“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.

“They’ve got me so on edge,” he says, but he leans his head into my touch. He’s still in his work outfit—a pale yellow button-up and fitted black slacks that hug his small round ass perfectly. Not that I looked.

Okay, I looked earlier while he was flitting around the inn like a sexy bumblebee. But I won’t look again.

“They’ve visited before, haven’t they?” I ask.

“Yeah, but they’ve always stayed at the inn, so I didn’t have to worry about things like providing them with adequate tea. And May was cool with sleeping on the couch so they could stay in her room, but I’m wondering if I should’ve given them mine instead. Because her full-sized bed is a major downgrade for them, I’m sure. Granted, my queen probably is too, but at least it’s slightly better. Except I’m too old to sleep on a couch for more than one night at a time. My body will get all stiff and creaky.”

I’m tempted to remind him I’m a year older than him, but instead, I search for something encouraging to say as I continue rubbing his nape.

“That feels good,” he practically purrs, finally loosening his hold on my other wrist. Then he lets it go to slide his hand slowly up my forearm.