Page 33 of Maybe We Can Fake It

Now, obviously having migrated my direction during the night, he’s so close I can smell his shampoo. Which wouldn’t be a big deal, if it weren’t for these two facts: I’m hard, and his ass is pressed right against my erection.

Taking a deep breath, I roll the other way, careful not to disturb him, and reach for my phone on the nightstand. I turn off the alarm just in time. My plan was to sneak out before anyone else is awake, open the diner, then sneak back in here to continue playing the boyfriend role.

There’s no time to freak out about the compromising position we were in. But believe me, that doesn’t mean I’ll be forgetting about it.

In the dark, I find my clothes and get changed, tucking my dick away and willing it to soften. I spare only one more quick glance at Brenden’s peacefully sleeping form. He was a ball of anxiety last night. I’m glad he seems to have gotten some good sleep.

I sneak downstairs as stealthily as my fairly large body will allow, mindful of the fact that May’s asleep on the couch as I creep past her. Once I’ve made it out the front door and shut it quietly behind me, I hightail it to my truck and drive away.

As I unlock the diner and dash upstairs to my apartment to change, I mentally run through my checklist of opening tasks, even though the routine is entirely second nature after so many years. Maybe I’m just trying to distract myself from thinking of how I woke up practically cuddling Brenden.

Morning wood is natural, sure. But there was a moment there where I had to fight the urge to press farther into his ass, rather than roll away. That was before I came to my senses, of course.

I can’t remember the last time I slept in a bed with someone else. Normally, I hook up and leave immediately afterward. So maybe my body only reacted because of the novelty of it.

But it’s fine. I shut that shit down. I don’t actually want to molest Brenden in his sleep.

What isn’t as easy to shut down, though, is the memory of the way he kissed me last night. It was only supposed to be for practice, so I feel guilty for enjoying it, but I did. The moment his lips touched mine, it was like a tiny jolt of electricity, zapping me awake from some deep sleep I didn’t even know I was under. But again, it was practice. Fake.

Fake boyfriend.

Back in the diner, I flip the chairs down off the tables and wipe all the surfaces, then I get the first pot of coffee brewing. That’swhen I take out my phone to call my dad. I’ve been checking in with him as often as I can. Which is mostly due to my guilt about sending him away while he recovers instead of taking care of him myself. I know that wouldn’t have been practical, but he’s my dad.

Despite our relationship not actually being all that close if you really examine it, I love the stubborn bastard. He’s the one who stuck around and raised me when my mom left.

I’m talking to him more often now that he’s out of town than I did when he was right here and I could see him every day. But his fall kind of scared me. It forced me to confront the idea of losing him one day. Possibly one day soon.

“Travis!” he answers the phone in lieu of a hello, his voice managing to sound both gruff and happy to talk to me at the same time.

“Hey, Dad.” I press the switch to grind the decaf beans, even though I won’t brew a pot until someone asks for it. First thing in the morning is not the time people want decaf.

“What the heck is that noise?” he asks.

“Coffee beans,” I tell him, rolling my eyes. It’s not like he didn’t grow up in this diner the same way I did.

He hums in understanding, then says, “You know Kristy is trying to get me to drink her fancy shit coffee with all these foofy flavors. I’ve told her that I’m a man and coffee should just be coffee, but she keeps trying to sneak them by me. Like I won’t notice the taste of pecan and banana and whatever other weird shit they put in there.”

I bristle at the “I’m a man” comment, grateful he can’t see me my face. This is the kind of crap I didn’t want to explain to Brenden. My dad’s not a bad guy. I really believe that. But he’s a product of the time in which he was raised, and he doesn’t see anything wrong with letting comments like this about what it means to be a man or not tumble out of his mouth.

Should I correct him and keep trying to nudge him into this century? Probably.

But I think it’s already clear I’m somewhat of a coward when it comes to him.

So I maintain the status quo. “You should be watching your caffeine intake anyway.”

“Oh, fuck off with that,” he says, and I laugh. At least I’m not afraid to harass him about his health.

I ask how he’s doing besides the coffee situation, then listen as he tells me for about the hundredth time how he’s bored out of his mind. You’d think a man who has worked hard all his life would be able to appreciate taking a break for a while, but he just wants to get back to work.

He could really use a hobby. Though I’m pretty sure he thinks hobbies are for girls.

“You’ll be walking without crutches and able to come home soon,” I assure him.

“Yeah, yeah. Not soon enough,” he grumbles.

Silently, I disagree with him. Because if he were to come home now, that would end my ability to help out Brenden with the fake relationship.

I stiffen up like I’m about to get caught out. As if by even thinking about Brenden, my dad will be able to sense what I’m doing with him. But, of course, I know he’s not a mind reader. And honestly, he’s not even the most observant guy.

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