Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
IRIS
Island Market on a weekday afternoon was a different beast than on the weekend. The aisles were less crowded, the energy more focused. Locals on their way home from work were picking up something for dinner. A few sunburnt tourists wandered aimlessly, looking for aloe vera and souvenir keychains.
My gaze landed on a display of dubious-quality toolkits at the end of the aisle.
Screwdrivers, pliers, all neatly arranged in molded plastic cases.
It sparked an idea, a welcome distraction from my Austin-centric thoughts.
With Gus and his crew making such progress, I was spending less time putting out fires and more time thinking about the finer details of the B&B.
I needed a better system for keeping track of it all.
A proper notebook was what I needed. A dedicated place to record my observations and chart the course for Heron House’s grand resurrection.
I marched toward the school and office supply aisle tucked away at the back of the store.
A proprietress ensconced in a major renovation should, at the very least, have a pretty notebook to document her journey.
The aisle was a surprisingly cheerful oasis of color and order in the sprawling market.
I was pleased upon spotting my target, a surprisingly wide array of notebooks.
I studied them, debating the merits of college-ruled versus wide-ruled, modern gray marble versus a more optimistic floral pattern.
A man stood further down the aisle. He wore the dark-blue uniform of the Dove Key Fire Department, the crisp white lettering stark against the fabric.
He was tall, with a muscular, capable build, and was intently studying a display of brightly colored index cards.
As he turned slightly to reach for a package, I caught a glimpse of his profile, the strong line of his jaw.
He must have sensed me watching because he glanced over, his gaze meeting mine for a brief, fleeting moment.
He gave a short nod of acknowledgment, which I returned before turning my attention to the notebooks.
His bright green eyes immediately reminded me of Brenna.
They were the same shade, though his were more guarded.
An employee with her cart bustled down the aisle, her sensible shoes squeaking on the tile. She had a sour expression with frown lines embedded around her mouth. She stopped cold when her gaze landed on the man in the uniform, and her lips thinned further.
“Ben. Finding everything you need in the school supply aisle?” Her voice dripped with an icy politeness that was somehow more offensive than outright rudeness.
The man—Ben, apparently—didn’t flinch. He turned to face her, his expression flat, unimpressed. “Looking for some new index cards.”
“Index cards,” the woman repeated, drawing the words out as if they were a strange and exotic contraband he had no business possessing. My eyes widened. She looked him up and down, as if studying him for stolen merchandise.
Ben’s gaze remained steady. “Because I’m in school, Francine,” he replied, his tone still flat, but with an underlying edge of steel. “Hence, school supplies.”
“Fine.” Francine sniffed. She gave him another long, hard look, a look that was full of a history I couldn’t begin to understand, then huffed and pushed her cart away without another word.
I stood there with a floral-print notebook clutched in my hand, a hot flare of indignation burning in my chest on his behalf. I didn’t know what the story was, but I knew rudeness when I saw it.
Ben was staring after Francine, the cool reserve in his green eyes now tinged with weary frustration.
“Wow. And I thought I got the third degree around here sometimes.” I offered a sympathetic smile. “Maybe being new in town is easier than being a local.”
His head snapped toward me, his brows reaching halfway up his forehead.
Then a laugh escaped him, a short, sharp bark that transformed his face and chased away the shadows.
The coolness in his eyes warmed instantly, replaced by a friendly, appreciative light.
“You might have a point there. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try to make a new start, people will only see the past.” He gestured with the package of index cards in his hand.
“I’m trying to make one, actually. A new start. ”
“Oh?” I asked, curious now as I strolled closer.
“Just started the coursework to become a paramedic.” The flicker of pride in his voice was quickly dashed as he looked at the floor. He continued in a lower tone, “Trying to get a jump on the memorization. Figured flashcards couldn’t hurt.”
“That’s amazing! Congratulations.” The thought of someone so dedicated and serious on the local rescue squad was reassuring. “That sounds like a huge amount of work.”
A small, self-conscious smile returned to his lips. “It is. But hopefully worth it.” He paused, then his expression shifted, his gaze direct and polite. He held out a hand. “Ben Coleridge, by the way.”
My brain did a little stutter-step. Coleridge. Of course. The green eyes. The reserved intensity. Austin’s brother.
I shook his hand, his grip firm and warm. “Iris Holloway. It’s nice to meet you, Ben. I’m… I’m Austin’s neighbor. The one trying to resurrect Heron House.”
His eyes widened in recognition. “Oh, right. The B&B.” He smiled again, and this time it was warmer. “Chase was telling me about it. Said you’ve got a hell of a project on your hands, but a great vision for it.”
So the family knew about the project. That made sense. But Ben’s open demeanor gave no indication that he knew anything more. That he knew his reclusive brother was spending his nights tangled up in the sheets of the new neighbor.
“It’s a beast,” I admitted with a laugh, “but I’m getting there. My new contractor, Gus, is fantastic.”
“That’s good to hear. You need a good team on a job like that.”
I could see the family resemblance now, not just in his features, but in the underlying steadiness he projected, that same solid, dependable quality I’d come to recognize in Austin. But where Austin’s steadiness was wrapped in layers of grumpy, keep-your-distance armor, Ben’s was more approachable.
“Well,” he said, lifting his package of index cards. “Gotta get these home and put them to use. Pharmacology isn’t going to memorize itself, unfortunately.” He gave me another one of those smiles. “It was nice meeting you, Iris. Welcome to Dove Key, officially.”
“You too, Ben,” I said.
Then he walked away, his stride confident and his uniformed shoulders straight.
I absently grabbed a notebook with a vibrant floral cover, but my mind was no longer on stationery.
I paid for my groceries in a daze, the earlier contentment now replaced by a swirling mix of new thoughts and questions.
Meeting Ben, seeing that brief, ugly flash of small-town judgment from the woman in the aisle, hearing the pride in his voice as he talked about his new path… it solidified something for me.
The Coleridges weren’t just a family. They were an institution in this town.
For better or for worse, they were known.
Their history, their triumphs, and their failures were all part of the local lore.
I knew the solitary, intense, surprisingly tender man next door, the man who built walls so high it was a miracle anyone could scale them.
I didn’t know the respected fishing captain.
And most importantly, I didn’t know the brother, the man who was part of this complex, tight-knit, deeply rooted family.
In that moment, a more painful realization hit me. Ben's friendly but polite demeanor gave no indication he knew anything more about me. To him, I was just the neighbor. Austin hadn't told them about us.
The thought was a hard thud in my chest. I needed to see that other side of him, to understand the place that had shaped him.
It wasn’t just idle curiosity. It was a necessity.
If this was going to be real, we had to exist publicly as a couple.
If I was going to have any hope of understanding the man, I had to understand his world.
And I was determined to find a way to get him to let me in.
That evening, a comfortable, almost domestic rhythm had settled over my kitchen, one that had become familiar over the past weeks.
Austin leaned against the counter near the sink as I put the finishing touches on dinner.
He’d shown up at my door half an hour ago, flimsy excuses long gone.
Now we shared a quiet, unspoken understanding that this was just what we did.
The air was filled with the scent of the roast chicken I’d made, the sharp, herby aroma of the vinaigrette for the salad, and the warm, yeasty smell of the crusty bread I’d picked up at the market.
I pulled a bottle of chilled Sauvignon Blanc from the refrigerator and held it up. “Wine? Or are you sticking with beer tonight?”
“Depends.” His eyes glinted with a humor I was starting to get used to. “Are we celebrating something?”
“We could be. We could celebrate the fact that my house isn’t actively trying to collapse on top of me today. Or that I met another one of your siblings without any major international incidents.”
He pushed off the counter and closed the space between us, taking the wine bottle from my hand.
“I’ll get it.” He found the corkscrew in the jumble of my utility drawer with an ease that spoke to his growing familiarity with my kitchen.
“And for the record, all my siblings are pains in the ass. Don’t let them fool you. ”
I laughed as I pulled two wine glasses from the cupboard.
“Too late. I’m already friends with Brenna, remember?
” I watched as he uncorked the wine, his hands moving with that unexpected grace.
“I admit, I’m shocked, Captain. I had you pegged as strictly a beer-and-black-coffee man.
Are you sure you can handle a fancy white wine? ”