I immediately feel like a jerk for putting him in an awkward position. Who I am to him, really? We’re friends, sure. But Brenden has a hundred friends. Addison, on the other hand, is arguably the most important person to his business, after himself. He shouldn’t piss her off.

Before I can find a way to take my words back, though, he starts babbling.

“I didn’t say I liked it better! I may have said, ‘Damn, that’s orgasmic.’” He turns quickly to Addison. “But yours was orgasmic too! Plenty of orgasms to be had here! Oh god, shut up, shut up, shut up.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Are you aware we can still hear you?”

“Of course, I am! Only a crazy person would talk out loud to themselves and forget that people can hear them!” Face red, he spins on his heels and rushes out of the kitchen, half-full coffee cup in hand. “Anyway, gotta go! Lots of important things to do, running an inn and all that, ya know.”

Right as he makes it to the doorway, Addison calls out, “Wait! You need to pick which muffin we should bake for the retreat!”

Backing up, he uses his ass to nudge the swinging door and says, “Why don’t you go with both? They’re both delicious. Both of your muffins bring all the boys to the yard! Bye!”

Addison cocks her head at me like, What the hell was that? But I just chuckle. Because that was Brenden Sanderson. Ridiculousness is part of his charm.

When the evening comes, I show up at Brenden’s house with two large pizzas from Ricci’s. He’s bought me plenty of pizza over the years as a thank you for things I’ve done for him, so I know all of his and May’s favorite toppings.

What I don’t know is whether I should even be here right now. Yes, I want to help him however I can. But this whole fake dating thing sounds like something out of a cheesy movie. People don’t do this in real life, right?

And he’ll be expecting me to explain what I told him earlier. About me being... not straight.

I’m not ashamed of who I am. I never have been. It’s just something I’ve gotten used to not talking about.

Hiding. I’ve gotten used to hiding it.

And that’s something I’m a little ashamed of. But it is what it is.

When I knock on the door, it takes a minute for it to open, and then May’s standing there, hair up in a sloppy bun seemingly held together by the pen speared through it. She’s peering down at the notebook she’s holding, with a pencil between her teeth.

“Come on, you’re on vacation,” I say.