Page 22 of The Man in the Cottage

Food for the party. Decorations. Wine—lots of wine. Extra blankets in case anyone gets cold. I need to clean the guest rooms, figure out the sleeping situation, make sure there's enough hot water for four people to shower.

I'm standing at the kitchen counter with a notepad when Travis knocks on the back door.

"It's open," I call.

He lets himself in, bringing cold air and that clean soap smell I'm starting to associate with him. He's wearing a flannel today, green and black, and his hair is still damp from whatever he does in the mornings.

"Morning," he says.

"Morning. Coffee's in the pot."

He pours himself a cup and leans against the counter, watching me write. "What's that?"

"Party planning." I tap my pen against the notepad. "I'm having some friends over next week. Galentine's Day."

"Galentine's?"

"It's like Valentine's Day, but for friends. From Parks and Recreation?" He looks blank. "It's a TV show. Never mind. The point is, I'm having people over on the thirteenth. Three friends from New York. They're staying the night."

He nods slowly, processing. "You want me to clear out?"

"What? No." The answer comes out faster than I intended. "Why would I want that?"

"I don't know. You've got guests coming. Might be easier if you don't have to explain the random guy living in the backyard."

"You're not random. You're Travis." I set down my pen. "And I'm not going to kick you out of your own home just because I have friends visiting."

"It's not my home. It's your property."

"It's your home as long as you're living in it." I hold his gaze. "You don't have to make yourself scarce. You can do whatever you normally do. If you see us, say hi. If you don't, that's fine too. No pressure either way."

He's quiet for a moment, looking at me with that expression I can't quite read. Then he nods.

"Okay."

"Okay."

"Your friends know about me?"

I think about my conversation with Nicole. The way I described him. The list I made without meaning to.

"They know there's someone living in the cottage," I say. "I haven't gone into detail."

"Probably smart."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He shrugs, but there's something underneath it, something I can't identify. "Just that you don't know much about me. Might be hard to explain someone you don't really know."

I want to argue. I want to say I do know him, that I know the way he takes his coffee and the way his face changes when he's thinking hard and the way he looks at me sometimes like he's afraid I'm going to disappear. But that feels like too much to say out loud, so I just shake my head.

"I know enough."

He doesn't answer. Just takes a sip of his coffee and looks out the window at the gray morning sky.

"You need help setting up?" he asks. "For the party. Moving furniture, putting up decorations, whatever."

"You don't have to do that."