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.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

BRENDEN

MayFest starts tomorrow, and as much as I love every event Mayweather puts on, a part of me can’t wait for it to be over. Ever since I took ownership of the inn, I don’t get to simply enjoy the festivities anymore. Most of the businesses in town participate, and I have to make sure everything runs smoothly with our booth. But I trust Addison and my other employees to handle things so I can spend at least some of the festival with May and her grandparents. And there’s no way I’m missing out on doing the May Games with May. It’s our tradition.

At least once the two-day event is over, a lot of my guests will be leaving, so I should finally have a room available here for Elise and Grant. That should reduce my stress level, which has been at a maximum high for the last couple weeks. Though I doubt they’ll be staying much longer after the festival anyway.

Popping into the inn’s kitchen to grab myself a cup of coffee—my third, actually, but who’s counting—I find Addison busy topping a large tray of mango tarts with thin, curled fruit slices. The tarts look delectable, and I’m sure they’re going to sell out quickly tomorrow, so I reach out to take one, but she smacks my hand away.

“Ow,” I complain.

“Stay away from my desserts. I’ve been baking all morning.”

“You know this is my inn, right?” I argue. “So technically, they’re my desserts.”

The challenging look she gives me is a bit scary. And this woman is adept at wielding a knife, so I do the smart thing.