Chapter 12 #2
And my eyes, those goddamn traitors, dropped immediately to her mouth. With Herculean strength, I kept them from falling to her breasts.
The memory of Friday afternoon flooded back with an unwelcome, visceral intensity. Heat rushed up my neck, into my face. I quickly looked away, fixing my gaze on a particularly alarming crack in the ancient door.
Jesus. Don’t look at her mouth. Don’t think about it. Don’t remember it.
I was failing spectacularly on all three counts, but I finally met her clear blue eyes.
For her part, she looked equally flustered, her cheeks flushing a delicate shade of pink. “Austin! I… I wasn’t expecting you.” Her voice was a little breathless as she shouldered open the door further with another ear-rending shriek.
The sound was so jarring I flinched. My mouth opened, and the first thing that came out was, “You going to call an exorcist for that door?”
She laughed, the sound a welcome relief in the charged air. She patted the door. “Oh, I think it’s part of the historic charm. I’ve named him Shrieky. He’s the house’s built-in security system. Scares away any traveling salesmen who might call.”
The absurd image of salesmen fleeing in terror made me crack a smile despite my tense mood. “Right. You named the door.”
“I suppose I’ll need to replace it, though. Shrieky isn’t exactly welcoming, is he?”
I just stood there, unable to think of a response to that.
“Chase,” I blurted out, desperate to get this over with, to escape before my brain short-circuited even more.
Or I did something even worse, like grabbing both her shoulders and kissing her senseless.
“My brother-in-law. The architect. He can come by early tomorrow morning. For that consultation you wanted.” The words came out too fast, too gruff, but I was helpless to change anything.
Her eyes widened before lighting up with a hopeful brightness that was hard to look at directly. Yet I couldn’t look away, either.
“Oh, Austin, thank you! That’s wonderful news! Really. I don’t know how to thank you enough.”
Her smile was sweet, unguarded, and it did something strange to the knot in my gut. Loosened it, maybe. Or just rearranged it into a different but equally uncomfortable configuration.
“Yeah, well,” I mumbled, already backing away. “He’s doing me a favor, fitting you in.” I needed to deflect, to minimize my involvement, to put some distance back between us.
“He said early,” I added. My tone implied it better be acceptable. “Before his regular workday. Around seven-thirty. That work for you?”
“Yes! Absolutely!” she assured me, her hands clasped together in front of her. “Whenever is good for him. I’ll be here. I’ll have coffee on! And maybe scones or something?” She offered the last part with a hesitant, hopeful little smile.
More damn baked goods. The thought was automatic, but this time, it lacked its usual venom. It was almost… resigned. But not anticipatory. Nope, not that.
“Right. Whatever you want.” I turned to leave. My job here was well and truly done.
I made it to the edge of her porch, halfway to freedom, when her voice stopped me.
“Austin?”
I paused, my back still to her, bracing myself.
“Thank you,” she repeated, her voice softer this time, less effusive, more sincere. “Really. For this. And for… for Friday. With the siding. I needed help, and you were there.”
I stood there for a long moment, the sun beating down on my neck, the scent of her—dust, paint, and that faint, lingering sweetness—teasing my senses. My heart felt like a lumbering bison in my chest.
I should just nod.
Walk away. End it.
But the words, rough and foreign, found their way out. “You’re, uh, welcome.” I cleared my throat, still not turning around. “I’m glad I was there. When you… you know. Needed it.”
The silence stretched, thick with unspoken things. Then, a soft, “Good night, Austin.”
“Night, Iris.” The name slipped out, easy, natural, before I could stop it.
I didn’t wait for a response. I walked away fast, not looking back, the echo of her quiet goodnight following me like a persistent ghost.
Back in my kitchen, I found one of the Queen Conch IPAs she’d left. The bottle was icy cold, condensation beading on the glass. I opened it, the hiss a welcome sound, and took a long, deep swallow.
The beer was good. Conch Republic always brewed a good beer, though I’d never admit that in front of Braden. Hoppy, with a clean, citrusy finish. I had to admit she had good taste in beer for a woman who probably thought a depth finder was a philosophical concept.
I fired up the grill on my back patio, the familiar ritual of preparing dinner a welcome distraction.
The snapper I’d caught earlier sizzled on the hot grates, the smoky aroma filling the evening air.
But even the simple, satisfying task of grilling fish couldn’t quite dislodge the image of Iris, her face smudged with paint, her eyes full of that unnerving mixture of vulnerability and stubborn hope. Or the memory of her lips. Her body.
The next morning, I was up before dawn. Chase was due at seven-thirty.
And for some reason I couldn’t quite articulate, I’d decided I needed to be there.
Purely for practical reasons, of course.
To make sure nothing got lost in translation.
To ensure Chase understood the full extent of the Heron House disaster and how its ongoing renovation might continue to impact my property, my peace.
It was just neighborly vigilance. That’s what I told myself as I sent Chase a quick text telling him to meet me at my place.
Chase showed up at my door at seven-twenty, looking remarkably awake and professional for a man with a dozen irons in the fire. “Ready to face the architectural abyss?” There was a knowing glint in his eye I chose to ignore. “Or maybe you don’t think I can handle this tour on my own?”
I scowled. “I need to see how bad it really is. That’s all.”
We walked over to Heron House together. Iris was already on her porch, a travel mug of coffee in one hand as she wiped a palm on her dress. And, of course, after she was done, she picked up a plate covered with a napkin. I introduced the two.
“Good morning!” she said with a smile like a Sunday morning. “I made banana bread. Figured architects and helpful neighbors run on coffee and, uh, baked goods?” She offered the plate with a hopeful, slightly anxious gesture.
My stomach rumbled, betraying me. The banana bread smelled incredible, warm and sweet and laced with cinnamon.
Dammit, woman.
Chase, to his credit, accepted a piece with a gracious smile. “Smells fantastic, Ms. Holloway. Thanks.”
I just grunted, trying to project an aura of detached professionalism.
“Oh, call me Iris. Please. For the love of pelicans, the house is old and stuffy, not me!”
Chase managed to look only slightly bewildered at the Iris-ism, but I had to bite back a smile.
The three of us spent the next hour inspecting the property.
Chase was all business, his sharp eyes missing nothing, from the precariously attached siding to the worrying sag in one section of the porch roof to the ambitious chalk lines Iris had drawn for her en-suite bathrooms. He asked Iris intelligent questions about her plans, her budget, her timeline.
She answered as best she could, her initial nervousness giving way to earnest enthusiasm as she described her vision for Heron House.
I mostly lurked in the background, observing and trying to ignore the way Iris’s hair caught the morning light, turning it to spun gold. Or the determined set of her jaw as she talked about her B&B. Or the fact that her notions made a lot of sense. Some were bordering on practical.
Her ideas of splitting up some of the second and third-floor rooms to ensure the bedrooms had private baths were logical and ambitious. People didn’t want to share. Though when we got up there, the rooms were a wreck and more grand vision than reality.
Back outside and near the half-demolished wall, Chase turned to her.
“Well, Mick Riley walking off the job, while incredibly unprofessional and inconvenient for you, might actually be a blessing in disguise. From what I’ve seen just on this initial walk-through, his methods weren’t up to code for a historic renovation of this magnitude.
” He gestured toward the problematic siding.
“This alone would have caused you major headaches down the line.”
Iris’s face fell slightly at his words, the confirmation of her fears, but then that stubborn chin came up again.
“As I told Austin,” Chase continued, “I’m unfortunately not in a position to take on a project of this size right now. My firm is swamped, and Harper and I are…”—he grinned—“expecting a rather significant personal project to kick off soon. Twins.”
“Oh! Congratulations.” Iris offered another sunny smile.
“But now that I’ve seen the scope, I can make some calls. There are a few reputable local contractors I trust, guys who specialize in old houses. No promises, but I’ll see who might have an opening or be willing to at least consult properly and give you an honest assessment.”
Tears, actual tears, welled in Iris’s eyes. She blinked them back furiously, but not before I saw them. And it gave me an unexpected, unwelcome pang right in the vicinity of my chest.
She’s in way over her head, I thought, the realization hitting me with fresh force. But damn if she isn’t trying with everything she’s got.
“Oh, Chase, thank you,” she said. “That would mean the world to me.”
After Chase left, promising to be in touch as soon as he had any news, an awkward silence descended between Iris and me. She stood there, looking small and vulnerable amidst the grandeur of her decaying mansion, clutching the now-empty banana bread plate.
Yeah, it had been delicious.
“Well, listen,” I said, needing to break the tension, needing to establish some kind of practical boundary. “I can’t be running back and forth here every time Chase has an update or you have another emergency. It’s inefficient.”
She glanced up, eyes wide.
“I need to put you in my contacts.” I pulled out my phone and tried to make it sound like a command, not a request. “If he gets hold of me first with news, or if… if something else comes up, I’ll text you.”
It was a purely practical measure. So I wouldn’t have to keep trekking over to this disaster zone. That was all.
“Oh! Of course. Good idea.” She fumbled for her phone, her fingers slightly clumsy as she navigated the screen.
We exchanged numbers, the brief brush of our fingers as I took her phone to input my information like a zap of static electricity.
As soon as the transaction was complete, I experienced the overwhelming, desperate urge to escape.
“Right,” I said as I backed away. “Gotta go.”
I turned and fled back to the sanctuary of my porch, the scent of her banana bread still clinging to me, her phone number a dangerous addition to my mind. A light sweat broke out under my shirt, despite the relative coolness of the morning.
This was why.
This was exactly why I avoided people. Women. Complications. Closeness.
I’d had a short relationship with a tourist a year or so ago. Easy, no strings. She’d left when her vacation ended. That was my speed. I never got close to women, not really. Because closeness brought… this. This acute discomfort. This unsettling awareness. These emotions.
Emotions were dangerous.
Unpredictable.
Guerrilla fighters in the carefully ordered territory of my life.
I’d spent thirteen hard years systematically suppressing mine, burying them deep beneath layers of routine and solitude and the vast, indifferent expanse of the sea.
The last thing I needed was for Iris Holloway, with her disastrous DIY skills, her wide, beautiful blue eyes, her surprisingly good banana bread, and her even more surprisingly addictive kiss, to start dredging up all that old pain.
And all those feelings I’d fought so hard to lock away.
But as I stood on my porch, the echo of her hopeful thank you still in my ears, I had a sinking feeling it might already be too late.