Chapter Thirteen Kelly
Chapter Thirteen
Kelly
He's wearing a blue button-down that makes his eyes look darker, and when he sees me in the doorway, his face does something that makes my stomach flip.
"You look incredible," he says, and his voice comes out rough, like he didn't mean to say it out loud.
"You don't look so bad yourself."
He laughs and admits he changed three times, and I tell him I lost count, and just like that the nerves settle into something manageable. This is still Travis. This is still us. We're just doing it on purpose now.
The drive takes us out of Longshore and into the dark countryside, fields and trees rolling past in the headlights.
I watch him drive—the way his hands rest easy on the wheel, the way his jaw relaxes when he's not thinking about it.
He looks different tonight. Less guarded.
Like something shifted when I walked into the cottage last night and didn't leave.
"So where are we going?" I ask.
"It's a surprise."
"I hate surprises."
"You're going to like this one."
I want to argue, but there's something in his voice that stops me. Confidence, maybe. Or hope. He wants this to go well. He's been planning it, thinking about it, and the least I can do is let him have his moment.
The restaurant is a small brick building on a road I've never seen, the parking lot packed with cars.
Inside, it's warm and loud and smells like heaven—garlic and fresh bread and something simmering on a stove.
Red-and-white tablecloths, candles everywhere, an older woman heading toward us with arms outstretched like Travis is her long-lost son.
"Travis!" She pulls him into a hug, then turns to me with bright eyes. "And this must be your girl. You didn't tell me she was so beautiful."
"I didn't want you to get jealous," he says, and she laughs and swats him.
Your girl. I file that away to think about later.
She leads us to a corner booth, away from the noise, and leaves us with menus and a bottle of wine she won't let us pay for. "For Valentine's Day," she says, winking at me. "You let me know if he treats you right. If not, I'll hit him with a spoon."
"I like her," I say when she's gone.
"Everyone likes Maria. She's impossible not to like."
I look around the restaurant, at the families and couples crammed into every available space, the servers weaving between tables with plates piled high.
It's not fancy. It's not the place I would have expected a professional athlete to take someone on Valentine's Day.
But it's warm and real and feels like somewhere you'd bring someone you actually cared about.
"How did you find this place?" I ask.
He tells me about driving around one night, needing to escape the cottage, seeing the sign and pulling in. Maria made him eat two plates of lasagna and told him he needed feeding.
"She wasn't wrong," I say.
"She's never wrong. Don't tell her I said that."
The bread arrives, warm and crusty, with olive oil for dipping. I tear off a piece and realize I'm starving—I barely ate all day, too nervous to keep anything down. Travis watches me eat with a small smile, like my appetite is something that pleases him.
"This is weird," I say.
"What is?"
"Being on a date with you. After everything." I turn my wine glass in my fingers, trying to find the right words. "Yesterday I thought you were just some guy who fixed things. Now I know you're a professional hockey player who's been hiding in my backyard for six months. It's a lot to adjust to."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing." I take a sip of wine. "I'm not saying it's bad weird. Just weird. Like I'm getting to know you all over again."
"Maybe you are." He leans back in the booth. "The guy you knew before—the one who fixed your sink and helped with your book—that was me. But it wasn't all of me. I was holding back."
"Really?"
"Now I don't want to hold back anymore."
I believe him. I can see it in the way he's looking at me, the way his shoulders have dropped, the way he's not measuring his words anymore. He's letting me in. Finally.
"Tell me something," I say. "Something real. Something you haven't told anyone else."
He thinks about it for a long moment. Then he says, "I don't know if I want to go back."
"Back where?"
"To hockey." He runs a hand through his hair. "The team wants me back. My suspension is almost over. But I keep putting off the decision because I don't know if that's what I want anymore."
I didn't expect that. Hockey is his whole identity—or at least, I thought it was. The articles Brit found, the stats she read out loud, all of it painted a picture of someone whose entire life revolved around the sport.
"I thought hockey was everything to you," I say.
"It was. It is. I don't know." He shakes his head.
"When I was playing, I never thought about anything else.
The structure made sense. I knew who I was and what I was supposed to do.
But now I've been away for six months, and I've had time to think.
About what I want. About who I am when I'm not on the ice. "
"And who are you?"
He looks at me, and there's something raw in his expression. "I don't know yet. But being here, with you—it's the first time in years I've felt like a person instead of a player. I don't know if I'm ready to give that up."
I think about what that means. Six months ago, he was playing professional hockey—traveling, training, living a life I can barely imagine. Now he's in a cottage in Longshore, Virginia, fixing gutters and helping me plot murders for my thriller. It's not exactly a lateral move.
"Do you miss it?" I ask. "The hockey, the team, all of it?"
He's quiet for a moment, considering. "Sometimes. I miss the ice. I miss the feeling of a good game, when everything clicks and you're just... in it. But I don't miss the rest of it. The pressure, the media, everyone having an opinion about who you are and what you should be doing."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is." He shrugs. "I never noticed until I stopped. You get used to it, the way you get used to anything. But now that I've had space..." He trails off. "I don't know. Maybe I'm not the same person I was before."
"Maybe that's okay."
"Maybe." He doesn't sound convinced.
I reach across the table and put my hand over his. His skin is warm, his fingers rough with calluses I never thought to wonder about before. Hockey hands. A whole life I'm only beginning to understand.
"You don't have to decide tonight," I say.
"I know."
"And whatever you decide, it doesn't change anything. Between us, I mean." I squeeze his hand. "I didn't fall for Travis Howe the hockey player. I fell for the guy who fixed my sink and made me laugh and looked at me like I was worth something. That's who I want. The rest is just details."
He turns his hand over, lacing his fingers through mine. "You fell for me?"
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late."
Maria reappears with food I don't remember ordering—pasta in a red sauce, chicken with lemon, a salad with more vegetables than I've eaten in a week. She tells us we're cute, that she approves, and orders us to eat because we're both too skinny.
"I love her," I tell Travis when she leaves.
"She's basically adopted me at this point. I think she's lonely. Her husband died a few years ago, and her kids moved away."
"That's sad."
"Yeah. But she's got this place. And she's got customers who keep coming back." He picks up his fork. "She told me once that the secret to being happy is having someone to feed. I think she meant it literally and figuratively."
I think about my grandmother. The way she was always pressing food on me—casseroles and pies and cookies that appeared whenever I visited. The way she'd sit across from me at this very table and watch me eat with the same quiet satisfaction Travis is showing now.
"My grandmother was like that," I say. "She showed love through food. I didn't realize it until she was gone."
"Yeah." He nods slowly. "Mine too."
We eat in comfortable silence for a while. The pasta is perfect—fresh and rich and exactly what I needed. Around us, the restaurant hums with conversation and laughter, but our corner feels separate somehow, like we're in our own little world.
"Can I ask you something?" Travis says.
"You can ask me anything."
"Why did you say yes? Last night, when I asked you out. You could have said no. You probably should have said no, given everything."
I think about it. There are a lot of reasons—the kiss, the conversation, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered. But one thing stands out.
"You left your porch light on," I say.
He frowns. "What?"
"When I walked back to the house last night. I looked back at the cottage, and your porch light was on." I shrug. "I don't know. It made me think you were waiting for me. Like you weren't giving up just because I left."
"I was waiting for you." His voice is quiet. "I have been since the day you got here."
Something turns over in my chest. A warmth spreading outward, filling spaces I didn't know were empty.
"That's a good line," I say, trying to keep my voice light.
"It's not a line. It's the truth."
I don't know what to say to that. So I just look at him, this man I thought I knew, this man I'm still learning. He's not what I expected when I came to Longshore. He's not what I expected when I found him in the cottage, or when I kissed him at midnight, or when I agreed to this date.
He's better.
"I'm glad I said yes," I tell him.
"I'm glad you did too."
We finish dinner and share a dessert—tiramisu that Maria insists we try, creamy and sweet and probably the best thing I've ever tasted. Travis pays the bill despite my protests, and Maria hugs us both goodbye, making us promise to come back soon.
Outside, the night is cold and clear, stars scattered across the sky. Travis takes my hand as we walk to the truck, his fingers warm and solid around mine. It feels natural. It feels right.
"So," he says. "Good surprise?"
"Good surprise," I admit. "You were right."
"I'm going to remember you said that."
"Don't."
He laughs, and the sound does something to my heart. I'm in trouble here. Real trouble. The kind of trouble you don't come back from, the kind that changes everything.
But looking at him in the dark parking lot, his face lit by the glow of the restaurant's sign, I find I don't mind.
Some kinds of trouble are worth it.
He opens the truck door for me, and I climb in, and we drive back to Longshore through the dark Virginia night. His hand finds mine somewhere on the way, resting on the console between us, and neither of us lets go.
When we pull into the driveway, he walks me to the door like this is a real date, like we're two people who met the normal way instead of me inheriting a house with a man already living in the backyard.
"I had a good time," I say.
"Me too."
We stand there for a moment, neither of us moving. Then he leans in and kisses me, soft and slow, his hand cupping my jaw like I'm something precious.
"Goodnight, Kelly," he says against my lips.
"Goodnight, Travis."
He waits until I'm inside before he walks back across the yard. I watch him through the window until he disappears into the cottage, until his porch light comes on—left on for me, maybe, or just habit.
I decide it doesn't matter. Either way, it feels like a promise.
I lean against the door and close my eyes, replaying the evening.
The restaurant, the wine, the way his hand felt in mine across the table.
The way he talked about hockey like it was something he might be able to walk away from.
The way he looked at me when he said he'd been waiting for me since the day I got here.
This morning I woke up alone in my grandmother's house, convinced I was making a mistake. Now I'm standing in the same spot, and everything feels different. Lighter. More possible.
My phone buzzes. Nicole.
How was it???
I smile at the screen and type back: Good. Really good.
Details! I need details!
Tomorrow. I promise.
You're the worst.
Love you too.
I plug in my phone and go upstairs to bed. The house is quiet, the way it always is, but it doesn't feel lonely anymore. There's someone across the yard who's thinking about me. Someone who left his light on.
I fall asleep faster than I have in weeks, and I dream about nothing in particular—just warmth, and candlelight, and the sound of someone laughing at something I said.