14. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
TRAVIS
People eat too much, 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?”
By “us” I’m assuming she means her and all the other busybodies in this town.
And I wince, because, yes , I’ve been keeping secrets for a long-ass time.
But I hope she’s referring to something inane, rather than the biggest secret that I like to sleep with men.
Or damn, she couldn’t know about me and Brenden pretending to date, could she?
“What do you mean?” I hedge.
She wags her finger at me.
“You know very well what I mean. I heard you’ve been spending quite a lot of time at a certain Brenden Sanderson’s house lately. What’s going on there?”
Crap.
“We’re friends,” I tell her, which is true enough.
“He’s just needed my help with some things around the house.”
“Oh, but I still haven’t gotten you to do my rain gutters. I see how it is.”
I resist the urge to ask this woman why she feels entitled to my time just because she’s known me since I was born.
“Anyway,” she goes on, “are you sure it isn’t more than that? Because Brenden is a lovely man, you know. And he’s gay as can be.”
“I’m not—Uh—We don’t—”
Fucking hell, make a sentence.
Why is she bringing this up with me?
She doesn’t know I’m gay.
She can’t possibly know.
Nobody knows but Brenden.
“Relax dear,” she says, shaking her head.
“I know you don’t swing that way. I’m only saying...”
“What?” I ask, though I’m afraid to know.
She reaches out a veiny hand to pat my forearm.
“People can change, can’t they? You never know. Can’t say I’d ever want to take a dick up the ass, but to each his own. And you’ve been alone for so long. Wouldn’t you like to find someone? I’m only saying, it might be nice. Might be a good match.”
My eyes have grown so wide I’m afraid they might fall out of my skull.
Pretty sure I heard Ellie, the children’s librarian, choking on her food at the dick-up-the-ass part.
Okay, I need to get myself together and shut this down before gossip leaks back to my dad.
“Mrs. Morris,” I say, fighting to keep my voice even.
“This isn’t an appropriate conversation to have here while I’m working. Not sure where you got these ideas, but it’s not really appropriate for you to ask me about my sex life at all.”
“I’m not asking about your sex life, I’m asking about your dating life,” she counters.
As if the words dick and ass didn’t come out of her mouth in a horrifying way that I’ll never be able to forget.
“Either way, I don’t think my personal life is any of your business.”
“I only want to know you’re happy, dear. We all want you to be happy. Especially your father. He’d be thrilled to see you finally settle down. He worries about you, you know.”
He wants me to find a woman and settle down , I think bitterly.
Pretty sure he wouldn’t be thrilled if he found out I was dating Brenden.
Not that I really am.
Or ever will be.
“I promise you, I’m happy,” I tell her.
And if the words feel forced.
.
.
“If you were happy, you wouldn’t be such a grouch all the time.”
Someone laughs at that, but I don’t look to see who.
I’d give anything for this not to be happening.
Gritting my teeth to avoid yelling at a senior citizen, I ask, “Mrs. Morris, would you like to order anything?”
She looks at me like I’m the crazy one, then says, “No dear, I already ate. Have a nice day.” And with that, she turns and strides out, leaving behind a trail of her overly floral perfume.
In her absence, I risk a glance around the room.
Most of the tables are filled with customers.
Neighbors.
Gossips.
And everyone’s eyes are on me.
“What are you all looking at?” I snap.
“Eat your food or get out.”
That does the trick.
Everyone returns their focus to their plates and their dining companions, but I’m left reeling.
What the hell was that?
I know everyone in this town is nosy, especially the older people who have nothing better to do than gossip all day.
But since when has anyone besides my dad ever cared about whether or not I was dating anyone?
If it was just Mrs.
Morris, I could brush it off.
But I’m sure she left to find a group of her old lady friends to discuss this with, and soon they’ll all be talking about me.
And how did she even know about me being at Brenden’s house so much anyway?
I guess I was foolish to think nobody would notice.
Mitch has probably seen my truck and blabbed to a handful of people already.
Fuck.
He’s friends with my dad.
Has he told him?
They’re more just town friends than call-each-other-up-for-a-chat friends, so hopefully not.
The saving grace is that Mitch must not have noticed me parked at Brenden’s overnight.
Because that certainly would have warranted a phone call to my dad, and then my dad would’ve called me.
And Mrs.
Morris would have come in here with a whole lot more to say.
Like more things about male body parts that would scar me for life.
It’s strange, though.
The way she suggested I could be with Brenden without having any idea about my sexuality.
Is it really so simple for her?
She didn’t seem at all put off by the concept of me being with a man.
Have I been wasting my energy hiding the truth of myself all these years?
No.
Because the opinions of a bunch of town gossips aren’t really what I’m worried about.
It’s just my dad.
My dad who has certainly never talked so openly and casually about men fucking each other.
Like it’s no big deal.
Like it’s not disgusting.
To be fair, he’s never actually said he thinks it’s disgusting.
At least not to me.
But that doesn’t mean he’d be okay with his son being gay.
When are you going to man up and get married?
That’s what he says to me.
And it’s easier to let him be disappointed by my lack of desire for a serious relationship than it is to disappoint him with the reality of who I’d marry if that was something I wanted.
Yeah.
It’s easier this way.
So Brenden and I just need to be more careful about not getting caught during this whole scheme.
I can start walking to his house.
That way nobody will have anything to gossip about.
I know I chose cooking as a profession.
But between the diner, the inn, and Brenden’s kitchen, it’s feeling like I’m doomed to spend my life chained to a stove.
Cooking for Brenden and May, though, gives me a sense of satisfaction I don’t get when I’m cooking for work, which makes the burnout worth it.
This may be part of a show for May’s grandparents, but I like knowing that she and Brenden are getting some nutrients in them for once.
Lord knows how they survive on all the processed, packaged crap they eat all the time.
Since Brenden isn’t home from work yet, he gets no say in what I’m making.
I know he’ll like it, but I’m prepared for at least one complaint about vegetables anyway.
Grant is in the living room reading a newspaper.
He must have gone out of town to pick it up, since all you can find here is the Mayweather Gazette, which barely qualifies as a paper.
Elise asked if she could help me in the kitchen, though I politely declined, telling her to enjoy her time with May.
She’s been nothing but nice to me, but let’s face it.
I’m not a people person.
I can only take so much small talk.
She and May are now in the backyard planting something.
(I fear for the life of whatever it is if Brenden ends up in charge of tending to it after Elise leaves.
) I’ve been watching them through the window as I cook, and it’s clear how much Elise adores her granddaughter.
It makes me wonder why she and Grant don’t visit more often.
This family dynamic is none of my business, though, even if Brenden essentially dragged me into it.
As I chop broccoli, letting my alfredo sauce simmer, I have time to contemplate what I’m doing here.
In Brenden’s house.
Playing his fake boyfriend.
It’s what I agreed to, and we seem to be doing a great job of making Elise and Grant buy it.
But I’m starting to worry that I’ve set myself up for unnecessary pain.
I think I might be leaning into my role a little too much.
And I’m definitely enjoying it too much.
Just simply the permission to touch and kiss Brenden was enough to have me wishing this was real.
Now that we’ve added orgasms into the mix.
.
.
It's too good. And it's getting harder and harder to imagine going back to my old life where I’m grumpy and alone all the time, and where he’s just a friend I only sometimes see outside of the diner.
A commotion from the living room breaks me out of my thoughts.
It sounds like Grant is arguing with someone.
I turn off the burner before running out there to see what’s going on.
Mitch is standing in the entryway, gesticulating wildly as Grant blocks him from coming farther into the house.
“What’s wrong?” I ask them.
Without taking his off Mitch, Grant says, “This man just waltzed right into the house. When I asked him to explain himself, he questioned who I was. As if he has more right to be here than I do.”
“I needed to borrow some sugar, and Brenden’s car wasn’t here, so I didn’t think I’d be disturbing anyone,” Mitch says, sounding exasperated.
“I told this guy I live next door, but he doesn’t believe me!” He pauses, then squints his eyes at me.
“Wait. What the heck are you doing here if he’s not home?”
I immediately move into damage control mode, stepping up to the two men and assuring Grant that Mitch does in fact live next door and is friends with Brenden, before grabbing Mitch by the elbow and tugging him toward the kitchen with me.
“I’m making dinner,” I tell him.
“Brenden will be home soon.”
“But why?” he asks, and I purposefully step on his foot.
I assume Grant is following us, so without considering the ramifications of this, I explain as quickly and quietly as I can, “You need to pretend I’m dating Brenden, okay?”
“But—”
“Is this a normal thing around here, for people to come into other people’s homes uninvited?” Grant asks.
My gaze swings to where he’s leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed and a frown on his face.
“The front’s always unlocked!” Mitch exclaims, clearly winding himself up again.
But at least this takes his focus off me and why I’m here cooking dinner.
“People are friendly around here! Unlike wherever it is you came from.”
Grant’s face pinches up so much he looks constipated.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, hoping to pacify them both.
“Grant, this is Mitch. He’s a friend of Brenden’s, and I’m sure Brenden wouldn’t mind him coming in to borrow something. Mitch, this is May’s grandfather. He and her grandmother are here visiting.”
Mitch and Grant continue to eye each other distastefully.
The differences between the men are highlighted by their clothing choices.
While Grant is wearing slacks on his vacation, Mitch is sporting cutoff jean shorts and a T-shirt with a semi-vulgar beer advertisement.
“You said you needed sugar?” I ask Mitch, breaking the silence when it’s obvious the two of them aren’t going to exchange pleasantries.
“That’s right,” he tells me.
“Half a cup will do.”
I turn to get it for him.
If he was after any other ingredient, I’d be doubtful about finding it in Brenden’s kitchen, but sugar, I know he has an abundance of.
There’s a small ceramic jar shaped like a snail beside the coffee maker, and he keeps more in a cabinet.
What he doesn’t have, however, is a measuring cup (not a surprise), so I find a suitable Tupperware container for Mitch and eyeball the amount I pour.
“Thanks, man,” he says when I hand it to him.
Then his forehead scrunches up like he’s thinking hard, and he adds, “I mean, thanks, Brenden’s boyfriend .”
Holy fuck, I’m so ready for this day to end.
Luckily, Grant already thinks Mitch is a weirdo and doesn’t look too confused by the ridiculous line.
Still, I usher Mitch out of the kitchen before he can open his mouth again.
Grant steps aside to let us through the doorway, and thankfully, he doesn’t follow as I keep ushering Mitch all the way out the front door and onto the porch.
“Yo, what’s the rush?” he gripes out as he stumbles.
“I pretended good, didn’t I?”
I close the door behind us a little too forcefully, then hiss at him, “Please tell me you’ll keep quiet about this.”
The last thing Brenden needs is for the entire town to hear about how I’m pretending to be his boyfriend, because then some idiot will end up blowing his cover in front of Elise and Grant.
And the last thing I need is for my dad to find out about this and start wondering if I’m actually.
.
.
well, what I am.
“And what is it exactly that I’m supposed to be keeping quiet about?” Mitch asks.
“Why the heck does that boring man think you’re Brenden’s boyfriend? You don’t like dick.” He gives me a frighteningly calculating look before adding, “Or do you?”
Jesus, these people.
Does nobody have tact anymore?
“It’s a long story,” I tell him.
“You can ask Brenden to explain it to you after May’s grandparents leave.”
I probably should have reaffirmed his belief that I’m straight, instead of ignoring that last question.
But even though my heart’s racing at the possibility of being found out, I don’t think I have it in me to flat out lie about my sexuality.
Maybe a couple weeks ago, I could have.
But now saying I’m not into men would be like saying what me and Brenden have done together wasn’t real.
The dating may be fake, but the attraction and orgasms are all too real.
Mitch looks like he wants to pry some more, and if he does, I might fold like a house of cards.
Because at this point, my feelings for Brenden are almost overriding my common sense.
But mercifully, right then, Elise and May appear from around the side of the house.
“Hey, Mitch,” May greets him as she climbs the porch steps.
“How’s Delilah?”
Mitch lights up.
“She’s doing great! I think she was just going through a bit of a teenage angst phase, but she’s back to herself now.”
“That’s good, I’m glad,” May says, like the sweet girl she is.
Acting like this man and his damn chicken are perfectly normal.
“Okay, I’ll be out of everyone’s hair,” Mitch tells us.
He waves the container of sugar in front of himself.
“Just needed to borrow something, and Brenden’s boyfriend here was nice enough to get it for me.”
I almost groan but manage to hold it in.
The way he calls me Brenden’s boyfriend is so exaggerated again that he might as well have winked at me.
And does he not understand the concept of borrowing something?
I don’t think he intends to bring the sugar back.
But I’m not going to point that out to him, because I just need him gone.
May looks like she wants to laugh.
Instead, she tells Mitch to have a nice day, and then says, “Come on, Grandma,” leading Elise inside the house.
My alfredo sauce will be ruined if I take much longer getting back to it, but I need to give myself a minute out here to breathe.
At least now I don’t need to worry about Mitch spotting my truck overnight, because he knows what’s going on.
Sort of.
But I’m seriously doubting his ability to keep this a secret.
As I’m standing alone on the porch, Brenden’s car pulls into the driveway, and my heart does a flip inside my chest.
Even though he’s managed to bring chaos to my otherwise normal life, I can’t deny that seeing his face still lifts my mood.
Every damn time.
He gives me a questioning look as he gets out of the car and comes up the porch.
“What are you doing out here?”
I quickly fill him in on Mitch barging in and how I had to tell him we were pretending to date.
His expression turns pained.
“Oh god, he’s gonna tell everyone, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know. Probably not on purpose, but maybe by accident.” I’d like to assure him that Mitch will keep his mouth shut, but I can’t lie.
He groans and steps closer, burying his face against my chest.
Wrapping an arm around him, I rub his back and tell him, “It’ll be okay.”
Because no matter what, I’ll make sure everything’s okay for him.
And the trusting look in his eyes as he lifts his head to peer up at me tells me that he knows this.
My heart flips again, and I kiss the top of his head.
“Let’s go inside.”
“What’s for dinner?” he asks.
“I’m making shrimp and broccoli alfredo with garlic bread.”
“No broccoli,” he whines, pulling a face.
“Yes, broccoli, and you’re going to eat it, not pick it out,” I tell him sternly.
His sigh is extremely dramatic.
And then he says, “Okay, daddy.”
As he moves around me for the door, I pinch his ass, making him yelp and laugh in a way that lights up my soul.
During dinner, when he tries to sneak a piece of his broccoli onto my plate, I catch him and feed it to him off my own fork.
He lets me, smiling sweetly before licking his lips in an entirely sinful way that promises me an interesting night once we’re alone.
I’m not sure when all this flirting and casual affection with each other began to feel like second nature.
But fuck , I’m in so much trouble here.