Chapter 3
Chapter Three
AUSTIN
The water was scalding, or as close as I could stand without peeling skin.
Thick, suffocating steam filled the shower, but it did nothing to soften the jagged knot of anger lodged in my chest. I scrubbed at my hair, raking my scalp with my fingertips, then moved to my skin with a pressure that bordered on punitive, as if I could physically wash away the mud, the floral damage, and the sheer, unbelievable gall of the woman next door.
Iris Holloway.
Even her name sounded like a whimsical, fluttery disaster waiting to happen, a pastel-fragranced bomb set to detonate in the middle of my monochrome existence.
“Experimental irrigation,” I muttered under the drumming spray. “Sweet Jesus.”
I leaned my forehead against the cool, white subway tile, the porcelain a soothing contrast to the water sluicing over my back.
Four years. Four damn years I’d nursed that hibiscus hedge from scrawny, hopeful transplants into a vibrant wall of crimson.
A living shield. In less than four minutes, she’d nearly blasted it into the ocean with the misguided enthusiasm of a toddler wielding a firehose.
Holloway was a scourge. A genuine, grade-A, property-value-lowering, peace-shattering scourge.
Dressed in clean cargo shorts and a plain white T-shirt blessedly dry against my skin, I stalked into the kitchen.
The rich, dark scent of coffee did little to soothe my mood.
I poured a cup before automatically reaching for the box of Wheaties from the pantry.
Routine. Order. The cornerstones of a life that made sense.
I sat at the wooden table I’d salvaged from a junk shop and refinished myself, its surface scarred yet beautifully smooth beneath my fingertips.
My gaze drifted to the window, the one specifically placed to offer an uninterrupted view of my little kingdom—my yard and, further out, the sea grapes that bowed gracefully in the breeze.
And my hibiscus hedge.
Even from this distance, the damage was brutally obvious. Gaps in the lush green like missing teeth in a once-perfect smile. A noticeable, drooping section that had borne the brunt of the assault. It looked wounded.
“Can’t even have a goddamn bowl of cereal in peace,” I grumbled to the empty room.
I ate, my jaw working overtime. My Saturday morning, usually an expanse of solitary productivity or restorative ocean time, had been utterly hijacked.
Maybe I’d been a dick about it. The thought flickered, unwelcome as a sand fly at a picnic.
Her face, when I’d confronted her, had been a mask of sheer dread.
Those wide blue eyes—eyes I had to admit were rather striking.
And she’d been soaked, the thin cotton of her floral blouse doing nothing to hide the curves underneath.
But then the image of my drowned flowers resurfaced.
No.
I hadn’t yelled.
I’d been firm. Direct.
Controlled, even, considering the provocation. She needed to understand this wasn’t some community-garden free-for-all where whimsical destruction was chalked up to artistic expression. This was my goddamn property. My peace. She caused the problem, not me. That was the simple, unvarnished truth.
The cereal bowl was empty, my stomach churning with stale Wheaties and fresh resentment. I couldn’t sit here. Couldn’t just look at the damage and let it fester.
My gardening shears were solid and familiar in my hand.
I strode to the hedge, the earth still squishy and dark beneath my boots where the Holloway-generated deluge had lingered.
Up close, the carnage was worse. Broken stems hung limply, their vibrant green insides exposed like fresh wounds.
Perfect, intensely red blossoms were torn and mud-splattered, their delicate, papery beauty ruined.
“Damn it, Holloway,” I muttered, the words a low, frustrated growl that did nothing to alleviate the pressure in my chest.
I started work with methodical, almost surgical precision.
Snip. The shears bit cleanly through a hopelessly damaged branch, the sound crisp in the humid air.
Pluck. A ruined flower, its life cut short by horticultural waterboarding, dropped into the bucket at my feet with a soft, mournful thud.
Wipe. I gently swiped my thumb across a mud-caked leaf, trying to restore some of its dignity, to let it breathe again.
This hedge wasn’t just a row of plants. It was a statement. A living symbol of patience, care, and the stubborn satisfaction of nurturing something beautiful in a world that often felt relentlessly chaotic.
I’d never intended to enter the damn thing in any competition. Braden, with his usual uncanny talent for goading me into things I’d rather avoid, was the sole culprit behind that particular foray into public horticulture.
I’d won the whole damn shooting match.
And Holloway, with her good intentions that paved the road to hibiscus hell, had nearly drowned that accomplishment.
I worked for over an hour, pruning, cleaning, assessing the extent of the damage. The sun climbed higher, beating down on my neck, but I barely noticed. This was a ritual, almost a penance. For what, I wasn’t sure. For thinking this small patch of the world could remain untouched?
Thankfully, the damage wasn’t as terminal as I’d first feared. The roots were still strong, anchored deep in the soil. The hedge would recover. But it would bear the scars of this morning for a while.
Just like my goddamn peace of mind.
I gathered the bucket of floral casualties and dumped them into the trash can. The clang of the metal lid sounded definitive. Another piece of chaos, however temporarily, wrestled back into place.
But the edginess remained, a low, persistent thrum beneath my skin like an engine idling.
I pulled out my phone, my thumb hovering over Eli’s name.
He was probably underwater with a dive class or, more likely, blissfully entangled with Jules in that honeymoon bubble that rendered him impervious to the outside world.
They had married on the resort beach last month, and Eli settled into newlywed life like a fish taking to, well, water.
Another sibling lost to domesticity. Still, the urge to connect, to hear a familiar voice, was strong. I hit dial.
It rang three times before he picked up, his voice predictably cheerful. “Captain Grinch! To what do I owe the honor? Did you run out of brooding material and need to bounce some new ideas off me?”
“Very funny, Eli. You got a minute? Or is Jules making you color-coordinate your socks now?”
A hearty laugh crackled through the phone, and a smile touched my lips. “Hey, a little order never hurt anyone. Besides, she says the sock routine brings out the blue in my eyes. What’s up? You sound tenser than usual. Which is saying something.”
“Neighbor issues,” I said, keeping it vague. No need to rehash the whole sordid Sprinklergate. “Got an itch to get wet. You free for a dive?”
A pause. “Aw, Austin, you know I’d love to, but I’ve got an open-water class starting in about an hour. And Jules wants to unpack those last wedding gift boxes.”
“Right. The joys of domestic bliss.”
“Hey, don’t knock it ’til you try it, brother,” Eli said, his voice still cheerful. “Though I don’t see you rushing to the altar anytime soon. Tell you what, though. I could swing a night dive if you’re up for it. Just us. We could dive right off the beach at the resort.”
The thought was tempting. The ocean at night was a different world. Secretive, alien. But the disquiet was a coiled spring in my gut now. “Nah. Tonight’s no good. Got to get my beauty sleep.”
Eli snorted. “Beauty sleep? Austin, you need a damn beauty coma. But hey, your loss. Don’t want you scaring the nocturnal critters with that mug of yours anyway.”
That finally drew a laugh from me. “Yeah, yeah. Hilarious. Another time, then.”
“You got it. Hey, seriously… you okay?”
“Peachy,” I lied. “Just peachy.”
“Uh-huh. Well, if peachy involves needing to blow off steam when I’m not otherwise occupied, give me another ring. See you later.”
“Thanks. Later, Eli.”
I hung up, the brief exchange leaving me feeling both slightly better and oddly more adrift. Even my usual escape routes were temporarily blocked. Meeting Braden for a beer at Tidal Hops was too much effort.
Too much explaining.
Too much people.
I found myself walking along the strip of sand and pebble beach that fronted this northern edge of the island.
The rhythmic sigh of waves breaking on the shore, a sound that usually soothed the tight, familiar knot in my gut, offered little comfort.
Today, even the ocean couldn’t quite unravel the tangle of irritation Holloway had introduced.
I walked west, toward where my carefully tended property gave way to something wilder—the untamed, overgrown jungle of Heron House’s grounds.
It looked like nature had thrown a drunken, years-long party and forgotten to clean up.
The sprawling mess of tangled vines and invasive Brazilian pepper trees sagged under the weight of neglect.
“And what fresh hell will be next?” I asked a passing crab, which wisely scuttled away.
The possibilities, given my brief but memorable introduction to Holloway’s capabilities, seemed depressingly, creatively endless.
Weariness settled deep in my bones, a feeling far older than my thirty-four years.
A weariness of fighting for meaning, for order, in a world that seemed determined to conspire against both.
Sunday morning dawned almost suspiciously serene.
I sat on my back patio, the wood of the rocking chair creaking faintly as I cradled my first cup of coffee. The air was still and heavy with the promise of another hot day, the only sounds the birds in the trees and the gentle, rhythmic lapping of the tide against the shore.
No generators coughed to life. No off-key singing assaulted the sanctity of the sunrise. Just calm. In the forgiving morning light, my hibiscus hedge looked less traumatized. The gaps were still there, the bruises on the leaves, but a few brave, unopened buds hinted at a future.
I finished my coffee, the last dregs bitter on my tongue. The silence from next door was like the hush in the eye of a storm, not a lasting, dependable truce. But today I had an escape chute.
The thought of getting to Sunset Siesta and taking Line Dancer out on today’s charter was a lifeline.
Out on the ocean, things made sense. The wind, the tides, the subtle, almost imperceptible signs of fish moving beneath the surface.
Hard work and tangible results. No unpredictable neighbors.
No flood-inducing repairs threatening prize-winning flora.
Just the vast, honest, unforgiving welcome of the sea.
As I pulled my truck out of the driveway, I glanced involuntarily at Heron House. Still. Silent. Looming like a sleeping giant, its windows dark and watchful. I pressed down on the accelerator, leaving my complicated, unfortunately attractive, and undeniably disruptive new neighbor behind.
For now.