Woah.

I already knew his touch did things to me that it shouldn’t. But for years, I’ve been able to ignore the effect he has on me, because I know he’s only ever meant his touches to be friendly. Patting my back as a thank you, gripping my arm when he’s excited, occasionally poking at the corner of my mouth when I’m frowning too hard—those things I can handle. One graze of a fingertip, though, and it felt like my insides melted.

My brain knows the intimate touch was only him pretending we’re together. But now I need to pretend too, and I hope my dick and heart also get the memo that that’s all it is. Pretend.

Stepping onto Brenden’s porch, I hesitate before knocking. Maybe May’s grandparents expect me to have a key. But that’s irrelevant anyway, because I’m sure Brenden left the door unlocked like always. Should I go right in as if I’m here all the time? Can’t hurt, I guess.

Okay, it’s showtime. Turn on boyfriend mode.

My boyfriend mode is pretty rusty, considering I haven’t been anyone’s boyfriend in over a decade, but I can do this. For Brenden.

I reach for the doorknob, and my assumption about it being unlocked is proven correct. As soon as I step inside the house, though, Brenden comes flying over and grabs my wrist in a surprisingly strong grip, making me question if I did the right thing.

“Please save me,” he hisses dramatically in my ear.

“What?”

“They’re already unhappy with me because they don’t like my tea selection.”

I cock my head at him. “You drink tea?”

“No, of course not!” he whispers-yells, as if I’ve offended his love for coffee. “But I know they do, so I bought a box for them, and apparently my choice is like a sacrilege or something. They went on about how if they drink caffeinated tea in the evening, they won’t be able to sleep, and yadda yadda.” His grip on me tightens as he continues to rant in a hushed voice. “You’d think they were British for how much it matters to them. I thought all tea was the same!”

“Seriously?”

“No, I guess not,” he admits. Then he starts yanking on me in an attempt to drag me in past the foyer. “I don’t care. Just come on so they can focus on you instead of me.”

Can’t say I love the sound of that, but I did know it was coming. And the distress on his face is kicking my protective instincts toward him into overdrive. So if he needs me to be a distraction, that’s what I’ll be. But first.

I wrap my hand—the one with my wrist not locked in his death grip—around the nape of his neck, brushing my thumb over the short hair there. “Try to relax.”

See? I’m boyfriending already.

And apparently thinking in nonsensical Brenden-speak.