13. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
brENDEN
It’s just my freaking luck 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 that I’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 was more, 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 what I can 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.
Before I have any chance of stopping her, she flies off, knocking over a lamp on my end table. It smashes against the edge and breaks as it falls to the floor.
I scream out another curse as I lunge for the feathered menace, but I barely manage to graze a wing. She’s squawking and hopping and flying all over the room now, both of us equally frantic.
At a loss for what to do, I call out, “Delilah Doodle Don’t ,” in my sternest voice. Because that’s what Mitch calls her when she’s in trouble.
But it does absolutely nothing to deter her from destroying my house. If anything, it seems to make her more agitated.
I’m scurrying around now trying to catch her, but she just keeps hopping out of my reach. There are feathers on the floor, scratches up both of my arms, and wine soaking into my couch.
After forcing myself to calm down, I stand a few feet from her, giving her a chance to calm down as well. When she does, I take a step closer.
And she flies off again.
Well, fuck me, I guess. And fuck her too.
Running back to the couch, I grab my phone, looking around for something to wipe up the wine with at the same time but coming up blank. I pull up Travis’s contact and call him, barely waiting for him to say hello before I launch into a nonsensical tirade about a depressed chicken on the loose and my broken lamp and the sad, sad state of my life.
He says, “What?” a few times. But I just keep babbling faster and faster, until he says, “ Brenden ,” so commandingly that it makes me stop.
Wow, I wish that had worked for me on Delilah.
After he tells me he’ll be right over, I hang up and allow myself to breathe the tiniest sigh of relief while keeping my eyes on the chicken. He probably didn’t understand a word I was saying, but he obviously heard the distress in my voice. And he’s coming to help.
Of course he is. Because that’s what Travis does.
I feel slightly guilty for calling him, because he’s already doing so much for me between the inn and the grandparents. But who else do you call when you’ve got a chicken emergency if not your fake boyfriend?
I try halfheartedly to capture Delilah a few more times while I wait for him, but we’re in the middle of another standoff when I hear his truck pulling up the driveway. As soon as he opens the door, I launch myself into his arms.
“SOS! Save my ship! Or my house, or my skin, or something.”
“What’s going on?” he says, rubbing a hand up and down my back.
Reluctantly, I step away from him to point an accusing finger at Delilah. “That bird is evil .”
His eyes widen as he spots her, then he takes in the sight of my living room before focusing back on me. “What the fuck. You really do have a loose chicken in here?”
“I told you I did! Did you think I was lying?”
“I... I thought you wanted...”
“Wanted what?” I ask.
Clearing his throat, he says, “I thought you might have been hallucinating.”
I gesticulate to the entirely non-hallucinated chicken defensively. “You know Delilah is real.”
He furrows his brow. “Yeah, but I didn’t know you were crazy enough to volunteer to take care of her.”
“I didn’t volunteer ,” I argue. “But whatever. Can you help me?”
Dubiously, he asks, “What exactly do you want me to do?”
“Turn her into chicken tenders!” I yell spitefully.
He gives me a horrified look.
“I’m not serious, jeez! Don’t hurt her. Just help me catch her!”
“And then what?”
“Then...” I try to come up with the next logical step, but I’ve got nothing. So I throw my arms up in exasperation. “I don’t know. But please do something !”
I’m growing hysterical again. All I wanted to do was watch Netflix, for fuck’s sake. What did I do to deserve a goddamn chicken running amok in my living room?
Travis steps closer and pulls me back into his arms. He guides my head to his shoulder, his fingers splayed through my hair, rubbing tiny circles over my scalp. I gratefully lean more of my weight against him. If humans could purr, I’d be doing that right now.
Screw the chicken. She can have the house. It’s not that nice anyway.
Humming softly, Travis kisses the top of my head. Now that’s nice.
Squawk.
He startles, releasing me. “Okay, we’ve got to do something about the bird.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying!”
He gives me a look that suggests I should shut up, so I do. Then he steps farther into the room and assesses the situation before taking control like I wanted him to. It takes a lot of stealth and coordination between the two of us, but eventually we manage to wrangle Delilah into Travis’s arms.
She immediately stops trying to flap away. In fact, she appears perfectly content being held by him.
I know the feeling, girl.
“What now?” I ask.
Travis glances down at the chicken warily. “Let’s go over to Mitch’s yard and put her in her coop.”
I frown. “I’m supposed to be watching her because she’s depressed. Or possibly dying.”
The exasperated look he gives me is probably fair.
“Fine,” I say. “But we have to sit there with her.”
The exasperation grows stronger.
“Well, I have to sit with her,” I amend. “You will obviously be free to go on living your life. I’ll just remain on sacred chicken duty by myself.”
With an eye roll, he says, “I can stay with you.”
I try not to smile too smugly.
After we successfully deposit Delilah in her coop, we drag two of Mitch’s Adirondack chairs over to it so we can sit in front of her. I take a couple subtle peeks at Travis beside me, checking him out. He’s relaxed back in the chair, jean-clad thighs splayed open in what looks like an engraved invitation to climb into his lap.
Forcing myself to look away before I get caught—or actually attempt to climb into his lap—I train my gaze on Delilah, watching her for any signs of distress. “I don’t know why she freaked out on me,” I tell Travis. “She hangs out in Mitch’s house all the time and acts normal.”
“There is nothing normal about that,” he says.
Well. True.
As Delilah struts proudly around her coop, I think about my destroyed living room and lost relaxation, and I get a bit depressed.
“I hate my life.”
“No, you don’t.”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t. But seriously. How do I wind up in so many ridiculous situations?”
Travis assesses me a moment, then says, “It’s because you’re too nice.”
“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’re the 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 chickensitting and pretending to date me. Any time I need something, you’re always there for me.”
He mutters what sounds like, “For you ,” 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 is not coming 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 pesky fingers 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.
I kiss him harder and rock my hips experimentally. This earns me another groan and his grip tightening on me, so I do it again. And again. My hands come down to explore the contours of his chest over his T-shirt, and his hands move down to grab my ass, pulling me flush against him and keeping me there.
No complaints from me.
That is, until I try removing his shirt but can’t because there’s no room. I whine until he lets me move back enough to get it off him. Then before he can pull me in again, I yank my own shirt off my head with zero finesse, almost knocking my glasses off, and throw it on the floor.
Travis sucks in a sharp breath, and I experience a moment of self-consciousness. I know my body isn’t sculpted like his, but I didn’t think it was that bad, sheesh .
But then I realize he’s staring at my side with a look of awe on his face, not disgust. Ever so slowly, his fingers trail up my ribs, the touch so soft it tickles.
Oh.
“You have a tattoo,” he says, not taking his eyes off the large piece of art that covers my side.
“I do.”
“I didn’t know.”
I laugh softly at the way he sounds mesmerized. “Guess I don’t run around town whipping my shirt off.”
“Does it mean something?” he asks, using the tip of his index finger now to trace around the curved lines of the flowers.
Of course, it does.
I squirm slightly away from his touch, even though I love having his hands on me, and his eyes finally come back up to meet mine. His gaze is unsure now, concerned, like he’s wondering if he did something wrong. But he didn’t. He couldn’t have known why I’d rather not talk about this while I’m trying to make out with him. Or ever , preferably.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
His hands fall away from my body, but I quickly grab one and bring it back to my waist. “No, it’s okay. It’s just...”
Despite my fear of needles, I got the large and very painful tattoo a year after April died. After my first year of being May’s father. Of course it means something. It’s just something I don’t normally talk about. But I feel safe with Travis.
Sliding his hand up to cover the top flower, I tell him, “This one’s a daisy. It’s the flower for the month of April. It’s also a symbol of motherhood, and new beginnings, and rebirth.” I move his hand down to the flower below. “And this is lily of the valley. It’s the flower for the month of May.”
He squeezes my side gently, his warm brown eyes full of understanding. “They’re beautiful.”
I nod, choking back the tears that threaten to come. He must recognize my need to not dwell on this topic, because he slides his other hand into my hair and pulls me into a deep, slow kiss. I let the pain of missing April melt away as I lose myself in his lips.
His forehead bumps into my glasses, knocking them askew, and he pulls back. When he reaches out for them, I expect him to fix them or quickly get rid of them so we can resume kissing.
Instead, he carefully removes them from my face and frowns at them. “These are so dirty.”
“Who cares?” I reply. Because come onnn .
Ignoring me, he blows hot air on each of the lenses and grabs his shirt off the couch beside him to wipe them off. When he holds them back up for inspection, he frowns again. “How can you even see out of them?”
Huffing in frustration, I take the glasses from him and toss them with minimal care onto the table. “Problem solved.”
He gives me a scolding look and opens his mouth like he’s about to lecture me, but I grind roughly against him, which makes him let out another wonderful groan instead.
Now this is more like it. No more distractions.
We resume making out, and he’s rougher now, nipping at my bottom lip a few times until I whimper. Then he sucks my lip into his mouth and licks across it, soothing the sting. Pulling my mouth away from his, I kiss along his sharp, scruffy jawline and down his neck. I suck hard on the skin there, and he thrusts his hips up once, then goes for the button on my jeans.
I helpfully lift my hips so he can get them down past my ass. But I have to climb off him in order to remove them completely, which sucks.
Resisting the urge to hop back on his lap immediately, I take the time to get his jeans off him too. And when I straddle him again, I decide my effort was totally worth it, because now there are only two thin pieces of cloth covering our hard cocks as we rut against each other.
His finger dips below the waistband of my briefs, skimming along the top of my ass cheeks, and it’s all I can do not to beg him to fuck me right now. It’s been a while, and Travis is all rough and muscular. I’ve had thoughts of topping him before, but in this particular moment, he’s making me desperate to bottom.
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.