Page 43 of Kellan & Emmett
You started it.That’s what my head kept chanting.You pulled him in. You crossed the line.There was no pretending it was all on him, no pretending I could walk it back in the morning. I’d wanted it. Hell, I’d needed it. And for one impossible, blinding moment, I let myself have it.
But wanting didn’t erase the shame clawing at me. Didn’t erase the picture that still haunted me—the look in her eyes when my ex-wife caught me years ago, laptop open, nothing but raw need on the screen. That silent judgment, the cold space that opened up between us after. That was the moment my marriage had ended, even if it took months to fall apart.
And now? Now I’d gone and opened a door I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to walk through.
I stopped pacing, palms braced on the dresser like I needed the solid weight of the wood to ground me. My head hung low, breath ragged, heart still punching against my ribs like it hadn’t gotten the message that the game was over.
The words scraped up my throat before I could choke them down.
“I wanted to kiss him, wanted him,” I whispered into the empty room. My voice sounded raw, like it had been waiting years to be said. “God help me, I can’t fight these feelings.”
The truth hit harder spoken out loud. I pushed a hand flat to my chest, like I could quiet the racing there, but it only beat harder.
I tried lying down, but the sheets felt strange under me, foreign. Every time I shut my eyes, I saw him again—Emmett’s face close, his mouth warm against mine, the way my body tingled with need. Sleep didn’t stand a chance.
Daily To-Do
Restock the coffee
Remind Mrs. Carson about our late checkout policy
Fix the screen door
Pretend my pulse doesn’t trip every time Kellan walks in a room.
Resist wanting to kiss him again… God help me, I already want to.
Chapter 23
Emmett
Sunlight had already stretched across the dining room by the time I set out the basket of biscuits. Normally by now Kellan would’ve been downstairs, reaching for the broom. But his footsteps never came.
I willed myself not to notice. Not to count the minutes. But every sound overhead felt louder, and my chest wouldn’t quit tightening with the memory of another morning two decades ago, when I woke up and realized he’d already left Gomillion.
So I buried myself in work. Heather had called in sick before dawn, her voice scratchy over the phone, and that left me covering the kitchen.
The truth was, I could handle short-staffed mornings. I could even handle grumpy tourists who wanted their eggs over-easy instead of scrambled. What I wasn’t sure I could handle was walking upstairs to knock on his door and finding it empty.
The kitchen smelled like butter and coffee, the hiss of the griddle filling the quiet rhythm I knew by heart. Two guests were already settled at the nook—Mr. and Mrs. Bobcombes, retirees from Charleston who made a point of telling me every June how this stop was “their tradition.” I plated scrambled eggs and bacon, slid toast onto the side, and carried the plates over.
“Morning, folks,” I said, setting the food down. “Coffee holding up?”
Mrs. Bobcombe smiled, lifting her mug. “You spoil us.”
“Because you both deserve the best we can offer,” I said with a practiced smile. I topped them off, let the conversation drift to weather and traffic. The kind of chatter I could handle with halfmy mind while the other half chased a memory I couldn’t seem to shut down.
Back in the kitchen, I had another skillet going. The young couple in Room Two—honeymooners from Asheville—had asked for eggs over easy and extra bacon. I flipped the yolks gently, dropped more toast, poured orange juice into glasses.
But even as I moved through the motions, I kept circling back to last night. Kellan’s mouth on mine. The startled sound he made when he tugged me close. The way “Emmy” slipped out of him like he hadn’t said it in twenty years and hadn’t stopped wanting to.
I pressed the spatula too hard, nearly tearing the eggs. Shook my head, tried to focus.Guests first, spiral later.
But my head was caught in one loop.
