Page 27 of Kellan & Emmett (Gomillion High Reunion #1)

Emmett

The two weeks since the creek had blurred into something that almost felt like a rhythm. A dangerous rhythm, maybe, but one I couldn’t bring myself to break. We worked side by side in the mornings, tackling garden beds and laundry loads. At night, when the guests had gone quiet, Kellan would slip into my room or I into his, the house hushed but my pulse loud as a drum. It wasn’t always sex—sometimes it was just talking until the small hours, sometimes kissing slow until my lips ached. Always, it was him.

By daylight, though, we played our parts. He still left each morning for camp, whistle swinging, sunblock streaked haphazard across his nose. I watched him from the porch as he headed down the gravel drive, my chest caught between pride and reluctance. The way kids lit up around him made me ache—he belonged with them, in motion, alive. But the quiet stretch of his back as he disappeared around the bend always left me counting the hours until he’d return.[20]

Midday, the inn was humming along as usual—until it wasn’t.

The bell above the door jingled, sharp against the heavy June heat pressing in from the porch. My smile clicked into place automatically—fifteen years of running this place had trained me well. I wiped my palms on a dish towel and stepped into the foyer just as a young couple pushed through the door, rolling luggage behind them. Sunburned, fingers twined tight, still wearing that honeymoon glow.

“Welcome to Gardenia Inn,”

I said, smooth as ever, even though my stomach gave a hard kick. I knew those names. I’d seen them in the book this morning.

The husband pulled a folded email from his back pocket.

“Reservation for four nights. King room?”

I flipped open the ledger, then the tablet, scanning dates. And there it was—two reservations stacked on top of each other. Jenna’s shift last week. Same dates. Same room.

My stomach dropped. Not the first time—God knows double bookings happened every couple of years. Usually I sent someone across town to Carol’s B&B or comped a night until another room opened. But June in Gomillion? Every bed in the county was already filled.

“Looks like we’ve had a mix-up on our end,”

I said, keeping my voice warm, apologetic. The towel twisted in my hands.

“I’ll get this sorted right away. Why don’t you make yourselves comfortable in the lounge? There’s iced tea, fresh cookies—on the house.”

They exchanged a look—friendly enough, but firm. They expected their booking to be honored. And I’d make damn sure it was.

As soon as the lounge door clicked behind them, my smile dropped. My jaw ached from holding it. I flipped back through the ledger, scrolling the dates again, muttering under my breath.

“Damn it, Jenna. Copy-pasted the same block twice.”

I pressed my fingers to my temple, forced a breath through my nose. Okay. Fix it, Emmett. You’ve done this before. You can fix it.

Except every other room was full.

No wiggle room.

The older couple in Room Two were here for a wedding, not leaving until Sunday.

The honeymooners upstairs weren’t about to give up the suite they’d specifically requested.

And the author who said he was completing the last book in his mystery book series.

Which left only one possibility.[21]

The screen door thumped open just then, rattling the frame. A breeze swept through, carrying the smell of cut grass and sunburnt earth.

“Hey,”

Kellan called, voice rough with heat and kids’ chaos.

He stepped into view, sweat-dark T-shirt plastered to his chest, hair damp at the edges like he’d dumped water over his head on the way home.

His whistle swung from his fingers until he hooked it on the nail by the door like he’d been doing it for years, not weeks.

My eyes snagged on him—on the faint burn across his nose, the dirt smudge along his forearm, the way he seemed to take up the whole room without even trying.

And the problem that had been a headache a minute ago twisted into something else entirely: because the only fix staring me in the face meant putting him in my room.

Sharing more than walls. Sharing space that had always been mine alone.

He paused mid-step, eyes narrowing.

“What’s wrong?”

I jerked my chin toward the office. “Come on.”

Once the door was shut behind us, I dropped into the chair, rubbing a hand over my jaw.

“Double booking. Jenna must’ve duplicated an entry in the system. Normally I’d send folks over to Carol’s place or comp a night, but it’s June. Every inn in the county’s booked solid.”

Kellan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing over his chest. He listened, silent at first, sweat still dampening the collar of his shirt. Then his mouth curved, not unkind—half amusement, half pragmatism.

“So stick them in my room.”

My head snapped up.

“That’s not professional.”

He shrugged one shoulder, casual as ever.

“Neither is kicking out paying guests.”

I scowled, but heat crept up my neck anyway.

Not at him—at the picture my brain painted without permission: his bag on my floor, his shirts mixed with mine, his toothbrush standing in the cup by my sink.

It sparked panic and want in equal measure, tangling so tight I couldn’t tell which was stronger.[22]

I dragged a hand down my face. “Kell—”

“Emmy.”

His voice was steady, softer than the smirk made it seem.

“It’s fine. They’re paying. I’m not. I can bunk with you for a few nights.”

I shook my head, the word unprofessional still clawing at me, but even as I opened my mouth to argue again, I knew I was out of moves.

Guests came first.

They always had.

That was the rule I built this place on.

I blew out a breath, the fight draining from me.

Kellan hadn’t even hesitated—like the guests mattered, but I mattered more.

He’d always been like that.

Back then it was sliding down the bench in the cafeteria so I wouldn’t have to eat alone, or shifting his shoulder toward me on the bus so I’d have something solid to lean against.

He’d always found a way to make space for me, even when there wasn’t any.

Once, when I’d muttered don’t laugh as my voice shook over something stupid, he’d rolled his eyes and said quietly, don’t worry, I’ve got you.

I’d believed him, and true to his words, he’d gotten me. Always did.

“Go on,”

I said, rougher than I[23] meant.

“Grab your stuff. I’ll clear some space.”

His boots thudded up the stairs a few minutes later, each sound a reminder that the lines I’d drawn—guests first, keep everything separate—were about to blur. I stacked shirts too neatly, straightened the lamp that didn’t need straightening, and stalled like the room might look different once he stepped inside.

The bag landed with a soft thud by the door. I looked up. He was leaning in the frame, watching me, waiting like he always did—like I got the final say.

“This okay?” he asked.

My room. My bed. And him, finally stepping in. All those nights I’d slipped into his space—quiet, careful, temporary—now turning into something I hadn’t let myself hope for.

I swallowed, pulse skittering. “Yeah,”

I managed.

“It’s okay.”

He crossed the threshold, easy, sure, and the air shifted with him. The room didn’t feel like mine alone anymore. It felt smaller. Charged. Like we’d been heading here all along.