Page 21 of Kellan & Emmett (Gomillion High Reunion #1)

Emmett

He smirked like he had a comeback ready, but then it slipped, honesty edging in. “Yeah,”

he admitted quietly.

“I haven’t.”

“Want to go bowling?”

I asked, keeping it casual, like it had just popped into my head. Truth was, I’d been sitting on the idea all week.

“Lanes should be open. Couple of hours won’t kill us.”

His brow arched, mouth tugging into a sly half-grin.

“Bowling? So when you said fun, what you really meant was fun for you. Yoo beat my asnt. But it’s been a while. Maybe you’ll return the favor this time.”u always used ts.”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “Fair poi

“Don’t count on it,”

he said, but his grin widened.

“Come on,”

I nudged.

“What’s the worst that can happen?”

He blew out a breath, like he wanted to act reluctant, but there was already a spark in his eyes.

“Alright. Why not.”

Half an hour later we pulled into the cracked lot behind Ten Pin Alley. The neon sign buzzed, half the letters burned out, but the crash of pins carried all the way outside. Inside, the air hung heavy with popcorn and shoe spray, country music leaking from tired speakers.

The gum-popping teenager behind the counter barely looked up from her phone as I gave our sizes. She slid two pairs of rentals across the laminate and pointed us toward lane six. The shoes were stiff, laces frayed, soles already slick from a hundred other players.

“Didn’t miss these, huh?”

I said, rocking back on my heels.

Kellan smirked as he tugged his on.

“They ought to come with a waiver.”

That pulled a laugh out of me. Damn him. Banter always had a way of sneaking under my guard.

Kellan rolled his shoulders, standing, testing the weight of a midnight-blue ball off the rack. Forearm flex, wrist easy. He looked good—focused in that old way, but softer at the edges now, like the need to prove something had finally bled off. He caught me looking and tipped his chin, half question, half dare.

“You’re up first,”

I said, because if I didn’t give my mouth a job, my brain was going to do something stupid.

Kellan hefted a ball, turning it in his hands like he was reacquainting himself with an old friend. His first ball thudded down the lane too fast, swerved wide, and disappeared into the gutter. He dragged a hand over his face, shaking his head, and the sound that came out of him was half-groan, half-laugh.

“Rusty?”

I asked, leaning forward on my knees.

“Understatement,”

he muttered, grabbing a second ball. This one wobbled straighter, but still veered left, toppling only a pair of pins. He looked back at me with a sheepish tilt of his mouth, the kind of look that made it hard not to grin.

“Not bad,”

I said, drawing it out just to watch his expression shift.

“Couple more decades and you’ll have it down.”

He huffed, but there was no heat in it.

“Right. And you’re an expert, huh?”

I shrugged, stood, and took my turn. The first ball clipped the edge—seven pins. The second cleaned up the spare. Muscle memory, nothing more, but I felt his eyes on me all the way back to the plastic seat.

“Show-off,”

he muttered, though his grin gave him away.

The alley hummed around us—pins exploding two lanes over, a pack of kids hollering from a birthday table stacked with paper hats and melting ice cream cake. Somewhere near the snack bar, the jukebox rattled as somebody fed in quarters, and Bon Jovi kicked on. The sound wrapped around the crash of pins, the clatter of balls rolling back down the return.

Kellan stepped up for his frame, shoulders set too tight. I could see it before he even threw—the way he was trying too hard. The ball skidded off his hand and toppled only three pins.

“Don’t muscle it,”

I said without thinking.

He glanced over, eyebrow arched, not annoyed but curious.

“And what would you suggest, Coach?”

I hesitated — then crossed the small space between us. My hand found his forearm, light, guiding, my other palm hovering at his hip just long enough to shift him half an inch to the right.

“Looser. Let it roll through, don’t fight it.”

For a moment he went perfectly still under my touch. The weight of his breath changed, deepened, and I had to force myself to step back.

He rolled. The ball curved straighter this time, knocking down six. Progress.

He turned to me, grin wide, and for a second I saw the boy he used to be, glowing under stadium lights.

Next round, he set up again, looser this time, and when he let go the ball flew clean, straight into the pocket. Pins exploded, a perfect strike.

The sound hadn’t even died before he spun toward me, laughter breaking out of him, and then his arms were around me. Tight, unthinking, full-bodied joy.

It hit me like nothing else had in twenty years — the heat of him pressed in, the smell of soap and sweat, the strength in his grip. My breath caught; my body remembered before my brain did. For a heartbeat, I didn’t move; in fact, I didn’t want to.

Then I felt it — the way his grip tightened, then faltered, like he realized what he’d done. He pulled back too quickly, eyes flickering with something I couldn’t name.

I forced a smirk, words steadier than I felt.

“Don’t get cocky, Miller.”

His grin came back, softer this time, and he ducked his head before turning back toward the lane.

But the echo of him lingered — the warmth of his arms, the way he’d held on a fraction too long.

And all I could think was how easy it was to fall into him, how much harder it was to step away.

The game wound down frame by frame, pins clattering, balls thudding, our laughter slipping out too easy.

Neither of us kept much track of the score — though I suspected I was ahead — but that wasn’t the point.

It hadn’t been the point since the second frame, when he hugged me and stole my breath.

By the time we dropped our shoes back at the counter, the alley had quieted.

The birthday group was gone, leaving behind stray balloons tangled in the chairs.

A pair of teenagers were still playing at the far lane, but their giggles and shrieks barely reached us over the jukebox humming an old country ballad.

We claimed a booth by the snack counter, split a basket of fries.

Grease bled through the paper lining, the salt sharp on my tongue.

Kellan leaned back, stretching out those long legs under the table, his laugh still buzzing faint in my ears.

He plucked a fry, and the sight punched me with memory so hard I nearly reeled.

Twenty years ago, same booth, same basket of fries.

His smile younger, my chest lighter. We’d sat here like this a hundred times, shoulder to shoulder, daring each other to snag the last fry.

Now the years hung between us, heavy as ever, but so did the pull.

I dragged a fry through the smear of ketchup, tried to act casual while heat crawled up the back of my neck.

He caught me looking, one brow lifting like he was about to call me on it, but he didn’t.

Just smirked and reached for another fry.

Nothing’s changed.

Fuck, everything’s changed.

The ride back to the inn was thick with silence, but not the kind that was uncomfortable. Kellan leaned toward the window, one hand resting easy on his thigh, the other close enough to the gearshift that our fingers brushed when I shifted. Each time it happened, a spark ran up my arm, and each time I told myself to keep it together.

We didn’t need words, but my heart was too unsettled since Kellan’s full-bodied hug.

By the time we pulled into the lot, the front windows glowed with lamplight.

A figure crossed behind the lace curtains—probably the part-timer at the desk, maybe a guest heading upstairs.

Either way, walking through the main door meant stepping back under watchful eyes.

Too much light. Too much risk. My hand tightened on the wheel, and without a word I swung us toward the side entrance.

The air cooled as we climbed the steps.

I fumbled with the key at the narrow side door, the old lock sticking like it always did.

Kellan stepped close, shoulder brushing mine, his breath warm at my temple as he murmured.

“Need a hand?”

I almost laughed—because maybe I did—but then the lock gave out and the door swung open. Inside, the hallway was dim, hushed, the kind of quiet that felt meant for secrets.

I turned to make some flippant remark, anything to loosen the pull between us—but he was already there.

Close enough that I caught the clean salt of his skin, the faint warmth of soap. His gaze flicked to my mouth. Just once. But it was enough.

“Jesus… Emmy.”

His hand closed in my shirt, rough and certain, and then his mouth crashed against mine. No warning. Just heat, sharp and undeniable.

The world tilted, cracked open.

Twenty years fell away in a single breath.

His mouth crashed against mine—harder, rougher than memory, tasting of salt and the kind of sweetness you only notice when it’s on someone you’ve wanted forever.

Shock stole me for a heartbeat, then I was kissing him back, fierce and hungry, because God, I’d been waiting since I was eighteen.

This wasn’t gentle.

Wasn’t careful.

It was everything we hadn’t said, breaking loose all at once.

His fist loosened at my shirt only to slide up, curl warm and certain at the back of my neck, pulling me closer.

My palms skimmed his waist, his ribs, the solid heat of him grounding me and undoing me in the same breath.

He parted for me, and instinct took over.

I pressed in, tongue tangling with his, teeth grazing just enough to draw a low sound from his throat.

Breathless, burning, like the air itself didn’t exist outside this kiss.

Like nothing had, for twenty years.

For a heartbeat, it was everything.

And then I felt it — the tremor in him. The way his grip faltered. His body still leaned in, hungry, but his shoulders went rigid, his breath breaking against my mouth.

He tore back half an inch, eyes wide, chest heaving. “God,”

he rasped.

“Someone could’ve seen. I can’t—”

But even as he said it, his hand stayed on me, still clutching my shirt like he couldn’t let go. His body didn’t match his words.

I held still, heart hammering, not giving him pity, not giving him distance either. Just giving him space to decide.

He swallowed hard, eyes searching mine like he hated what he wanted. Then it slipped out, wrecked and raw, barely a whisper: “Emmy—”

The sound gutted me. I smiled against his mouth, leaning in slow enough he could stop me.

“And you’re still Kelly to me,”

I murmured back.

His breath caught, broke, and then he kissed me again. Slower this time, deliberate, his hand cupping my jaw like he was testing the shape of me all over again. Our mouths moved together, aching and new, familiar and not.

When we finally pulled apart, foreheads pressed, I felt the tremble still in him. He was scared — not of me, never of me — but of everything else. Of being seen. Of admitting. Of what it meant.

And I didn’t push. I just stayed there, breathing him in, savoring the taste of him like something I’d been starving for.