Taste of Commitment (Whisky and Risky #2)

6. Knox

Knox

A deep exhale escapes me as I lean back, allowing the water to rain down on me and the rough edges of the stone wall shower to dig into my back. I’ve been lucky enough not to have run into anyone I haven’t personally sought out yet since I’ve been back. I drag my hand down my face and turn off the water before getting ready to confront the thing I’ve been avoiding these past few weeks.

It’s not that I don’t love these people. While rugby might have made me, this town raised me. When I left, I left with hundreds of people rooting for me. The people of Stoney Meadow were my biggest supporters, my number one fans. I lived in a new city for six months before I came back for the first time. I continued to come home for holidays, or whenever I had time off, but every time I did, it was a distraction. Over the years, I found myself coming home less and less. Six months stretched into nine, and nine, became twelve. This last stint had gone on for three years. I’m grateful to my parents who still cared enough to make the trips out to watch me play major games and championships even if I only saw them for a night or two .

Now I’m back and I have nothing to show for it. When I’d come home, it was always, ‘There’s our superstar’ or ‘Knox Browning, Stoney Meadows’s greatest claim to fame’ . I never bought into all the hype or let it go to my head. It was never about the fame or the prestige for me, but now it’s all about how I’ve let them down. My biggest motivator now is to get my shoulder healed, work through this injury, and get back to my team in whatever capacity that might be. I have to believe that will negate some of the guilt I feel for letting them down. Working the night shift was the best case of a worst-case scenario because it meant I wouldn’t have to see anyone. But tonight, as I start my truck and make my way up to the main house for dinner, I buckle up for the storm of disappointment I’m sure I’m about to walk into.

Emerald Browning Cottage is the heart of this land, but the large old, walnut wood dining room table is the heart of this Inn. It was built by my great-grandfather and my pa when my dad was just a toddler. Photos of dinners held at this very table over the last sixty years decorate the room. It seats twenty people easily, and while it is the heart of the inn, it also holds the heart of my family.

“Olivia honey, can you grab the other tray of the boxtys from the kitchen? There's room at the end of the table.” My mum sets down bread bowls filled with what smells like beer cheese soup before her head snaps up, noticing my presence.

“Smells great, Mum.” I smile at her as she rounds the table, wiping her hands on her apron. She brushes a dark brown curl from her forehead, revealing slightly glassy eyes, but her smile glows as she wraps her delicate arms around my waist.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispers against my sternum and I hold her just a little tighter. She pulls back, keeping her hands on my waist. Looking up at me, her eyes search mine, and I breathe a little easier when I find nothing but pure joy in them.

“Nice of you to show your face around here, Knoxy.” My mum smiles, stepping back at the sound of my sister’s voice. I palm the back of her head like a basketball and pull her into my side. She’s grown so much since the last time I was home and looks more like a real adult rather than the fresh-faced eighteen-year-old she was when I last saw her. She’ll always be seven to me though. “Let me go!” Her voice comes out in a mumble, somewhere around my armpit and I release her head. She stumbles back a step and glares at me. “When do you think you’ll outgrow that?”

I flick my eyes up and purse my lips. My finger dances in front of my face. “Plus seven, carry the one—” I don’t miss the way she rolls her eyes. “Oh. Never.” I reach to ruffle her hair again, but she’s quick and bats my arm away.

“Alright, children. We’ve got company. Sit,” my dad grumbles and Liv and I move to the same two seats we’ve always sat at. It’s ridiculous how my life has been turned completely upside down, yet some things haven’t changed at all.

A family of four—all with the same jet-black hair, olive skin, and thin lips begin to fill their plates across from me. While a woman roughly in her thirties taps away on her phone down by my father. “Would you like some?” he asks mid-scoop.

Her American accent is thick when she says, “Oh, no thank you.” Her lips press into a thin line and she drops her phone in her lap.

“Sorry, I’m late.” Ryder storms through the dining room, taking the last empty chair at the table, and it causes me to look around the room for the first time. “Juno and Nebula took a little extra time bathing today.” I tune out his horse chatter as my mind drifts to a certain green-eyed beauty who’s missing from this dinner table. Not that I need any distractions right now, but if I’m going to be here anyway, I might as well enjoy the view of the perky blonde.

“Did Coach Campbell find you?” I face the end of the table, finding my dad’s eyes pointed at me.

“No.” I clear my throat and my thoughts. “Was he looking for me?”

“He came by earlier, said he wanted to talk to you about something. I told him you were probably sleeping but to head on down and wake your ass up anyway.”

“James,” my mum scolds him from across the table.

“What?” She looks around at the guests, with an apologetic smile and a pink blush. “Do you not say ‘ass’ in America?” he whispers to the woman texting under the table.

“Do you know what he wanted?” I ask, both out of curiosity and to save the woman from having to come in between my parents. My dad shrugs his shoulders and lifts a fork full of meat and potatoes to his mouth. I haven’t talked to my high school coach in years. Great guy, even if he was a little extra hard on Liam and me. I always made it a point to stop by and say hi whenever I was in town. I guess it’s possible he just found out I was back and wanted to check in on me.

After dinner, everyone—with the exception of the American, who might actually be surgically attached to her phone—retreats to the common room. I’m introduced to the Thompsons—the sixty-year-old couple on their thirty-fifth-anniversary trip. The Riccis, an Italian family, is here for their nephew’s wedding. And Arlo, who came in halfway through dinner and is staying for one more night before he continues his backpacking trip across Europe.

“Hey, has anyone seen the new guest, Taylor? ”

I sit on the linen-covered couch with an ankle crossed over my knee and silently wonder if anyone has noticed how I stopped swirling the ice around my glass at the mention of her name.

“I saw she got checked in in the middle of the night.” My dad speaks directly to me and all heads turn to me for confirmation.

“Uh, yeah.” I clear my throat and pull the sleeve of my flannel down. “Sometime around there.”

“And?” Liv’s eyes bulge out of her head and she looks at me as if my arm wasn’t in a cast, she would try and pummel the information out of me. I somehow forgot this little quirk of hers—the girl gets so excited whenever any female remotely close to her age stays with us. I get it. She grew up in a house with two older brothers, but as someone who’s hardly left this town, it has to get lonely for her to make these friends, only for them to leave a week or so later. “What’s she like?”

“She’s…” Hot? Cheeky? Has no shame? Maybe a little flirtatious? “Tall.”

A deep crease forms between my sister’s brows. “Tall? Really? That’s it?”

“And blonde.”

“She sounds like a good time,” Ryder coos, and for some reason, it has my hand flexing in my lap. Thankfully, my dad whacks him in the back of the head so I don’t have to. “What?” He doesn’t bother trying to hide his laugh.

“Don’t talk about our guests like that,” my dad scolds him.

Ryder is saved from embarrassment and I’m saved from any more lines of questioning when Sophie and her soon-to-be husband walk through the door.

“There’s our bride-to-be!” my mum beams. The Italian family all say hello to their nephew and through all the exchanges, Liv’s curious eyes are still on me.

“Knox Browning! Is it really you?” Sophie stands a whole five feet small with her hands on her hips and everyone parts between us. I push myself to stand, having missed another old friend of mine and I pull her in, wrapping my arms around her petite frame.

“Hey, Soph.”

“When did you get back?”

“A few days ago.” I shrug.

“I’ll pretend like you came home just for my wedding. At least, that’s the rumor I’m going to spread around town.”

“You do that.” I smile at her before introducing myself to her fiance.

After a few hours of families catching up and friends swapping stories, I make my way over to the front desk. Slowly, guests start to dwindle back to their rooms for the night, and not quickly enough, I’m left downstairs in silence. With nothing but my thoughts— buzz buzz —and apparently a new email from… Coach Henderson?

KB—

Hey, champ. I’ve tried reaching out a few times. Haven’t heard back. Lucky for you, I don’t offend easily. Anyway, I wanted to let you know that I’m working on something over here on my end to hopefully get you back with us in some capacity. It obviously wouldn’t be playing but something has gotta be better than nothing, right?

-Henderso n

P.S. I found this article today. Thought you might find it helpful. Keep your head up and we’ll talk soon.

My thumb hovers over the attachment that reads How to Recover After a Career-Ending Injury, but I set my phone down instead. I’ve known since that day I woke up in the dry blue hospital gown that I wouldn’t get to play again. Whether or not I had accepted it is another story but I’ve known. I haven’t let myself think past healing and recovering, but if there’s a possibility of training or working with my old team again—my limbs go heavy while I let myself imagine that future for a moment.

It’s just past midnight and everyone has long gone to bed. I move back to the couch, take a breath, and open the link Coach sent. Number one, in big, bold letters, is to focus on setting goals. This is bullshit.

With an aggravated groan, I toss my phone across the couch. I hinge forward, dropping my elbow to my knee, and scrub my hand across my mouth, before digging my palm into my eye socket.

The fire in the corner is a low whisper but the creak from the floorboards is loud. I press just a little further into my eye before letting out a breath. I’m halfway between sitting and standing when a pair of sky-blue-colored toes hit the last step. Taylor rounds the wall of the stairs, looking around. Her long hair is draped behind her shoulders in two tight braids and her eyes squint as she adjusts to the light in the room until she spots me. She stands in a tight dark green tank top that’s bunched up just enough to show off a sliver of her warm ivory skin, paired with sweatpants so large they couldn’t possibly be hers .

“Hey.” I never thought I could be attracted to a voice before, but hers is raspy and sexy in a way that just does something to me. “I guess I’m a little more jet-lagged than I anticipated. I was hoping to get some food.” She leans against the arm of the couch across from me.

“You’ve missed dinner by about six hours.”

Her eyes roll back and the groan that comes from the back of her throat has me suppressing my own.

“Okay… well can you recommend something in town?”

“The towns closed, love.”

“What?” she snaps. “What do you mean the town’s closed?”

I’m not sure where she thought she would get a plate of fish and chips in the middle of the night, especially without shoes on, but she definitely wasn’t prepared for small-town living.

“Where did you say you were from again?”

“I didn’t.” She crosses her arms across her chest, tilts her head, and lifts her chin.

I narrow my gaze at her waiting for her to give in. “You’re not going to tell me where you’re from?”

“Why should I? You haven’t even told me your name.” Cheeky little thing. I stand from the couch, casually crossing the living room, and when I get close enough to her, her unique scent fills my entire body. It seeps through every pore of my skin. It’s sweet and earthy, something I’m not used to—but goddamn, do I like it. Her eyes don’t avert my gaze for a millisecond, in fact, she puffs her chest up an extra half an inch just to stand a little taller and I can’t help the way the corner of my mouth lifts. I drag my eyes down her body and up again before I continue past her to the swinging door that leads into the kitchen. She whips her head to me and I nod, silently beckoning her to come in .

“Everything in town closes at seven.” Her eyes flirt to the kitchen beyond me and a ghost of a smile crosses her face. Her arms are still crossed but her feet move to follow me. When she passes me in the narrow doorway, I lean down, my mouth hovering just over her ear, and I whisper, “And you can call me Knox.”

She goes eerily still, and her mouth parts slightly, but she cocks a brow, tilting her head. “I have a feeling I’ll be calling you a lot of things.”

“Or screaming,” I mutter to myself but I catch the way her step falters once.

I watch Taylor’s head turn slowly, taking in every inch of the kitchen. Her eyes widen and for the first time, I look at the room I spent most of my childhood in through someone else's eyes. It’s dimly lit, just like all the others, because my mum despises overhead lighting. Taylor’s bare feet pad across the cobblestone floor, her gentle hands glide across the butcher block island, and her eyes light up over the exposed shelves decorated with mismatched coffee mugs and glass tumblers. She opts for hoisting herself up on a linen-covered bar stool rather than sitting at the old round wooden table in the corner. Behind the small table is a built-in cupboard that is stuffed full of recipe books, photos, cutting boards, more flower-filled vases, and handmade art from when my siblings and I were kids. We used to sit at that table every day after school while Mum prepared dinner.

Taylor plucks a plum from the large woven bowl in front of her and raises her brow, asking for permission. I nod in response. Her lips perch on the sides of it, and when she bites in, a sweet line of juice slides down the side of her mouth. Her tongue lazily swipes at the corner of her lips, catching the leftover liquid .

I scrub my hand across my mouth, but the only thing I’m wiping away is my metaphorical drool.

“It’s called an Edda,” I manage to get out. “A local favorite.”

“It’s sweet. Do you grow them on-site?”

I nod. “All meals around here are made fresh daily, and most of the ingredients are either sourced from our own farm and gardens, or from local neighbors. The only problem is—” I open the refrigerator. “Since everything is made fresh, whatever doesn't get eaten usually gets sent home with some of the staff.” I look around at a handful of different ingredients but find nothing readily available.

I feel her presence before I see her. “May I?” Her soft hair brushes my arm as she leans down next to me, eliciting my body to flood with warmth. Aside from offering her a piece of buttered toast, I’ve got nothing, but I won’t be the reason she starves so, I step back, holding my arm out, and she quickly pulls some things out.

I take the stool that she’s no longer occupying just as she begins whisking some eggs. I briefly consider offering to help her, since I didn’t even ask if she knew how to cook, but as soon as she begins chopping vegetables, my worries about her kitchen abilities are put to bed. She handles that knife like it’s an extension of herself, rocking the blade back and forth in a rhythmic motion.

“So, you don’t want to tell me where you’re from. Do you want to tell me what you’re doing in Stoney Meadow?”

She smiles, taking a bite of the pepper she just cut.

“I’m a big Harry Potter fan.” Now it’s my turn to smile.

“Then I guess the question is, what are you doing here? ” She turns on the stove, hovering her hand over the pan.

“What do you mean?” she asks over her shoulder. “Don’t you know you live in the land of the famous filming location?”

“I might have heard that a time or two, but you chose to stay at an inn that is three hours away from those sights.”

She roasts her vegetables and pours her egg mixture over top, gently pressing everything toward the center. She props a hip on the counter, turning the rest of the way to face me.

“And what are you? The town detective or something?”

“You don’t have to be Sherlock fucking Holmes to figure out that your Harry Potter quest is bullshit.” Her eyes squint but her mouth is pulled tight like she’s trying her damndest not to smile. She turns back, pulling her pan from the fire and laying down another before setting a sliced piece of bread in it. I watch how she moves seamlessly around the kitchen, even though she’s never been in this one before. When I take a peek at her face, it’s clear she’s battling something. Her eyes are on the stove, but they’re not focused. Her lips dance side to side, sometimes being pulled in between her teeth. Her reason for being here seems more personal than I originally thought and I don’t know why I care, but I find myself trying to make her feel more comfortable. “Okay, so we’ve got a Harry Potter head amongst us. What’s your room?”

“My?” A grin breaks out across her face and her hair brushes along the slope of her ass when she drops her head back. “You mean my house?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.” I snatch an apple out of the bowl as she sets her plate down on the placemat next to me.

“Mhmm. I’m a Slytherin, obviously.”

“Oh yeah? Me too,” I say, biting into the fruit and she huffs another light laugh.

“Okay, so clearly you’re the biggest HP fan, but what else?” She loads a heaping pile of eggs onto her toast, and I smile at the way she has no shame in how she shoves it into her mouth.

“What about me?”

“I me—” she mumbles around a mouthful of food. “I mean, I saw the way you carried all my luggage up the stairs with one hand, so I doubt you injured yourself while working the bell boy job. What happened?”

“To be fair, I’ve only ever been your bell boy.”

She playfully rolls her eyes before sitting up straight and snapping her finger. “I got it. You were injured solving one of your town mysteries.” I avoid her question by opening my mouth and biting my teeth down hard a mere half an inch away from her finger. “Hmm, looks like we both have a hard time admitting our truths.”

I smile, despite the way I want to hang my head in shame, but I also don’t want her to see how right she is. Her returning nod lets me know that she’s going to let it go. We sit in a comfortable silence as she finishes her breakfast for dinner. When she stands to wash her plate, I grow restless feeling my time with her coming to an end.

“I got injured playing rugby.” Her sudsy hands still where the sponge was rubbing circles over the plate.

“How long until you're healed?”

“I’ve had the surgery and I get the cast off and start physical therapy in a few days, but I’ll never…” I drop her gaze then. “I’ll never be able to play again. Not professionally, anyway.” And there it is, the truth that I’ve been avoiding all this time. The reason I haven’t wanted to be around anyone else. No matter what Coach Henderson might be able to offer me, it will never be my game back. And who am I without that game?

To her credit, Taylor doesn’t respond more than a tight smile and an understanding nod. She dries her dishes before putting everything back where she got it, as if she was never here at all, and slowly makes her way to the door. I’m still looking at my fruit when her raspy voice speaks up.

“I’m just looking for a little adventure.”

My head snaps to where she’s standing in the doorway. Her eyelids are hooded slightly, and her fingers grip the wall. I cock an eyebrow at her, silently questioning what kind of adventure she’s referring to. She smiles covering her face with her hands. “That wasn’t some creepy invite. I just meant that’s what I’m doing here. I have nothing going on at home and I’m just… yeah, looking for an adventure.” She swallows. “It sounds kind of stupid the more times I say it out loud though, huh?”

I have nothing without my sport anymore. I’m nobody without it, so I can relate to the feeling of needing something.

“Not stupid at all.”

She pushes the door open, sliding out, but holding the wood frame before it can shut fully. “Good night, Knox. And thank you for the food.”

“Goodnight, Nova. And thank you for the company.” She disappears behind the door and I find myself more grateful than ever for the night shift.