Kellan & Emmett: A Small Town MM Romance, page 9
I swallowed, my tongue thick in my mouth. “Yeah,” I said finally. “I mean it.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, shoulders tense, like he couldn’t quite believe I wasn’t about to yank the offer back. The silence stretched long enough that I had to fight the urge to fill it, to take it back before it turned into something I couldn’t live with.
“Are you sure this isn’t you just… being polite?”
My laugh was short, rough in my throat. “Polite would’ve been handing you a bill and wishing you luck.”
His mouth curved—small, almost reluctant, but real.
And damn me, my chest eased at the sight.
That almost-smile flickered and my chest clenched hard, traitor heart lurching like it remembered exactly how it used to feel to put it there.
Idiot. Don’t go soft now. This is the same man who left without a word, who stayed gone for twenty years.
I dug my nails into my palms, tried to remind myself what I’d already decided a hundred times: this is temporary. A summer, maybe less. He’s not staying.
But even as the warning repeated in my head, another voice cut through, quieter, meaner: Then why does it feel so damn good to have him standing here, looking at you like he wants to believe you?
My throat worked, dry as dust. I forced myself not to look away.
His gaze lingered on me, steady enough that I had to fight the urge to shift under it. For a second, I thought he might brush it off, make a joke, pretend he didn’t hear me.
“Do you really mean that?”
I swallowed, pulse hammering. “Yeah, I mean it.”
A beat passed. “Then… alright,” he said at last. “I’ll stay.”
Relief flared sharp in my chest, loosening something I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. But fear came right on its heels, cold and tight, hissing that I’d just opened the door to getting gutted again.
A part of me wanted to believe that his time here wouldn’t be temporary.
My mouth was dry, but I managed a nod, small, measured. “Good,” I said, even though my voice didn’t carry half of what tangled inside me.
Because the truth was, nothing about this was simple. Not the relief, or the fear, or the way just standing here with him, made it feel like twenty years of silence hadn’t burned us all the way down.
June 1st
There’s a difference between being adrift and being anchored. I thought I knew which one I was, but maybe I’m somewhere in between.
It’s strange, how one honest word can shift the ground beneath you. For years, I’ve carried the weight of silence, convinced it was safer than admitting I was lost. Yesterday I said it out loud. Today, the air feels different—lighter in places, heavier in others. I don’t know if that’s hope, or just the danger of letting myself want something I’m not sure I deserve.
—K
Chapter 18
Kellan
First morning on the job—if you could even call it that because there was no paycheck. Just me pulling my weight in exchange for a roof over my head. It was Emmett’s idea, though the way he’d said it—calm, measured—made it sound less like a suggestion and more like another line in the sand. Stay, but prove you belong here.
And maybe I wanted that. Maybe I needed someone to hold me to something, because for months now, I hadn’t belonged anywhere.
The morning started quieter than I expected. No kids tearing across the grass, no reunion chatter spilling from the dining room. Just the soft creak of old wood and the faint clink of dishes from the kitchen where Heather and Sophia were already at it.
Emmett didn’t waste time with greetings. He gestured toward a broom as soon as I came down the stairs, his expression steady but not unfriendly.
“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, a lawn 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.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
Silence stretched. Then he shifted, eyes fixed on me.
“Why’d you really come back, Kellan? It wasn’t just for the reunion.”
My throat worked. I could’ve lied—said it was nostalgia, or that I missed barbecue and southern heat. Easy answers. The kind people nod at and move on. But his eyes didn’t let me off that easy. They never had.
“I don’t know,” I said, which wasn’t true. I did know. I just hated the shape of it.
I dragged a hand over the back of my neck, stalling. “California wasn’t… it wasn’t home. Not anymore.”
The words felt jagged on my tongue. I kept my gaze fixed on nothing ahead. “And at first, when I saw the reunion notice in January, I wasn’t sure if I should come. But as it came closer to the reunion, it felt like…” I huffed a bitter laugh. “Like maybe I should stop running, even if just for a week.”
I didn’t say the rest—that there was nothing left out west to run back to. That my father vanished the second my knee gave out, that my mother’s grave was the only place that ever felt steady, and even that was long gone. That the real reason was sitting right beside me, too close, too quiet.
I shifted forward on my elbows, forcing air into lungs that felt too tight. “Truth is, I didn’t think I’d stay this long. Didn’t plan to.” My voice dipped lower. “And I’m still not sure I should have.”
For a second he didn’t answer. Just sat there beside me, thumb worrying at the seam of his jeans. I thought maybe he’d let it drop, leave me stewing in the half-truths I’d managed to choke out.
Then his voice came, low and steady. “You should have.”
I turned, startled.
His jaw flexed like the words cost him something. “You didn’t come back just because California dried up. You came back because this place—because we—still mean something. Whether you’ll say it out loud or not.”
My pulse thudded, heavy in my ears. I opened my mouth, closed it again. I couldn’t admit that, not without dragging out every buried thing I’d spent years locking down.
He finally looked at me, and for once there wasn’t any heat in it, no guarded edge. Just tired honesty. “I had a crush on you, Kellan. Hell, I was half in love with you.” His throat worked, but he kept going, steadier now, like once the words started they couldn’t stop. “And yeah, I’m gay. I wasn’t some innocent bystander that night—you didn’t force me into anything. I wanted that kiss. Wanted it years before that night.”
The ground might as well have opened under me. Every story I’d told myself—that I’d crossed a line, that he hadn’t wanted it, that I’d ruined us—crumbled in a blink.
He said the word gay like it didn’t scorch the tongue. Like it didn’t carry the weight of my father’s belt or his voice in my head. I’d never said that word out loud about myself. Couldn’t imagine how it would sound if I tried.
My mouth went dry. My pulse spiked so high it hurt.
Because the truth was, I’d known something was different long before that night. I’d known it the first time Emmett laughed at one of my dumbest jokes, and I thought, God, I want to hear that sound forever. I’d known it in every dream I shoved down, every flicker of wanting I buried until my chest ached with the weight of it.
And hearing him now, saying out loud what I’d never dared let myself believe—
But shame reared its ugly head. My father’s voice in my ear, sharp and merciless: Boys don’t look at boys that way. You want respect? You want the NFL? You keep your head down and your eyes straight ahead. Any slip, any softness, and they’ll fucking eat you alive.
I could almost feel it—the heavy clamp of his hand on my shoulder, squeezing hard enough to bruise, holding me in place while he drilled the words in. Even now, twenty years later, my muscles locked under the phantom grip.
“I thought I forced it on you,” I finally said, voice rough. “I thought I ruined everything.”
The silence after that was brutal, my chest aching with everything I didn’t dare add: Because I wanted it too. Because I still want it.
Emmett shifted, the faintest trace of nerves in the way his fingers tapped against his arm. Then, quieter than before, he asked, “Are you… seeing anyone?”
I forced a shrug, though my throat burned around the truth. “I’m divorced.” The word tasted foreign, bitter, even after all these years. “It’s been… a long while now. We don’t talk.”
I didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Because if I did, he’d see the rest — the shame, the wreckage. Once upon a time, he would’ve been the first to know, the one I called at midnight just to unload. Now I was saying it like a stranger, clipped and flat, and it scraped something raw inside me.
The silence stretched, but Emmett didn’t fill it with pity, or the sympathetic I’m sorry. Just quiet. That almost undid me more than anything else.
I cleared my throat, made myself glance at him. “What about you?”
His mouth pulled wry at the corner. “I’m single. Dated plenty, was in a couple of long-term relationships, but nothing that stuck.” He hesitated, then went on, steadier: “I came out in college.”
Thos five words slid under my skin, sharp and warm at once. Half his life. He’d been living true while I’d been twisting myself into knots, hiding behind a marriage that never stood a chance. Something ugly and aching coiled low in me — envy, regret, shame. And threaded through it all, something I couldn’t pretend not to recognize anymore: longing.
Emmett shifted, his arms unfolding at last. He leaned back against the wall, like the weight of what he was about to say needed bracing. “It wasn’t some grand reveal,” he said after a pause. “I kissed a guy at a party, and someone saw. By Monday, the whole dorm knew. By Wednesday, half of Gomillion probably did too.” His mouth quirked, but it wasn’t a smile. “I figured if the secret was already out, why waste time pretending it wasn’t true?”
He let out a slow breath, eyes somewhere past me, like he could still see that kid in the mirror. “Some people dropped me, sure, but enough stayed. And once I stopped pretending, I realized I’d been wasting years trying to be someone I wasn’t.”
I shifted, trying for casual, but the words came out tighter than I wanted. “So… you and Leif Lawson. Is that a thing?”
His gaze snapped back to me, steady, unreadable. For a beat, all I heard was the cicadas screaming in the trees.
“If memory serves,” I added quickly, like I hadn’t just let something slip, “he was a year ahead of us. But I saw him hanging around at a couple of reunion events.”
Emmett’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not irritation either. “Leif’s just… Leif. He’s local, never really left Gomillion. Helps out when there’s something going on, like the reunion committee. You know how it is—half the town shows up whether it’s their year or not.”
I nodded, though the knot in my chest didn’t loosen. “So it wasn’t…?”
He shook his head, firm but easy. “No. Not like that. He’s a friend, nothing more.” He tilted his head, eyes flicking over me like he could see more than I wanted him to. “Why? You worried I’ve been holding a torch all these years?”
Heat crawled up the back of my neck, and I forced a scoff, brushing dirt from my palms like it mattered more than the question hanging between us. “Just making conversation.”
But even as the words left my mouth, I knew he didn’t believe me. Hell, I didn’t believe me.
Daily To-Do
Order new linens for Rooms 3 & 5
Restock coffee, sugar, and creamer before the weekend crowd
Give Kellan chores to do
Don’t fall in love with him again
Chapter 19
Emmett
The sound carried first—the drag of a brush against tile, the slosh of water in a bucket. I paused at the top of the stairs, hand on the banister, listening. Not surprising, he wasn’t griping or stalling. There was just the steady rhythm of him working.
I leaned into the rail, arms folding, unfolding again, restless. I couldn't see him from here, but I pictured it anyway—Kellan Miller on his knees with a scrub brush in hand.
My mouth wanted to curve into a smile I wasn’t about to let him see. God help me, there was something satisfying about him carrying weight here—not on a field, or for a crowd, but in this small, ordinary way.
And that was the problem. Ordinary moments had teeth. They stuck.
I gave in and headed down the hall. Found him in the guest bath, T-shirt clinging to his back, sweat darkening the cotton as he worked. His arm moved in firm arcs over the tile, the citrus bite of cleaner stinging the air. That visual had no business lighting me up the way it did.
Don’t read into it. He’s here because he needs a roof over his head, not because he wants you. Turns out, the man’s straight… or at least I think so.
I leaned a shoulder into the doorframe, arms crossed, careful not to hover but close enough to watch. “Careful with those corners,” I said, tone mild. “Guests are picky about them.”
His head tipped, damp hair brushing his temple as he shot me a look. “Next time, you can demonstrate proper technique.”
I huffed out a laugh before I could stop it, sharp enough that it startled me. He grinned, quick and crooked, and for a second it was like we were seventeen again—elbows knocking, teasing until one of us broke first.
Don’t fall for him again.
The problem was, laughter had memory. My body remembered the way it used to be—late nights, stupid jokes, the way he’d nudge me with a shoulder and I’d shove him back, both of us grinning like idiots. And now, standing there in the doorway while he scrubbed soap scum, my chest couldn’t tell the difference between then and now.
I headed for the laundry room, a cart stacked with fresh linens ready to be hauled upstairs.
An hour bled past. I found him in the dining room. He looked up when I stepped in, and for once there wasn’t an edge in his eyes.
