Page 30 of Maybe We Can Fake It

“I’m sorry,” he says, his fingers reaching out to graze briefly across my arm, leaving tingles in their wake. “This whole thing is a little... unexpected. But I think you being nervous and awkward is helping me stay grounded.”

“Gee, you’re welcome.”

His face becomes unbearably soft. Unbearable in the sense that I don’t see this softness from him often, and it’s making mewant to lean closer to him. To climb into his lap and let him hold me.

Resisting this newfound urge is painful, but I’m strong.

“What I mean is,” he says slowly, “I don’t want this whole thing to make anything weird between us. When we’re done being a fake couple, we have to go back to being you and me, right? Pretending we’re together is bound to be a little awkward. So if we can joke about it, I think that’s a good thing.”

“I know,” I agree. “I’d never want things to be weird between us either.”

I couldn’t imagine losing Travis’s friendship. The bantering, the easy company. Not to mention, May and I would probably starve.

He tugs at the material of his jeans. “So do we talk first or get comfortable first?”

“Might as well get comfortable and get used to sharing this bed.”

His rich brown eyes study me a moment. Then he turns away, clears his throat, and says, “Yeah, okay.”

We both get up, and I point him toward the ensuite bathroom, letting him know there should be a new toothbrush under the sink he can use. Hopefully.

While he’s in there, I open my dresser drawer and gather my sleepwear. A pair of thin navy blue drawstring pajama pants and a plain white T-shirt that’s a bit baggy on me. I don’t normally wear a shirt to bed, except sometimes in the winter, because I feel like I’m being strangled. But there’s no way I can get into bed shirtless with Travis. Nope. No way.

When he emerges from the bathroom still fully dressed in his flannel and jeans, I experience a pang of disappointment. Not that I expected him to strip down and walk out to show me. But I wouldn’t exactly have beenopposedto that.

He gazes at me questioningly. “Your turn?”

I snap myself out of it. “Right, thanks. I’ll just be a sec.” Stepping past him, I avoid eye contact.

As I change and brush my teeth in the bathroom, I give myself a silent but stern talking to.

Stop it. Travis is your friend. Nothing’s going to happen. It doesn’t matter that you’re dying to know what he looks like under his clothes. Stop imagining what those strong thighs would feel like if he had his legs wrapped around your waist, squeezing you with them while you fucked him.

Unsure whether that little talk helped or made things worse, I take a deep breath and step out of the bathroom. Travis is sitting up in my bed, shoulders propped against the headboard, the covers pulled up to his waist. He’s removed his flannel, leaving him in a black undershirt that hugs his pecs and biceps. Suddenly, I wish I had x-ray vision, because I assume he’s removed his jeans too.

I can almost sense him activelynotlooking at me as I move around the room, dropping my dirty clothes in the laundry basket and plugging in my phone by the nightstand. Then there’s nothing left for me to do but get in bed.

In bed.

With Travis.

No big deal, right?

Carefully, I lift the covers just enough for me to slip under. I match his position, leaning against the headboard, but angle myself toward him so we can talk. When I stretch my legs out, my foot grazes against the bare skin of his calf. He stiffens, and I jerk it back.

My queen bed has never seemed so small before. There’s plenty of room for me to spread out like a starfish when I’m alone. But I’m not alone now,nope, no siree. Travis isn’t a small guy, and the lack of space between us is apparent.

“So... we were gonna talk,” I say, somewhat idiotically.

“Yeah. I want to make sure you’re okay with me touching you like I did downstairs. I was trying to play the boyfriend role and went with what felt natural. Plus you were upset, and it seemed like I was able to help you calm down. But if you need us to have clearer boundaries, we can set them now.”

What he’s saying makes sense, and talking about this is the mature, smart thing to do. But all I can think about is how good it felt when he put his hand on my thigh under the table earlier when I was stressed. He’s always been there for me as my friend, but no one would call him a touchy-feely guy. His touch in those moments offered me a whole new level of comfort. And I’m afraid I liked it way too much.

Because like he said, he was only playing a role.

“Brenden?”

“Oh. Uh.”Focus. What was he asking?

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