Page 42 of The Man in the Cottage

"I'm glad you said yes."

"I almost didn't."

"What changed your mind?"

She tilts her head, considering. "You left your porch light on. When I walked back to the house last night. I looked back, and your light was on."

"That made you say yes?"

"It made me think you were waiting for me." She shrugs. "I liked that."

I did wait for her. I stayed up half the night staring at the ceiling, wondering if I'd ruined everything, hoping I hadn't. The porch light was just habit—I always leave it on—but if she wants to believe it was for her, I'm not going to argue.

"I was," I say. "Waiting for you. I have been since the day you got here."

She doesn't say anything. She just looks at me with those dark eyes, and I see something there I haven't seen before. Trust, maybe. Or the beginning of it.

It's more than I deserve. But I'm going to try to be worthy of it anyway.

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.