Page 52 of Maybe We Can Fake It

It’sjustmyfreakingluck that when I finally manage an afternoon off from both the inn and May’s grandparents, I’ve wound up stuck at home chickensitting.

Yes, you heard that right.

Chicken. Sitting.

Elise and Grant took off with their rental car, saying they wanted to explore the surrounding towns a bit and get to know the area better while they’re here. Lord knows why. They visit so rarely, it shouldn’t matter. But I suppose there are only so many times an outsider can wander Mayweather’s tiny downtown without getting bored.

It's only knowing everyone in town and getting filled in on all the new gossip while we’re out that keeps us locals satisfied.

All I wanted to do with my precious free time was put on some music, maybe have a few glasses of wine, and relax. I was even considering taking a bath. God knows I could use a way to destress after the last few days of trying to convince Elise and Grant that I’m an entirely capable, responsible parent. And thatI’m in a relationship with a guy who’s never actually seen me as more than a friend.

But then Mitch showed up asking if I could watch Delilah for a couple hours, because she’s been depressed lately, and he didn’t want to leave her outside in her coop. As if this was a super simple, casual request that made any kind of sense.

When I asked him if chickens could even get depressed, he assured me they could. Then he also admitted that he’s hoping it’s just depression, because otherwise the way she’s been acting lately could mean she’s dying. Which might sound melodramatic, but what you need to understand is that this chicken is old. She’s got to go sometime. Probably sometime soon. And Mitch, though he comes off as a bit nuts, is sane enough to know this.

Of course, this isn’t the first time he’s been worried she might be dying. In fact, it’s happened so many times now that it’s become almost a joke around town. Still, the way Mitch’s eyes watered when he told me this today tugged at my stupid heartstrings, so here I am.

Just please don’t let her die on my watch.

Determined to still enjoy my time off—despite the fact that Delilah is lying in the corner of my living room on a freaking cat bed and watching every move I make with her beady little chicken eyes—I pour myself a glass of wine and get comfortable on the couch, one leg tucked up underneath me. This is a fairly cheap merlot, but it does the trick. I turn on Netflix, knowing I’ll likely spend more time scrolling for something decent to watch than actually watching. Any activity that shuts off my brain is welcome at this point though.

I can’t keep thinking about the dirty, early morning activities between me and Travis, or else I’ll wind up needing to jerk off. And there’s no way I’m doing that in front of a chicken. Seems like it could be a felony.

God, that was so hot though.

Last night when I asked Travis to practice kissing again, my motives weren’t entirely pure. Yes, I really need Elise and Grant to believe we’re a couple. But maybe even more so in that moment, I needed to know if it was a fluke or not. The way our first practice kiss rocked my world.

Turns out, it wasn’t a fluke.

I went to sleep worrying about how my attraction to Travis was spiraling out of control. Then when I woke up to his hard dick pressed against my ass, my worry switched off, and all I could think wasmore, more, more.

It felt like maybe there was a chance he was attracted to me too. So I stepped into the bathroom with him, knowing full well what he was doing in there. It was probably crazy, but I couldn’t waste the opportunity to shoot my shot. I know Travis well enough that I figured if he wasn’t interested, he’d at least reject me nicely.

Seeing him with his hand wrapped around that thick, gorgeous cock made my mouth go dry. And then I got weirdly shy and nervous and didn’t actually do anything. I just stood there watching him get himself off, and then I let him get me off too.Selfish.

Next time, I’ll do better. Next time I’ll show him whatIcan do.

“Ouch!”

A sharp pain on the top of my foot makes me drop the remote mid-scroll, but thankfully I keep hold of my wine glass. Looking down, I find Delilah standing right in front of the couch. Did she just beak me?

“What are you doing?” I ask stupidly. “Mitch said you’d lie on your bed and not move.”

She squawks, then turns her head to side-eye me.

“Go back over there,” I say, pointing.

At this, she flaps her wings threateningly.

“Delilah,” I warn.

And then she flies up and lands on my lap, and suddenly it’s all sharp claws and a flurry of feathers and red wine sloshing onto the couch.

“Shit!”

I jump up, dislodging the giant bird, who proceeds to squawk and flap her wings again.

Oh no.

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