Page 46 of Maybe We Can Fake It

“May’s obsessed with Scrabble,” I tell her.

“She’s so smart, I can see why.”

A tiny burst of pride swells in me. As if I can really take any credit for May’s brain. If anything, her intelligence comes from her mom and grandparents.

“Brenden’s always been great about her education,” Travis says. “He used to sit at the diner with her when she was a kid and help her with her homework. And he gets her all the books she asks for, which is a lot. He’ll probably need to add an addition onto the house soon in order to fit them all.”

Elise smiles. “It’s wonderful that she’s such a big reader. She gets that from her mom.”

See?

The oven timer dings, and Travis says, “I’ll get the cookies.” But I jump up first, banging my knee on the table in the process of beating him there.

Trying not to wince at the pain, I hobble over to the oven as quickly as I can. My clumsy, unnecessary eagerness is embarrassing, but I just want to put an end to that conversation. I already know Elise and Grant think I’m unintelligent. They think that, because I run an inn for a living, it means I wasn’t capable of doing anything more.

But I love what I do. I chose this. I may not be saving lives like a doctor, but I provide a service which makes people happy. The most important thing, though, is that I work hard so I can ensure May will have the opportunity to pursue whatever career she chooses, because she’s capable of doing anything.

In my frazzled state, I open the oven door and reach inside with my bare hand. My fingers make contact with the hot metal cookie sheet before my brain catches up to me. “Shit!”

I yank my hand away, stumbling backward. I probably would’ve fallen on my ass, making an even bigger fool of myself, if it weren’t for the solid body right behind me. Both of Travis’s arms circle my waist and I sag in relief, letting him brace me for a second.

“Are you okay?” he asks, so close his breath tickles the side of my neck.

I try to tell him yes, but then the burning in my fingertips registers, and a tiny whimper escapes me instead.

“Come on.” He keeps me in his hold as he steps over to the sink, forcing me to go with him. He turns on the tap, and his hands are gentle as they guide mine under the cold water.

His chest remains solidly pressed against my back as he takes care of me. I feel like a child. And who knew he had these nurturing instincts? I’m the parent here. I’m supposed to be the one who’s good at this stuff.

I guess I am with May—just apparently not so much with myself.

“Now I understand why you don’t cook,” he says, his chuckle vibrating against me.

I’d turn around and shoot him a glare, if only I could move. He’s not holding methattightly. But I seem to be under some sort of spell that’s made me lose control of my motor functions. I think I like being taken care of. Or maybe it’s him specifically. Maybe I like Travis taking care of me.

He keeps my hands under the water longer than probably necessary. Until I murmur, “It’s cold,” and then he lets go of me to turn off the tap. But he doesn’t step away.

I find myself leaning back simply to test if he’ll hold me up. He does. One of his hands rests on my hip now, the other on the counter. I turn my head to look at him, and his face is so close.

Tilting my chin up, I press a soft kiss to his lips and whisper, “Thanks.”

When he opens his mouth to reply, I realize what I just did.Oh, crap.I struggle to get away, but his fingers curl tighter into the material of my pants, preventing my escape.

We agreed that kissing is okay to sell the relationship, but we haven’t done it since that practice one. And I didn’t even do this for Elise’s benefit. In fact, I completely forgot she was in the room.

I did it because it felt natural.

Craaaap.

Travis brings his free hand up to my face, thumb brushing along my jaw. Then he kisses my temple and says softly, right by my ear, “Any time.”

When he releases me and takes a step back so I can move, I turn to find that Elise has removed the cookies from the oven and is now fixing herself a cup of tea, seemingly minding her own business. I grab a large plate and a spatula and begin plating up the cookies, trying to appear unaffected by what just happened.

“Are you okay, Brenden?” Elise asks.

It takes me a second to realize she’s referring to how I burned myself. Not to how I kissed Travis, which was arguably even more stupid. “Yup, all good,” I tell her.

“We should put some burn ointment on it,” Travis suggests.

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