.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t hate the mission.”
“You hated being underpaid to care too much.”
I look at him.
He says it as if it’s a fact—just the thing I was trying to say without handing myself the full truth.
“Yes,” I say. “That.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Open Ice has the mission and the pay.”
“Very efficient pitch.”
“I’ve been practicing.”
“On who?”
“Puck.”
I glance at Puck, who is sleeping with one paw in the air. “He seems persuaded.”
“He asked about snacks.”
“Smart board member.”
Forrest’s mouth almost curves.
I love him.
The thought arrives so simply that I don’t even panic at first.
I love him.
There it is, sitting next to the noodles, the laptop, my resignation email, and the dog with terrible board governance.
Not a thunderclap.
Not a fall from a cliff.
Just a fact, rude in its timing and impossible to unlearn.
I love Forrest Wolfcraft.
I love his grunts and his careful hands and his ugly honesty.
I love that he buys dog blankets and pretends it’s logistics.
I love that he read three romance novels and wrote angry margin notes about heroes who apologize too late.
I love that he offered me a job with benefits and a door kids can walk through.
I love that he asks, always asks, even when he already knows the answer because he will not take the choice from me.
Fuck.
This is inconvenient.
I’m in love with a guy who’s offering a dream.
My own place where I can help. We talked about it.
Pilot in Winterberry. Partnerships in Boston.
Eventually a physical center there, land here, rink phase later.
He’s the one with the money and the deeply inconvenient integrity.
I’m the one with program design, donor strategy, and a troubling attraction to grant calendars.
“So, if I accept . . . how does this work?” I point at him and me. “Like, professionally? Because I have my toothbrush in your bathroom, my bra is probably in your laundry, and our dog thinks I’m his legal representation.”
“Our dog?”
I freeze.
Of course he catches that.
Of course he does.
Forrest Wolfcraft misses nothing except apparently emotional self-preservation, and even that feels recent.
“I meant your dog,” I say quickly. “Your dog. The dog. A dog. A neutral mammal with a receipt-eating problem.”
Puck snores.
Forrest looks at me.
Worse.
Almost smiling.
“You said ‘our dog.’”
“I’m under stress. I also once called a stapler ‘sir’ during a grant deadline. Words cannot be held against me.”
“Are you accepting the offer?” he asks, a little too eager for a man pretending not to care.
“If the offer remains generous.”
“It does.”
“And if I have actual authority.”
“You do.”
“And a budget I approve of.”
“Yes.”
“And if I tell you an idea is bad, you have to listen.”
He scoffs. “I always listen.”
“You do. It’s unnerving.” I look down at the laptop, then back at him. “Then yes. I want the job.”
He reaches for me slowly, like even now he is giving me time to change my mind. His hand settles at my jaw, thumb brushing once near my cheekbone.
“Because of me?” he asks.
“No.” My voice changes because the answer matters. “You are a factor. A very broad-shouldered, emotionally disruptive factor. But no. I want the job because I want the work. I want the kids. I want Open Ice. I want to be paid to care without disappearing inside it.”
His eyes close for half a second.
When they open, the look in them does something reckless to my entire body.
“Good,” he says.
“That’s it?”
“You said yes.”
“I did.”
“I’m trying not to make it weird.”
“By saying ‘good’ like a man receiving military orders?”
“It’s my process.”
“You’re terrible at this.”
“At hiring?”
“At everything.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m good at some things.”
I should not smile, but I do.
“Is that part of the official benefits package?”
His gaze drops to my mouth. “Separate negotiation.”
I shift closer on the couch. “I am an excellent negotiator.”
“I know.”
“Very demanding.”
“I know.”
“High standards.”
His thumb moves once along the side of my neck. “I know.”
My breath catches.
His eyes lift to mine again, and the room changes. The couch is too small for the space between us.
“Forrest,” I whisper.
He kisses me.
It’s just his mouth on mine, rougher than usual, not careless, never careless, but edged with everything he held back while I said yes.
I slide into him instantly, one hand at his shoulder, the other fisting in his shirt.
He pulls me across his lap, and I go, because apparently I am a woman who accepts a founding executive position and celebrates by climbing the founder on his couch.
Very professional.
Excellent onboarding.
Human Resources would need smelling salts.
His hands settle on my hips, holding me there, and the first roll of my body against his makes both of us stop breathing.
“Still negotiating?” he asks against my mouth.
“Yes.”
“Terms?”
I pull back enough to look at him. His eyes are dark, his mouth already mine, his hands warm through the borrowed shirt. “Immediate start date.”
His fingers tighten. “Approved.”
“Flexible hours.”
“Approved.”
“Regular meetings.”
His mouth moves to my neck. “Required.”
“Performance reviews.”
He kisses just below my ear.
My brain loses an entire fiscal quarter.
“Careful,” he says. “I’m thorough.”
“That is exactly the concern.”
He laughs once, low and rough, and I feel it against my skin.
I grab the hem of his shirt. “Off.”
“Bossy.”
“Prompt executive decisions.”
He lets me pull it over his head, then reaches for mine. His shirt, technically. Mine, spiritually. He pauses with his fingers at the fabric.
I lift my arms.
The shirt comes off, and his eyes move over me like he still cannot quite believe I am here. On his couch. In his apartment. With half my things already scattered through his life.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I whisper.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m something you get to keep.”
His hands still.
Then he cups my face, and his voice goes quiet enough to undo me.
“Are you?”
Oh.
Oh, that is unfair.
I try to make a joke. I really do. Something about lease terms, emotional property law, Puck needing a custody agreement.
Nothing comes.
So I answer.
“Yes.”
Forrest goes still beneath me.
Then he kisses me like the word went through him.
The rest of the room disappears in pieces. The noodles. The laptop. The resignation email I still haven’t sent. His hands are on my back, my waist, my hips, holding and asking all at once, and I have never been so tired of pretending a thing can stay casual just because I’m afraid of naming it.
Puck lifts his head from the rug.
I turn mine slowly.
“Absolutely not,” I say.
Puck sighs with the suffering of a dog denied participation in the worst possible moment.
Forrest rises, opens the bedroom door, and points inside. “Bed.”
Puck hauls himself up with maximum offense and pads into the bedroom like a martyr being sent to exile with orthopedic bedding.
Forrest shuts the door.
Puck barks once.
“Your son disapproves,” I say.
“Our son,” Forrest says.
The words leave him so quietly that for a second I think I imagined them.
I look at him.
He looks back.
No almost-smile now. No dodge. No gruff little exit ramp.
Just Forrest.
Careful. Terrified. Here.
“Our son?” I whisper.
He swallows. “If you want.”
My heart does something so large and foolish I have to put my hand on his chest like that might stop mine from embarrassing me.
“I love you,” I say.
It comes out plain.
Forrest closes his eyes.
When he opens them, they are ruined in the best way.
“Day.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Terrible timing. We were mid-negotiation. Very unprofessional. I should’ve sent it in writing with bullet points and maybe a benefits summary.”
“I love you,” he says.
I stop breathing.
He brushes his thumb over my cheek. “I love you.”
“You can’t say it twice.”
“Why?”
“Because I only have one nervous system.”
His mouth curves, real this time. “You’ll manage.”
“I will not. I am held together by soft pants and pending paperwork.”
He kisses me again, slower now.
Deeper.
Like we have nowhere else to be.
Like the word has changed the room and neither of us is afraid enough to take it back.
Behind the bedroom door, Puck lets out one deeply dramatic groan.
I laugh against Forrest’s mouth.
“Our son has notes,” I whisper.
“He can file them in the morning.”
Then Forrest carries me toward the bedroom, past the noodles, past the laptop, past the life I am done being too afraid to want.
And for once, I don’t make a joke to get out of the feeling.
I let him take me with him.
I let the door close.