Page 23 of Kellan & Emmett (Gomillion High Reunion #1)

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 wa.

“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 half my 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.

Last night. His mouth. The weight of twenty years collapsing into a single kiss.

And the one truth I couldn’t outrun: last time he kissed me, he left me.

The clock over the buffet ticked too loud. Sophia slipped in a little later, apron already tied, and thank God for her—she floated between tables with that easy smile that made guests feel like this place was family: a home away from home. Guests drifted in, murmuring good mornings, spooning yogurt into bowls, asking about the weather. I nodded, smiled, answered, but every second my ears strained for a sound upstairs that never came. Every minute Kelly didn’t appear stretched taut, humming under my ribs like a wire pulled too tight.

My chest hurt with the waiting, with the fear that I already knew the ending. He’d kissed me. He’d realized what that meant. And he’d packed himself up in silence the way he had twenty years ago.

Then he came through the doorway. Real, solid, filling the frame like he always had. Dressed for camp: loose shorts, rec T-shirt, whistle bouncing against his chest. His hair was damp at the temples, proof he’d showered—but the shadows under his eyes gave him away. He hadn’t slept, not really. And God help me, I wanted to believe it was for the same reason I hadn’t—that the kiss had kept him restless, rewinding every second of it the way I had.

But the doubt was there, sharp as ever. Maybe his silence meant regret. Maybe the shadows in his eyes weren’t from wanting, but from wishing it had never happened. The thought cut clean, but I couldn’t look away. I’d waited half my life for the chance to kiss him again. I didn’t know if I could survive finding out he wished I hadn’t.

“Morning,”

he said, offering it to the room at large, then to me, a little softer. Polite. Mannered. The way grown men carry themselves, even when the air between them is thick with everything unsaid.

He smiled easily for the guests who greeted him, gave a nod to Sophia as she chatted with one of the guests, but the smile never quite reached his eyes. His jaw was too tight for that.

At the sideboard, he poured himself coffee, steam curling up past his cheek. He lifted the cup, and just before he sipped, he glanced at me. Quick smile, small, fleeting. Enough to freeze my breath.

“Sorry I wasn’t down earlier,”

he said quietly.

“Overslept.”

A pause, then, lower still.

“I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”

I cleared my throat, tried to match his even tone.

“Don’t worry about it.”

He nodded, set the cup down just long enough to sling his bag over his shoulder. Another swallow of coffee, then he straightened.

“Heading to the field. Have a good day.”

“You too,”

I managed.

And just like that, he was out the door—present, but already gone. Somehow, that twisted tighter than silence.

The door shut behind him, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

Lighter, because he hadn’t disappeared.

He’d walked down those stairs, looked me in the eye, even managed a smile.

But heavier too, because he’d left anyway. Not gone-gone, not like before, but gone enough that the space he left behind pressed on my chest.

*****

By the time the last plates were cleared and the coffee urn drained, the inn had settled back into its quiet hum.

The Bobcombes had gone off to the antique shops, the honeymooners had set out with a picnic basket, and the clatter of breakfast had given way to the softer sounds of a place catching its breath.

I wiped down the counter, stacked the clean mugs back into their neat rows, and tried not to think about the way the morning had dragged without him.

The front door opened, sunlight spilling in before it shut again.

Then he was there—Kellan—stepping inside like the heat of the field had followed him in.

His T-shirt clung to him, damp at the chest, a darker shade of gray where sweat had pressed the cotton tight.

His hair was mussed, and his skin held the flush of sun and exertion.

“Hey,”

he said, voice low, almost casual.

Just a greeting, but it landed like a weight in my chest.

“Hey,”

I answered, slower, because I was too busy looking at him—too aware of the way he filled the space.

He moved to the counter, reached automatically for a glass from the rack, and filled it at the pitcher I’d left waiting.

It should’ve felt ordinary.

He’d been here nearly a month; I’d told him to treat the kitchen like his own.

But watching him tip the glass back, his throat working as he drank, it didn’t feel ordinary at all.

When he set the empty glass down, I nudged the pitcher closer.

His hand brushed mine as he reached for it again, and that brief scrape of skin sparked hotter than the noon sun outside.

My stomach flipped, stupid and eager, and I told myself not to read into it—but then I saw the way his jaw ticked, the way his eyes cut away too fast, and I knew he’d felt it too.[6]

He set the glass down softer this time, like he’d caught himself.

For a second, we just stood there, the faint hum of the fridge and the tick of the old wall clock filling the space between us.

“Have you eaten yet?”

I asked, because it was safer than saying everything else pressing at my chest.

He shook his head, dragging the damp hem of his shirt away from his skin.

“I didn't have time. Kids ran me ragged.”

His mouth curved faintly—half pride, half exhaustion.

“You can’t keep doing that on an empty stomach,”

I said, already reaching for a plate.

“They’ll eat you alive if you don’t keep your strength up.”

I spooned out a heap of cheesy grits, added a biscuit split open with a thick slice of ham, and set it in front of him. “Sit.”

Something in me eased when he obeyed, lowering himself onto the stool like he belonged there.

He ate fast at first, hunger carrying him through, then slowed, chewing more carefully, like only now realizing how hollow he’d been.

I leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching too long.

Watching the sunburn at the bridge of his nose, the way his lashes dipped when he blinked.

I felt a strange, quiet relief—like making sure he ate had settled something deeper in me than I wanted to admit.

He reached for a napkin and wiped his lips.

“Those kids,”

he said finally, voice low but edged with fondness.

“They’ve got more energy than sense. I’m pretty sure I ran more today than I did in my last season.”

I huffed out a laugh, leaning heavier against the counter.

“I guess they don’t give you much slack.”

“Not a second. Half of them are all legs, the other half don’t know what to do with theirs. But they try. And when they nail something, even the little stuff, it feels… worth it.”

His smile lingered for a breath before he ducked his head, pushing at crumbs with his thumb.

The sight squeezed something sharp in my chest. The man before wasn’t the golden boy, or the prodigy. This was just Kelly, sweaty and sunburned, steadying kids who’d never know the weight he carried.

Silence tugged at us again, heavier this time. His lashes lifted, and when his eyes met mine, the air seemed to hold still.

“Emmett…”

His voice was rougher than before, my name almost a rasp. He squared like he was bracing for a hit.

“About the ki—”

The last word died on his lips, but I didn’t need the rest. Heat shot through me, as clear as if he’d spelled it out. My pulse hammered, every inch of me tuned to him.

We shouldn’t talk here. We needed the privacy to express whatever we had to say freely. The thought cut through the haze, protective as instinct.

I reached across the counter, not quite touching him, but close enough for him to follow the motion. “Come on,”

I murmured, nodding toward the back hall. The narrow passage led to the staff office and the laundry room — a pocket of quiet the guests never touched.

For a second, he didn’t move. Then he stood, the scrape of the stool legs loud in the hush. His jaw was tight, but his eyes never left mine as I pushed the swinging door open and let him pass through first.

And in that moment, the air thick around us, I knew: whatever he said next could undo me.