Chapter 13 #2
It wasn’t a wide, beaming grin. It was quieter, a subtle crinkling around his eyes and a softening around his mouth.
But it was undeniably a smile. And it transformed his face, chasing away the shadows.
His smile revealed a warmth and an unexpected, almost boyish charm that made my stomach perform a series of enthusiastic cartwheels.
“More like a damn curse,” he said, but the words held no heat, and the smile, that rare smile, still lingered. “This whole stretch of coastline is probably built on an ancient Calusa burial ground, doomed to perpetual renovation and quirky new neighbors.”
I laughed, a happy sound that echoed off the wall. “Well, I’ll try to keep the disasters to a minimum. No promises on the renovations, though.”
The smile faded slowly from his lips, replaced by that more familiar, thoughtful intensity, but the air between us was different. Lighter. As if that shared moment of humor had cleared away some of the lingering awkwardness, some of the unspoken tension.
He picked up his hammer again, all business once more. “Last board. Let’s get it done.”
We finished securing it, the satisfying thud of the last nail echoing in the sudden hush. For a moment, we just stood side-by-side on our respective ladders, a comfortable silence settling between us that was broken only by the rustle of the magnolia leaves.
“Well,” I said, trying for a light tone, “I think it’s safe to say I won’t be quitting my B&B dream to become a professional sider anytime soon. You, on the other hand, seem to be a natural.”
A faint twitch lifted the corner of his mouth. “Someone’s gotta know how to keep these old places from falling into the sea. I'm starting to think I should add Disaster Mitigation Specialist to my charter business. The pay's not great, but the catering almost makes up for it.”
My breath caught. Was that an actual joke? It was like spotting a rare, exotic, and possibly mythical bird. A somewhat grouchy, handsome bird, but a bird, nonetheless.
With the last piece of problematic siding finally attached, looking impressively neat and professional under Austin’s capable hands, a wave of relief washed over me so profound it almost made me dizzy.
“I don’t know how to thank you, Austin. You didn’t have to do this. Especially after… well, after everything.”
He just grunted, already gathering his tools, his usual stoic mask firmly back in place, though perhaps the lines around his eyes were a little softer.
“I was about to make some sandwiches,” I said impulsively, the words out before I could second-guess them.
My stomach did a nervous jumping thing. “You must be starving. And as you said, feeding you is part of my job description. Can I offer you lunch? As a proper thank you this time. No ulterior cookie motives involved, I promise.”
He hesitated, his gaze flicking from me to his house, then back to me.
I could practically see the internal war raging—his ingrained desire for solitude battling with whatever had possessed him to help me in the first place.
I held my breath, fully expecting him to make some gruff excuse and retreat.
Then he gave a short, almost reluctant nod. “Sandwiches, huh? I could go for that, as long as it’s not tuna. Can’t stand canned tuna fish.”
He said yes? My brain reeled. Son of a biscuit, he actually said yes!
“No tuna, I promise,” I said, a wide, slightly giddy smile spreading across my face. “Turkey and Swiss? Or I think I have some leftover roast chicken.”
“Turkey’s fine,” he said, and followed me, with what looked like extreme reluctance, into the unruly, paint-splattered, but suddenly much brighter kitchen of Heron House.
It was surprisingly easy to talk to him while I made sandwiches and he leaned against a counter, nursing one of the Queen Conch IPAs I’d insisted he take. When he wasn’t actively scowling at me over a drowned plant or a rogue power tool, he was actually a decent listener.
He asked me, in his usual terse way, where I was from.
I found myself telling him about Abingdon, about my sociology degree that had mostly just taught me how to observe people being baffling, about the string of eclectic jobs that had never quite felt right, about that milestone thirtieth birthday that had hit me like a brick to the head.
“And then,” I said, spreading mustard on thick slices of rye bread, “the letter about Heron House arrived. I took it as a sign. A chance to finally build something real, something that’s mine. Something that proves I’m not just drifting.”
I looked up at him, expecting to see skepticism or polite indifference in those eyes. Instead, his face showed approval.
“It’s a hell of a thing to take on solo.” His voice was neutral, but his gaze was direct, focused.
We sat at the table and ate. “I know. Sometimes it feels totally overwhelming. Like I’m trying to bail out the ocean with a teaspoon.
But then…” I gestured around the kitchen, at the piles of sketches on the table, at the new paint swatches taped to a section of relatively intact wall.
“Then I remember why I’m doing it. For Aunt Constance.
For myself. To create something beautiful, something welcoming. A place where people can feel happy.”
The silence stretched for a moment before I asked, “So when did Captain Coleridge learn to conquer the seven seas? Or at least the local ocean?”
An almost wistful expression softened his features as he stared out the warped kitchen window toward the distant glint of the Gulf.
“Can’t remember not knowing how to fish.
Dad had me out on a boat before I could walk properly.
Spent more time with him out on the water than any of the rest of my siblings.
He taught me everything. How to read the tides, the currents, the birds.
Where the snook hid in the mangroves, where the tarpon rolled at dawn. ”
When he spoke of his father, his voice held a wistful warmth, a depth of longing that surprised me. It was a glimpse of the boy he must have been, before the world, or something in it, had taught him to build such formidable walls. It was a precious, fleeting thing.
Then, just as quickly, the warmth vanished, his face clouding over, the shutters slamming down over his eyes. “He took off. Long time ago, when I was barely a teenager. Left Mom, left us, left the resort high and dry. Just gone. He never came back.”
The shift was abrupt, jarring. The earlier easy camaraderie, the shared task, the tentative connection we’d been building all seemed to evaporate in the face of this new, stark revelation.
And there it was again.
That deep, hidden wound I sensed in him, the one that spoke to his guarded nature. My heart ached for him, for the boy who had loved being on the boat with his father, only to have that world shattered.
I didn’t know what to say. Platitudes sounded cheap, intrusive. So I just nodded, my sandwich suddenly tasteless in my mouth.
After a moment of thick, uncomfortable silence, I ventured carefully, “Well, whatever happened back then… it seems like Sunset Siesta is thriving now. And with you as captain, I’m sure Line Dancer is one of the most popular charters in the Keys.
” I offered what I hoped was an encouraging, non-prying smile.
He studied me, a long, considering moment, his gray eyes searching mine. Then, another small smile touched his lips. Two in one hour!
“Things are looking up,” he admitted, his voice a low rumble that sent a tickle across my shoulders. “For the resort. For Dove Key.”
For a breathless second, warmth rose between us, a fragile, unspoken understanding that passed between us. Then it was gone, his expression shuttering once more, but the memory of that brief, unguarded moment lingered.
He helped me. He talked to me. He even smiled at me.
Twice.
Maybe there was hope for peaceful coexistence between Heron House and its grumpy, sexy-tool-belt-wearing—heck, there was no point in denying it—capably hot next-door neighbor.
Or maybe even something more.
The thought sent a fresh, confusing, exhilarating roll of heat through my core.
Because no matter how much I tried to pretend that kiss hadn’t happened, it most definitely had.
And I hadn’t imagined his wild, passionate response, either.
He’d been like a man who’d crawled across a desert and found himself at an oasis at last. And now he was doing his best not to partake of the forbidden fruit.
Or something like that.
My metaphors might be a bit jumbled, but the fact remained. There was a question hanging in the air between Austin Coleridge and me, one that had nothing to do with siding or sprinklers. And as I stared at his full, sensual mouth, I realized I wanted him to ask it.