Page 27 of Touchdown Under the Mistletoe
The kitchen door swings open, and Beau walks in, snagging a leftover roll from the counter. “Hey, Sis. You okay? You’ve been weird all day.”
“I’m fine.”
“And you’re a terrible liar. This is about Travis, isn’t it?” he asks.
Rebecca suddenly becomes very interested in organizing the silverware drawer, giving us the illusion of privacy even though she’s definitely listening.
“There’s nothing to talk about. He’s leaving soon. End of story,” I say and pull my hands from the water before drying them on a towel.
Beau raises an eyebrow. “Is it, though? Because from where I’m standing, you two have been dancing around something all week. And those photos from the ice rink? Riley, the way you were looking at each other has to mean something.”
“Doesn’t matter. He has a girlfriend. And a whole life that doesn’t include me.” My voice cracks slightly, and I hate myself for it. “Anyway, I need some air.”
I grab my coat from the hook by the back door and slip outside before Beau can stop me. The porch is cold, but it’s better than standing in that kitchen pretending my heart isn’t breaking.
The sun is starting to set, painting the snow-covered yard in shades of pink and gold. It’s beautiful. It’s Christmas. It should be perfect. But all I can think about is that the day after tomorrow, Travis will pack his bags and leave. He’ll go back to his NFL life, and I’ll go back to teaching fifteen-year-olds about metaphors and thesis statements. And eventually, the letters he promised to send will stop coming, like they did before. Not because either of us means for it to happen, but because that’s what happens when people lead separate lives.
I hear the back door open behind me and roll my eyes.
“Beau, leave me alone. Seriously,” I snap.
“Riley.”
The voice doesn’t belong to my brother. It’s Travis’s. I don’t turn around. I can’t. If I look at him right now, I’m going to cry.
I hope he gets the hint, but he clearly doesn’t because he moves closer. “What’s wrong?”
Everything. Nothing. You.
“It’s just been a long week. The flooded house, sharing a room, the photos, the media attention. I’m tired,” I say, trying really hard not to start sobbing.
“Riley.” His hand touches my shoulder, and I almost break. “Look at me. Please.”
I turn slowly and cross my arms over my chest.
“I ended it,” he says quietly.
“What?”
“The contract with Sienna. I called her this morning. We both agreed to end it, to make it look mutual. It’s done.”
My heart stops. “Travis, no. You told me yourself that you couldn’t. What about your career?”
“I don’t care.” He steps closer, and now we’re only inches apart. “I thought I did. I thought the money and the deals and the perfect image mattered. But they don’t. Not compared to this. Not compared to you.”
My hands start shaking. “Me?”
“You, Riley. I’ve been an idiot. For years. Maybe my whole life. Because I’ve spent all this time chasing success and fame and everything I thought mattered, and the whole time, what I really wanted was right here. Next door. You. Writing me letters about Shakespeare and Stephen King and making me laugh and looking at me like I’m just Travis, not some Travis, the NFL superstar who everyone adores, even though no one knows me. Not as well as you do.” He shakes his head. “I know I’m leaving soon. I know the timing is terrible. I know I have no right to ask you to wait for me or to trust that this time will be different, but… I’m in love with you, Riley. I have been for longer thanI want to admit. And I can’t leave without telling you that. Without asking if maybe, possibly, you feel the same way.”
The tears I’ve been holding back finally spill over. “You’re in love with me?”
“Desperately. Completely. Inconveniently.” He grins, but his eyes are serious. “I know it’s complicated. I know long distance is hard. But I don’t want to lose you again. I can’t. So if there’s even a chance—”
I don’t even let him finish. I surge up on my toes and kiss him. For a second, he freezes in surprise. Then his arms wrap around me, pulling me close, and he kisses me back like he’s been waiting his whole life to do it. Like I’m air, and he’s been suffocating without me.
His lips are warm and soft and taste faintly of cinnamon rolls. One hand tangles in my hair while the other presses against the small of my back, holding me against him. I grab fistfuls of his shirt, steadying myself, because my knees have gone weak, and the world is spinning, and nothing has ever felt more right than this moment.
When we finally break apart, he grins at me. “I’m going to take that as a yes.”
