Page 36 of The Man in the Cottage

What am I doing?

Three hours ago I found out the man living in my backyard is a professional hockey player who beat up a photographer badly enough to make national news. And instead of kicking him out or calling a lawyer or doing anything a reasonable person would do, I kissed him at midnight on Valentine's Day like we're in some kind of movie.

But when I close my eyes, I don't see the headlines. I see his face when he told me about his grandmother. The way his voice cracked when he said he wasn't there when she died. The way he looked at me when he admitted why he really stayed—not for the promise, not for the property, but for me.

I like taking care of you. That's what he said. And I believed him, because I've seen it. Every fixed faucet, every cleared gutter, every morning he showed up with some excuse to be near me. He's been taking care of me since the day I got here. I just didn't know how to name it until now.

My grandmother would either be horrified or delighted. Probably both.

I finally give up on sleep around five and go downstairs to make coffee. The house is quiet, my friends still asleep in the guest rooms, and I stand at the kitchen window watching the sky lighten over the trees. The cottage is dark. Travis is probably sleeping, or lying awake like me, wondering what happens next.

Go out with me tonight. That's what he said right before I left. His voice a little rough, his eyes still half-lidded from the kiss. Valentine's Day. Let me take you somewhere.

I said yes. Of course I said yes. What else was I going to say after kissing him like that?

But now, in the gray light of morning, the reality of it is starting to sink in. I'm going on a date with Travis Howe. A man who, until last night, I thought was just a handyman my grandmother took in. A man who plays professional hockey, who has money I can't even comprehend, who lives in a world completely different from mine.

A man who looked at me last night like I was the only thing in the room that mattered.

"You're up early."

I turn around. Nicole is standing in the kitchen doorway, hair wrapped in a silk scarf, wearing the oversized t-shirt she always sleeps in.

"Couldn't sleep," I say.

"Mm-hmm." She shuffles to the coffee maker and pours herself a cup, then leans against the counter and studies me with that look she gets when she knows something's up. "So. You were gone for a while last night."

"We talked."

"Just talked?"

I feel my face get hot. Nicole's eyes go wide.

"Oh my god." She sets down her mug. "Kelly Dawson. Did you kiss him?"

"Keep your voice down."

"Did you kiss him?"

"Maybe."

She claps her hand over her mouth, but I can see her grinning behind it. "I knew it. I knew there was something going on with you two. Tell me everything. Right now. Start from the beginning."

So I tell her. Not everything—not the details about his grandmother, which feel too private to share—but the broad strokes. He explained what happened. There was more to the story than the headlines. He's been punishing himself for months. And then we kissed, and he asked me out for tonight, and I said yes.

Nicole listens without interrupting, which is unusual for her. When I'm done, she's quiet for a long moment.

"So let me get this straight," she says. "The hot mysterious cottage man is actually a rich professional athlete who's been hiding from a scandal, and you're going on a Valentine's Day date with him tonight."

"That's... yes. That's accurate."

"Kelly." She grabs my hands. "This is the most interesting thing that's ever happened to you."

"That's not—"

"It is. Your life has been very boring up until now. I say this with love."

"Thanks."