Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
IRIS
My house had a bad case of the rattles.
More specifically, the temporarily nailed siding on the west wall of Heron House played a clattering drum solo that sounded like a skeleton trying to learn the cha-cha every time the wind blew in off the ocean.
It had been like that for six long days—since Austin’s quick fix, which, while keeping the siding from falling, couldn’t stop the clatter.
And I was becoming worried that every gust of wind was making it less secure.
And five days had passed since Chase Ashworth’s reassuring, if slightly terrifying, consultation.
Chase had been a godsend. He’d put me in touch with two reputable local contractors.
I’d scrambled to get bids, my stomach a knot of anxiety as I showed them around the glorious, crumbling money pit that was my inheritance.
I’d gotten a wonderful vibe from one of them, and a quick call to Chase reinforced that Gus Davis was who he consulted when he presented with a thorny issue he needed help with.
Chase also mentioned that Gus specialized in historic renovations.
Yesterday, I’d signed a contract with him.
And, miracle of miracles, he didn’t treat me like I was a clueless child playing house.
The only catch? He couldn’t start for another week. So, the siding continued to knock. A constant, visible reminder of my precarious situation.
I was out in the yard, ostensibly weeding a patch of ridiculously resilient ivy that seemed to thrive on neglect, but mostly I was just worrying.
Worrying about the siding. Worrying about the budget.
Worrying about the persistent flutter in my chest every time I thought about Austin and the kiss that had absolutely, positively, never happened.
Except it totally had. And he hadn’t mentioned it since.
Not a word. Not a flicker. It was like trying to pretend a rogue wave hadn’t just swamped your very small rowboat.
A shadow fell over me.
I looked up, shielding my eyes against the bright late-morning sun, my heart giving an immediate lurch.
Austin.
He stood there, a vision in faded denim and a plain gray T-shirt that did nothing to hide the impressive breadth of his shoulders.
He had a sturdy-looking aluminum extension ladder propped against one of those shoulders and a serious-looking tool belt slung low on his hips.
He looked too handsome, too competent, and entirely too much like he’d just stepped out of one of my more embarrassing daydreams.
“Morning, Iris,” he said, his voice its usual low rumble, though perhaps a fraction less… grumpy than usual? Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part.
“Austin! Good morning.” My voice came out a little breathless. Play it cool, Iris. He’s just a neighbor. A handsome, very good-kissing neighbor who you may or may not have accosted last week. Nothing to see here. “What brings you over?”
He gestured with his chin toward the thumping siding. “That thing’s not going to hold through another decent squall like that. Figured since I’ve got a free morning and you’re waiting on your new contractor, we could get it properly secured. Don’t need it crashing down and taking out my hibiscus.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
I stared at him, dumbfounded. He was offering to help? Voluntarily? With actual tools and ladders that didn’t look like they’d collapse if a strong-willed seagull landed on them? After I’d practically mauled him with my face?
“You want to help me?” I managed, my brain struggling to process this unexpected development. “With the siding?”
“Got another ladder in the truck,” he said, as if that explained everything. “And a nail gun. Be faster. Unless you’d rather wrestle with it solo again. Your call.”
There was no judgment in his tone, just a statement of fact, but my cheeks burned anyway at the memory of my previous, disastrous attempt.
It was like that kiss existed in some alternate universe, a bizarre, heat-fueled blip on the radar of our otherwise prickly neighborly relations. Part of me, the sensible, self-preservation part, was immensely relieved. Another, smaller part felt a ridiculous pang of disappointment.
“No! I mean, yes! Help would be, er, amazing,” I stammered, pushing aside the confusing tangle of my emotions. The practical relief of knowing that siding would be properly secured was overwhelming. “Thank you, Austin. Really.”
Okay, Iris. Professional. Neighborly. Pretend Friday didn’t happen. Pretend your lips aren’t still tingling with the memory of his. Pretend he’s just a capable, somewhat grumpy, distractingly handsome, and surprisingly helpful Good Samaritan with a sexy tool belt.
“We can nail up the rest of it in no time. Can’t leave the moisture barrier exposed like that.”
Working with Austin was… intense. He was all focused competence, his movements economical and precise.
He set up the two ladders with an efficiency that made my earlier efforts look like a slapstick comedy routine.
He showed me, with patience I wouldn’t have thought him capable of, how to hold my end of the long siding boards steady while he expertly wielded the nail gun, its loud, percussive reports echoing in the humid air.
There was a lot of close proximity. More than once, his arm brushed against mine as we maneuvered a particularly unwieldy board, sending a jolt of awareness zinging through me that had nothing to do with static electricity.
The scent of him surrounded me. It was a potent brew of sunshine, clean male sweat, and something musky and enticingly male.
I tried to focus on not dropping my end of the siding, on not staring at the way the muscles in his forearms flexed as he handled the nail gun with such easy, masculine grace.
It was not easy.
To break the charged silence, and to distract myself from the entirely inappropriate direction of my thoughts, I started asking questions.
“You seem to know a lot about old houses,” I began, trying for a light, conversational tone. “And power tools. Is that a prerequisite for being a fishing captain in the Keys?”
He didn’t look at me, his attention fixed on aligning the next board. For a moment, I thought he might just grunt and ignore me. But he didn’t.
“Grew up at Sunset Siesta.” His voice was still gruff, but less guarded than usual as he spoke of something familiar.
“It’s the family resort. An old place, so something always needing fixing, something else falling apart.
You pick things up. Or you learn to swim fast when the dock collapses under you. ”
The corner of my mouth twitched. A hint of humor? From Austin Coleridge? Wonders would never cease. “Brenna mentioned your family has owned it for a long time?”
He nodded, sighting down the edge of the board.
“Over a hundred years. Coleridges have been in Dove Key longer than there’s been a decent road connecting it to the mainland.
” There was a low-key pride in his voice, an understated connection to this place that resonated deep within me, someone whose roots felt as shallow and scattered as sea grass in a storm.
“It’s in our blood, I guess,” he continued, the rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of the nail gun punctuating his words.
There was a touch of weary affection in his tone now.
“The resort. The water. This damn island. At one point, we owned most of Dove Key, but it was sold off over the years. Now the resort is all we have left, except for what we own individually. We all learned to work hard. Had to, really, especially after Dad…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening as a shadow flickered in those stormy gray eyes.
The unspoken hung in the air between us. I didn’t press. I had never heard him utter so many words in one go.
He nodded with his head back toward his property. “I bought my house seven years ago. It was a bit better off than Heron House, but I spent a lot of sweat equity restoring it. Pretty much done now.”
“That’s impressive,” I said. “To have that kind of history, that deep connection to a place, to a family legacy. I’m an only child, and my mom and I… well, we moved around. I don’t think I’ve ever lived in one place for more than five years.”
He turned his head then, his gaze meeting mine, direct and intent. “And this place was what brought you down here?”
“Yes, Aunt Constance.” A smile touched my lips as I thought of her letter.
“No one was more shocked than I was when she left it to me. And enough money to try and bring it back to life, may she rest in peace.” I paused, then, driven by a sudden curiosity, asked, “Did you know my Aunt Constance at all?”
Austin picked up the last piece of siding we needed to secure, running a calloused thumb along its edge.
“Not well. She kept to herself mostly. A private woman. But this house…” He looked up at the section we’d just repaired, a flash of something in his eyes.
Respect, maybe, for the old structure itself.
“I helped her out with a few things over the years. A loose shutter after a storm, patching a section of that old porch roof once. Nothing major. She always wanted to pay me, but I wouldn’t take her money. ”
A wave of warmth spread through me. So, he had known her, in his reserved, practical way.
Then, a teasing thought popped into my head, too tempting to resist. “You know, first the sprinkler, now the siding… Maybe Heron House has cast some kind of spell over you, Captain. Dooming you to a life of fixing its—and its owner’s—never-ending disasters. ”
I’d expected a scowl, or at least one of his signature dismissive grunts. Instead, to my utter astonishment, the corner of his mouth lifted. Then the other. And before I knew it, Austin Coleridge was actually, certifiably, smiling.