Page 34 of Kellan & Emmett
“Porch could use a sweep before the guests head out. Grit gets everywhere.”
“Good morning to you too,” I said, arching a brow.
His mouth twitched, like he almost smiled. “Good morning, Kellan.”
I huffed, but my grip tightened on the broom. “Good morning to you too, Emmett.”
He shifted the stack of linens in his arms, carrying them toward the storage closet at the end of the hall. For a second I just watched him—because damn, he fit here. The man, the inn, the work.
He caught me staring and jerked his chin at the door. “You gonna sweep, or are you planning to supervise?”
That earned him a half-grin as I pushed outside. The porch boards creaked under my boots. Morning air was cooler than I expected, carrying the smell of coffee and something buttery drifting out the windows. I set the broom to the planks, slow at first, then into a rhythm that didn’t need thought.
By the time Emmett joined me on the porch, the sun had climbed higher, laying thin stripes of light through the railings. My shoulders ached in that good, mindless way from sweeping. The last of the grit collected in a neat pile near the steps.
He stepped out with a rag slung over one shoulder, the faint scent of polish clinging to him. “You missed a spot,” he said, nodding toward a corner I’d already gone over twice.
I leaned on the broom, squinting at him. “Pretty sure you’re making that up just to get under my skin.”
“Maybe,” he said, voice even, but his eyes flicked with the faintest spark of amusement.
I shook my head, nudging the dirt pile with my boot. “You run a tight ship.”
“Has to be,” he said, moving to wipe down the railing beside me. “Guests don’t come back for cobwebs.”
“Or for the charming company of the innkeeper?” I shot back.
That earned me the smallest grunt—half laugh, half dismissal—but it didn’t feel sharp. Just familiar. The kind of rhythm we used to fall into without thinking.
For a while we worked in parallel—me with the broom, him with the rag—words sparse, silences comfortable enough to hold.
By the time I’d pushed the pile off the steps, he was crouched by the spigot near the garden path, twisting the handle. A thin stream of water dripped steadily onto the dirt.
“Damn thing started leaking,” he muttered, reaching for a wrench. “Come here a sec.”
I crouched beside him, bracing the pipe while he tightened the fitting. Our hands brushed once—quick, nothing—and I pulled back like the metal had burned me. He didn’t look up, just kept working until the drip slowed to nothing.
“Better,” he said, sitting back on his heels.
We moved on without speaking, circling toward the walkway that edged the flowerbeds. A few weeds pushed through the cracks, stubborn against the brick. Emmett tossed me a pair of gloves.
“Grab those before they take over.”
I slid them on and crouched again, tugging weeds free by the roots while he trimmed back the shrubs with clean, practiced strokes. Silence stretched, but it wasn’t the cold kind anymore. More like the quiet of two people who remembered how to work side by side, even after everything.
When the bed looked neater, Emmett dusted his palms together. “That’s good for this morning.”
Sweat rolled down the back of my neck, dampening my shirt. I rubbed at it with the heel of my hand, trying not to notice how close he’d sat. Not touching-close, but near enough that the heat between us felt thicker than the sun beating down.
He leaned back, palms braced on the step behind him, gaze on the street like he could pretend we weren’t sharing the same breath. For a while, neither of us spoke. Just cicadas buzzing, alawn mower humming faintly a few blocks over, and my pulse trying to steady itself.
“You work hard,” I said finally, voice rougher than I meant. “This place doesn’t run itself.”
“Somebody’s got to keep it standing.” His eyes flicked toward me, then away again. “Guess that somebody’s me.”
I nodded, brushing dirt from my palms. “You’ve done good, Em. Inn’s solid. Guests love it. You built something.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Yeah. Built it. Alone.”
