Page 57 of Maybe We Can Fake It

I’m about to crawl off his lap, with the intention of lying down and pulling him on top of me, when the front door opens. Elise and Grant are talking to each other as they come inside, and the sound of their voices is like a bucket of ice water being dumped over my head, dousing my libido.

Scrambling off Travis and grabbing for my clothes, I almost fall off the couch. But he catches me. Then he quickly lets go like my skin is on fire, and he’s reaching for his shirt right as the Richardsons step into view.

“Oh!” Elise’s hand flies to her mouth.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” I say, throwing my legs into my jeans and hopping until I’ve got them pulled up. How the hell did I forget about these two?

“No, it’s—” Elise starts.

“We should’ve knocked,” Grant talks over her.

“Not your fault,” I tell him.God, where’s my damn shirt?

My eyes land on Travis, widening when I realize he’s got his shirt on but is sans-pants and still sporting a semi. He grabs a throw pillow and uses it to cover his groin. His face is bright red like I’ve never seen it before, and he looks entirely panicked.

Somehow his extreme embarrassment helps me calm down and refocus. I find my shirt and pull it over my head, then ask Elise and Grant if they could please give us a minute to get ourselves together. They oblige, quickly heading upstairs with their shopping bags.

Once we’re alone, I hand Travis his jeans and take the throw pillow away from him. His erection has gone down now, and I can’t help but experience a pang of disappointment at that.

“I messed up, I’m sorry,” I tell him as he finishes getting dressed. “I shouldn’t have gotten carried away down here.”

He smiles shyly, his face still a bit red. It’s not a look I’ve seen on him often. Or ever. “I think it’s safe to say we both got carried away.”

“Um.” I don’t want to push my luck, but I need to know... “To be continued later somewhere more private?”

Reaching for my hand, he tugs me closer and plants a chaste kiss on my lips. “Sounds good.”

I grin. It does, doesn’t it?

Friends with benefits was the best idea.

I’m still grinning even as I make the dreaded trek upstairs to let Elise and Grant know it’s safe for them to come down. It’s not until the four of us are all hovering awkwardly around the kitchen, making beverages and small talk, that I realize the indecent display they walked in on must have sold the fake relationship better than anything else so far.

Truthfully, though, that’s just a bonus.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

TRAVIS

Peopleeattoomuch,I swear. My whole afternoon has been a nonstop parade of burgers and melts and clubs. Endless amounts of coleslaw, potato salad, fries, pickles. There are children starving all over the world, and everybody is just sitting here, stuffing their greedy faces.

As I serve a double bacon cheeseburger with fried onion straws to Sal the mailman, I can feel my own arteries clogging, and I have to stop myself from turning around and dumping the entire plate in the trash.

Okay. I guess you could say I’m in a mood.

A group of new moms was in here earlier with all their strollers and diaper bags and snotty, wiggly babies. That chaotic mess has been hard to recover from.

Probably the only thing that’s prevented me from blowing up on a customer today is the flashes I keep having of last night in Brenden’s room before we went to bed. Of Brenden with his fist wrapped around both of our cocks. Of our lengths gliding together, leaking and slick, until one after the other, we both spilled over his hand and onto our stomachs.

If I picture that scene for too long though, I’ll wind up abandoning the diner and running for my apartment upstairs to take care of myself.

Hell, I shouldn’t even be hooking up with him. It can only lead to problems. But my ability to say no to him—which wasn’t high to begin with—has decreased drastically since we started this fake relationship. And when he’s asking to get his hand on my dick? Well. What the fuck do you expect me to do?

Moving to the counter, I’m greeted with a giant pile of crumpled napkins that someone left all around their empty plate. I grumble internally about the wastefulness as I pick them up and toss them in the trash.

Then the bell on the door rings, and Evelyn Morris walks in, making her way right for me as quickly as her seventy-two-year-old legs can carry her. I brace myself for whatever it is she wants, because knowing her, it could be anything. Yelling at me for the hundredth time about how I don’t serve grapefruit juice, asking me to clean out her rain gutters, or wanting to know why I won’t be having a booth at the spring festival, even though I’ve never once had a booth at any of this town’s crazy events.

“Travis Reed,” she says, tone scolding. “Have you been keeping secrets from us?”

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