Page 55 of Maybe We Can Fake It

“Since when is being nice a bad thing?”

“Not saying it is. Just that you get roped into helping people out with stuff because you want to please everybody.”

Frowning, I consider that. He definitely pegged me correctly as a people pleaser. And true, I’ll lend a hand where I can, but... “You’rethe one who always helps everyone.”

He makes a face like he tasted something awful. “Absolutely not.”

I laugh. “Are you kidding? You’re helping me right now. With chickensittingandpretending to date me. Any time I need something, you’re always there for me.”

He mutters what sounds like, “Foryou,” but before I can ask what that means, he’s unfolding himself from the chair and standing up. “I’m gonna run back to your place and grab a beer. You want anything?”

“Uh.” I hesitate, a little thrown off balance for some reason. “No thanks, I’m good.”

“Be right back.”

Geez, you’d think I offended him by saying he’s a nice person. Maybe he just wants to uphold his reputation. I mean, I don’t call him Grumptopus for nothing. But underneath the cranky-old-man attitude he gives off at the diner, he’s got a huge heart. I can’t be the only one who sees that.

When he returns with his beer, he deftly changes the subject, and I let him. Mitch comes home soon after and thanks us—not even bothering to ask why Delilah’s in her coop instead of my house—and then we’re free to go.

Standing in the war zone of my living room once again, I choke back a frustrated groan. This is going to be a pain in the ass to clean up. Before I can thank Travis for his help and send him on his way, he crouches down to pick up the pieces of the broken lamp.

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

“I’ll help you fix all this mess.”

I bite the corner of my lip to keep from smiling. This isn’t doing anything for his claim that he doesn’t help people. But I’m not going to point that out.

Once everything’s back to its relatively normal state, I expect him to head out. Instead, he goes to my kitchen and grabs himself another beer. He takes it over to the couch—that wine stain isnotcoming out—and slouches down in the middle, legs spread invitingly again. But he looks tired. Which is obviously my fault for numerous reasons.

I take a seat next to him, angling myself toward him so my knee presses into his thigh. “I know I’ve been saying this to you a lot lately, and it’s probably lost all meaning by now, but thank you. Seriously, I really appreciate what you did for me today. And for the past week. And, you know...always.”

He turns to get a good look at me. I wish I could know exactly what he’s seeing. He probably thinks I’m a complete disaster by now.

He doesn’t say anything, just gives me the tiniest smile and a nod. Then he puts his hand on my thigh and squeezes. When he leaves it there, I lightly trace the veins over the back of it with my finger. He still doesn’t pull away, and it’s like my peskyfingers have minds of their own, because they dance a path up his forearm and biceps and over his shoulder.

I reach the side of his neck, sweeping my thumb over his pulse point, and he lets out an audible exhale. Suddenly it’s not only my fingers that are out of my control—it’s my whole body. Without really making a conscious decision to do so, I swing my leg over both of his and find myself straddling his lap.

Well. Since I’m here.

Cupping his face with both hands, I lean down slowly until our mouths are only inches apart. “Thank you,” I whisper one more time before my lips briefly graze his.

“Brenden,” he says in a tone I can’t decipher.

It makes me freeze with my hands still on him.

This morning we agreed to friends with benefits, didn’t we? He seemed into the idea.

But what if our bathroom hookup wasn’t what I thought it was? Like what if he just got caught up in the moment because I barged in on him while he was getting off? And then because I was rudely waving my erection at him, he felt like he had to get me off too.

It’s possible he only agreed to my proposition in order to avoid an awkward conversation about how he doesn’t really want me like that. Maybe he never intended to go through with it.

Oh crap, that would be embarrassing.

Before I can apologize and crawl off him, his lips fly to mine, pressing insistently, and then the only thought left in my head is,Fuck, yes.

My position makes me taller than him, which I take advantage of to control the kiss. I slow it down, savoring his lips and the feel of his facial hair under my palms. One of his hands lands on my waist. And I’m aware he’s still got a beer in the other one, but I’m not willing to stop this long enough to do something about that.

But as soon as I sneak my tongue into his mouth, meeting his, he groans and wraps his arm tightly around my back. Then he holds me to him so that I don’t topple off his lap while he leans over and sets the bottle on the end table. And that was such a good idea, because now both of his hands are on me, rucking up the bottom of my shirt until I can feel his fingers grazing the skin of my lower back.

---