3. CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER THREE
brENDEN
In my office, leaning back in the cushy desk chair I splurged on for myself and flipping through some paperwork about the incoming retreat, I’m much less frazzled than I was two days ago.
I’m actually starting to believe everything will work out fine.
Because Travis Reed is a godsend.
Asking him to help was my only option.
But I hate being that person—the one who can’t seem to handle things on his own.
Who always goes running to a bigger and stronger man for help.
Travis never seems to mind, but still.
My pride can’t get in the way of keeping the inn running though.
I love this place.
But more than that, I love my daughter.
I’ll do anything necessary to ensure I can provide a stable life for her.
One of the last things I said to April was, I promise May will grow up surrounded by love and joy and everything she could ever need.
Thinking about April, even for a second, causes my eyes to well up with tears.
Fuck.
I blink them away and shake my thoughts clear, because I’m at work.
Even in the privacy of my office, I need to stay the happy-go-lucky Brenden Sanderson everyone in this town expects me to be.
I can’t reveal all the sadness that hides under the surface.
No one wants to be around that guy.
I grab my phone to play some music, hoping it’ll cure my melancholy dip in mood.
Skyler James is a perfect choice.
May’s a much bigger fan than I am—she was obsessed with Boys Will Be Boys when she was little—but there probably isn’t a gay man on the planet who doesn’t at least appreciate Skyler now.
He’s not exactly my type, but there’s no denying the guy is gorgeous.
I still can’t believe he came out, or that all those theories about him and his ex-bandmate were actually true.
Score one for the gays!
Or two, really, because Trevor Blue is also smoking hot.
After I finish going over some last details for the event, I remember I’m supposed to cover the desk for Danny’s break.
And then I’d like to pop into the kitchen to see how things are going today.
Travis already fixed the oven—it turned out not to be as broken as Addison thought.
This saved me an unnecessary bill but agitated my chef.
I get the sense she doesn’t appreciate someone else showing her up in her own kitchen.
I can’t hold it against her for not figuring out what was wrong with it though.
From what I learned when interviewing her, she owned a successful restaurant in Chicago for five years with her now ex-wife.
But her role was mainly to handle the cooking while her ex took care of the business side of things, and that probably included dealing with appliance maintenance.
It's obvious Addison’s grateful for Travis’s help with the food prep, though. Now that she’s less stressed, she’s been excited to come up with even more new menu options for the corporate crowd. Lately, there’s been a lot of food shoved in my face for me try, and you’ll never find me complaining about that.
As I get up, my phone rings. Seeing Elise’s name on the screen, I sink back into my chair and take a deep breath. She never calls this often.
“Hi, Elise,” I answer faux cheerfully.
“Brenden!” she says by way of greeting. “I’m so glad to catch you again. We didn’t get a chance to talk much the other day.”
That’s because you only really wanted to talk to May , I think a little bitterly.
We do the obligatory small talk thing for a minute. I ask how she and Grant are doing in Philly and how Grant’s work is going before I’m tapped out. It’s harder when we’ve already talked about May recently. She’s our only common interest.
Then Elise asks me how things are going with the inn. And it may just be out of politeness, since I asked about her husband’s work, but my hackles go up.
I tell her everything’s running smoothly, business is steady as usual, my new chef is wonderful. The whole time I talk, though, I’m wondering if she’s asking because she and Grant are expecting me to fail at running this place. They loaned me money, so they sort of have an investment in it being successful. But even if the place went under ( knock on wood ), I’d find another way to pay them back eventually. Being indebted to them isn’t fun.
“It sounds like you’re doing a great job,” Elise says, and I breathe a sigh of relief, even though I have no idea if she really means that. “You’ve taken on so much, gaining ownership. I imagine the place keeps you constantly busy.”
“Yeah, it’s a lot,” I admit. “But I love my job, and I’m good at it.” Hopefully that doesn’t sound too defensive.
“I know you are, dear.”
Was that patronizing?
I take off my glasses for something to fidget with while I wait for whatever she’s going to say next. It feels like there’s a but coming.
“But I hope you still have enough time for May.”
There it is.
“Of course I do.” With one finger, I spin my glasses in half-circles on top of my desk. Maybe this is why I’ve scratched so many pairs over the years, but this conversation is filling me with a jittery, frantic energy. “She comes first. Always.”
Elise hums in what sounds like agreement. But then—“You do a good job for a single parent. I only wish sometimes that May could have more than one parental figure in her life. She deserves that.”
I accidentally fling my glasses off the desk, and they slide along the floor until they hit the wall. “I—I know,” I manage to croak through my sudden panic. “She deserves everything.”
And her grandparents don’t think I can give her everything. They don’t think I’m enough. This wasn’t a call to check if I was failing at running the inn. It was to check if I was failing as a parent.
“It’s just, with losing her mom...” Elise trails off sadly. “I only wish...”
“I’m seeing someone!” I blurt out, my mouth moving faster than my brain. “It’s pretty serious. We practically live together.”
Holy hell, stop talking.
Elise lets out a delighted, “ Oh! ” and I cringe. “That’s wonderful! I can’t wait to meet him.”
“I’m sure you will next time you visit.”
Or not. Because either she’ll have forgotten I mentioned a boyfriend by whenever it is that she and Grant deign to come here, or we’ll have conveniently just broken up. What a shame.
“This is perfect,” she says. “Because I was actually calling to let you know Grant was able to move some work obligations around, so we’re coming to see you in three days.”
“Uh...”
“Sorry for the short notice,” she goes on. “We didn’t think we could swing it at first, but then everything sort of fell into place all at once. Isn’t that great?”
Great isn’t the word I’d use for it. There are many, many other adjectives I’d choose before that one, in fact. My mind rapidly cycles through them, with a couple of colorful cuss words thrown in too for good measure.
Besides the fact that their visits tend to put me a bit on edge, this is such a bad time with everything going on at the inn. I’m already on edge! Any more on edge, and I will go flying off the edge and crash to the floor.
Like my glasses. Crap, where did they go?
“Brenden?”
“Oh yeah, sounds great!” I lie, lie, lie. “May will be thrilled to see you.”
That last part, at least, is true.
“I can’t wait to see her,” Elise says. “And to meet this man of yours.”
Oh. Shit.
Fucking shit on a cracker.
“He uh…” I start, but then I struggle to find a plausible excuse for why my imaginary boyfriend won’t be able to meet them. He died? No, that doesn’t make sense. Oh! He’ll be out of town. That’s a good one. “He’ll be—”
“Hon, I’m so sorry, my oven beeped. I’ve got to take the roast out. We’ll see you soon, okay?”
“Okay,” I say dumbly. I might be in a state of shock.
After she hangs up, though, I snap out of it. Now I’m trying not to hyperventilate as I mentally run through ways I could possibly fix the mess I’ve just gotten myself into.
A throat clears, startling me out of wondering if fleeing the country with May and changing our names would be too extreme.
I look up to find Travis standing in the doorway of my office holding a plate of muffins and staring at me like I have three heads. Granted, he’s a little blurry since I’m still missing my glasses, so it’s possible I’m the one looking at him that way.
“Hi,” I say, trying to smile like everything’s normal and I’m not currently freaking the fuck out. I jump up and swipe my glasses off the floor. I jam them on my face, then fall back into my desk chair. “Um. Are those for me?”
His gaze flicks to the plate in his hand. “I wanted you to choose the best flavor. Since when are you seeing someone who practically lives with you?”
“Um.” Okay, so he’s been standing there a lot longer than I realized. And there’s a strange prickliness to his tone that I’m not used to. (I mean, prickly is kind of his baseline with everyone else, just not with me.) I don’t even know how to begin explaining my dumbassery, but he’s still standing there staring at me expectantly, so. I try.
His brow furrows when I tell him how I blurted out the nonsense about having a boyfriend because May’s grandmother basically implied that I’m not enough for my daughter on my own.
“I’m sure she didn’t say that.”
I shrug uncomfortably. “Not in so many words, but yeah. I think she did. Then she said they’re coming here. And they almost never come here, and I’m worried they want to check up on how the inn is doing, because they probably think I’m failing at this just like they think I’m failing as a parent, and oh fuck, they’re gonna try to take May away from me, aren’t they? That’s why they’re coming!”
“Breathe,” Travis says. And I immediately suck in a huge gulp of air, but it still feels like I’m not getting enough oxygen to my brain. Has it always been so stuffy in this office? Why are there no windows to open? Who designed this place?
As I’m contemplating taking a sledgehammer to a wall—not that I’d know where to get a sledgehammer—Travis takes a couple long strides forward, and suddenly he’s right in front of me, hovering over my desk in all his flannel-wearing glory.
He’s still holding the plate, but he uses his free hand to reach out and grip my upper arm firmly. “Brenden. Get up.”
I do as he says without thinking about it, then let him lead me out of my office, through the inn’s common area with all the cozy armchairs, and out a back door to the wraparound porch. He doesn’t let go of my arm the whole time, and I find myself staring at his long, thick fingers where they’re curled around my very mediocre-sized muscle. He has sexy fingers. How have I never noticed that before?
They look a little rough, too. Because he does a lot with his hands. Cooking, fixing stuff, building things...
I don’t know why my mind is wandering in this random direction. Maybe it’s a trauma coping mechanism so that I don’t have to think about what’s going on. Shit, is it insensitive to call this trauma? It’s not like the Richardsons are going to physically hurt me. I don’t think. But if they wanted to, I guarantee they have the resources to hide the body.
“Sit,” Travis instructs, pointing at one of the two chairs on either side of a tiny table. The whole porch has spaced out seating meant for the guests, but I’ve spent plenty of peaceful moments myself out here, enjoying the view of the grounds.
This moment isn’t so peaceful, but again, I do what he tells me to, because having someone else be in charge for a minute feels good. He takes the other chair, setting the plate down on the table between us. When he pushes it closer to me with a pointed look, I reach for the nearer of the two muffins and pull off a chunk of the top to shove in my mouth. It tastes good, I guess, but I’m barely aware of what I’m eating. My mind is still spinning, and the only thing I can focus on that settles me a bit is Travis’s deep brown eyes.
“Now,” he says after I’ve finished chewing, “can you explain what’s happening without losing it again?”
“I already told you, I’m an idiot loser who couldn’t keep my mouth shut and lied about being in a relationship. So I guess now I have to find a fake boyfriend. That’s what they do in movies, right?” I force a laugh, but it comes out manic. Girrrl, get it together.
Travis rolls his eyes. “Yes, that must be the only practical solution. Rather than simply telling them the truth.”
He doesn’t understand. And of course he doesn’t. Since May and I moved to Mayweather, I haven’t made it a habit to go around sharing the finer details about her adoption and the extended family dynamic.
But he’s sitting here watching me internally freak out, and he’s tilting his head like he wants to understand. Like he cares. And he’s... Travis. I’m hesitant to call him my best friend, only because if I did, he’d probably scoff and stop speaking to me. He likes to pretend he’s allergic to people, but he always manages to be there for me when I need him.
And something about his uncomplicated, steady presence helps tone down my energetic, sometimes over-the-top personality. Right now being a prime example.
It’s also nice that he puts up with my antics though. Sometimes I like to be a pain in his ass just for the fun of it, to see how much he can take before I drive him crazy. Surprisingly, I’ve yet to find the threshold.
Because of all this, he’s kind of my favorite person. Other than May, of course.
I press my finger into the edge of the muffin, watching it crumble and the sugar crystals fall off, while I gather my thoughts. I can trust him with this. “I can’t tell them I lied about having a boyfriend. We don’t have a terrible relationship, but we’re not... close. If I say I lied to them, they’ll think I’m being dishonest about other things too, and they’ll question my ability to take care of May.”
“You’ve been taking care of her almost her whole life,” Travis points out.
Looking up at him, I find myself getting lost in his eyes again. He’s such a good guy, despite the grumpy front. If only I could say I was dating someone like him, that might be enough to convince Elise and Grant I’ve got my shit together.
Okay, getting sidetracked.
“Do you know how May became my daughter?” I ask. I may not talk about it much, but I’ve known Travis a damn long time. It must have come up at least once, or he would have heard it around town.
“Her mom was your friend, right?” he says gently.
“Yeah. April was my best friend. She got pregnant really young, but she was so excited to be a mom. She swore she’d have the kind of relationship with her daughter that she never had with her own mom.”
“She didn’t get along with her parents?”
I shake my head. “Not really. Anyway, when she found out she was sick, she told me she wanted me to adopt May. She didn’t want her parents raising her. And I didn’t understand why she thought I could do a better job raising a kid at twenty-one than they could, but she said she knew I’d do an amazing job, and that...”
When I get choked up and can’t go on, Travis waits. He nudges the muffin toward me again, so I break off another small piece and pop it in my mouth, still not really able to taste it.
“April told me that May was going to need me, but that wasn’t the only reason she wanted me to take her. She knew I’d need May too. She didn’t want me to be alone once she was gone.”
After I spill that truth, I’m afraid to look at him. Because how pathetic is that?
May has turned into this awesome young person. She’s smart and funny and kind. And she’s totally self-sufficient. Most days she’s the one making sure I’ve remembered to have dinner or do laundry.
April was right.
But I shouldn’t need my daughter more than she needs me.
Something warm touches my forearm. Travis’s hand. I’m sure it’s supposed to be a gesture of comfort, but somehow the contact sizzles through me like an electrical current. Which is wrong on so many levels.
It’s not like he’s never touched me before, and I don’t normally react like this. It must be because I’m feeling vulnerable right now. Maybe some wires got crossed in my brain, making sadness and horniness go hand-in-hand.
I don’t want Travis like that. He’s my friend.
And he’s straight.
Not that I’ve ever seen him dating anyone. I would think he’s a monk if it weren’t for the fact that this town is full of nosy (but well-intentioned) people, and I’ve heard stories of how he “sneaks out of town to get his rocks off, thinking no one will find out.”
I don’t know why he doesn’t date. He’d be excellent dating material.
“It’s too bad you’re straight,” I say, letting something absurd fall out of my mouth without thinking for the second time in fifteen minutes.
He studies me, eyes a bit narrowed, like he really doesn’t know what to make of me. Like he’s torn between offense and confusion. And I remind myself that, right , he’s not inside my head, so he couldn’t follow my train of thought.
“If you weren’t straight, I could ask you to be my fake boyfriend,” I tell him, chuckling awkwardly.
Travis blinks at me. Once, twice. Then—“I’m not straight.”