Page 28 of The Man in the Cottage

She tried to stop Brit from saying it. She said his name like a warning, tried to protect him even then. But it doesn't matter. The truth is out, and there's no taking it back.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and look at the screen.

Kelly: Can we talk?

I stare at the message for a long time. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, trying to figure out what to say.

Not tonight, I finally type. Enjoy your party. I'm sorry.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Kelly: This isn't over.

I don't know if that's a threat or a promise. Maybe both.

I put the phone on the counter and sink onto the couch, dropping my head into my hands. The cottage is silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of my own breathing, too loud in my ears.

I think about packing. Loading up my truck, driving away, starting over somewhere else. It's what I should do. It's what I always do when things get complicated—disappear before the fallout, before I have to see the disappointment on someone's face.

But I don't move.

Because Kelly said this isn't over, and some stupid part of me wants to believe her. Wants to believe that maybe, just maybe, she'll hear me out. That she'll let me explain. That she won't look at me the way everyone else does once they know.

I sit in the dark for a long time, waiting for something I can't name.

And across the yard, the party goes on without me.

Chapter Nine

Kelly

The back door closes behind him and I stand there staring at it like it might open again, like he might come back and explain, like the last five minutes didn't just happen.

"Kelly." Nicole's voice is careful. "You okay?"

I don't know how to answer that.

"I'm going to—" I gesture vaguely toward the door. "I need a minute."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

"No. Stay. I'll be right back."

I push through the door onto the porch, but he's already gone. The cottage door is closed, no lights on that I can see. He's in there, in the dark, probably thinking I hate him.

Do I hate him?

I don't know what I feel. My brain is still trying to catch up, trying to reconcile the Travis I know—the one who fixes my sink and helps with my book and looks at me like I'm something worth looking at—with the man in that photo on Brit's phone. The headline she read out loud before I could stop her. NHL enforcer assaults photographer.

Assaults. That word keeps echoing.

I pull out my phone and type a message before I can overthink it.

Can we talk?

The response comes faster than I expected.

Not tonight. Enjoy your party. I'm sorry.