Page 25 of Maybe We Can Fake It

“Seriously?”

“No, I guess not,” he admits. Then he starts yanking on me in an attempt to drag me in past the foyer. “I don’t care. Just come on so they can focus on you instead of me.”

Can’t say I love the sound of that, but I did know it was coming. And the distress on his face is kicking my protective instincts toward him into overdrive. So if he needs me to be a distraction, that’s what I’ll be. But first.

I wrap my hand—the one with my wrist not locked in his death grip—around the nape of his neck, brushing my thumb over the short hair there. “Try to relax.”

See? I’m boyfriending already.

And apparently thinking in nonsensical Brenden-speak.

“They’ve got me so on edge,” he says, but he leans his head into my touch. He’s still in his work outfit—a pale yellow button-up and fitted black slacks that hug his small round ass perfectly. Not that I looked.

Okay, I looked earlier while he was flitting around the inn like a sexy bumblebee. But I won’t look again.

“They’ve visited before, haven’t they?” I ask.

“Yeah, but they’ve always stayed at the inn, so I didn’t have to worry about things like providing them with adequate tea. And May was cool with sleeping on the couch so they could stay in her room, but I’m wondering if I should’ve given them mine instead. Because her full-sized bed is a major downgrade for them, I’m sure. Granted, my queen probably is too, but at least it’s slightly better. Except I’m too old to sleep on a couch for more than one night at a time. My body will get all stiff and creaky.”

I’m tempted to remind him I’m a year older than him, but instead, I search for something encouraging to say as I continue rubbing his nape.

“That feels good,” he practically purrs, finally loosening his hold on my other wrist. Then he lets it go to slide his hand slowly up my forearm.

Trying not to hear his words in a filthier context, and reminding myself why I’m here, I release him and gently nudge his hand away. “We should go before they come looking for us. But it’s going to be fine. I’m here for you.”

When standing up straight, Brenden’s only an inch or two shorter than my six-foot-one. But right now he’s slouching,which makes him seem smaller. I can’t tell if it’s because he still feels defeated, or because I actually helped relax him. Either way, he has to look up to meet my eyes. It feels like he can see all the way into my soul, and I’m worried about what he might find there.

“I know you are,” he says softly. “Thank you.”

He straightens himself up, then takes my hand in a much more casual hold and begins to lead me toward the kitchen. “Uh, is this okay?” he asks, squeezing my hand once. “We didn’t have time to discuss—”

“It’s fine,” I assure him. While this is certainly new for us, holding his hand is something I could easily get used to.But I shouldn’t.

In the kitchen, May and her grandparents are sitting at the round table with mugs in front of them. I notice May’s is filled with coffee, despite it being eight thirty at night.Like father, like daughter.I almost smile but can’t, because that’s such a terrible habit. At least she’s still on school vacation.

Brenden releases my hand as he goes over to the empty chair, the one with another mug of coffee in front of it. Instead of sitting down, though, he glances at me, unsure. So I walk over to join him, and then we both stand there awkwardly as I exchange do-over introductions with Elise and Grant.

With that out of the way, May jumps up and tells me to take her seat. Before I can decline the offer, she grabs her coffee and scoots closer to her grandmother, resting her butt against the windowsill. Brenden sits down and tugs me toward the vacated seat.

For a few moments, nobody says anything, and the tension in Brenden’s body seems to have returned already. He’s white-knuckling the handle of his coffee mug.

“Would you like some tea?” Elise asks me, politely breaking the silence. “I’m afraid there’s no decaf.”

Brenden’s jaw twitches, so I slide my hand onto his thigh under the table and give it a reassuring squeeze. “No thank you, I’m fine.”

“Would you prefer coffee?” Grant asks. “There’s a pot on. Although I don’t understand how these two”—he gestures between Brenden and May—“can drink it at this time of night.”

“We like to live on the edge,” May jokes.

Elise tuts her disapproval. “Honestly, Brenden, I’m not sure May should be drinking coffee at all at her age, and especially not at night.”

Brenden pales a little. “Well, um, I...”

Seeing him like this, with his confidence zapped, kills me. I subtly rub his thigh with my thumb, because I realize he might actually need me here for support as much as for playing a role. Or is this just a part of playing the role? Boyfriends are supposed to be supportive.

Either way, it seems to work. He takes a breath to compose himself, then says, “I respect your concerns. But I’ve raised May to make her own decisions, and I promise you she’s healthy and responsible.”

“I think there are worse things a teenager could be drinking,” I add. Because while I may pretty much agree with May’s grandmother, I don’t like her questioning Brenden’s parenting decisions.

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