9. Iris
IRIS
Two weeks since I arrived in Provence. Two weeks since I met Cat. Two weeks since my entire life pivoted on an axis I didn't know existed.
I'm starting to lose track of Chicago. The meetings, the spreadsheets, the carefully calibrated performance of my professional self—it feels like something that happened to someone else.
Here, there are no meetings. Here, the spreadsheets I make are for lavender pruning schedules and grocery lists and the various tasks Jacques has assigned us.
Here, I wake each morning and know exactly where I am. For someone who has spent her life never quite fitting anywhere, it's a strange and uncomfortable feeling.
"You're thinking too loudly," Cat says from across the breakfast table.
"That's not a thing."
"It is in this house. I can hear you processing from here."
I look up from my coffee—French press now, because Cat taught me how to use Grand-mère's ancient contraption—and find her watching me with that half-amused expression she seems to reserve for moments when I'm being particularly myself.
She's wearing a tank top and cutoff shorts, her hair piled in that perpetually messy bun that somehow looks effortless. There's a smudge of flour on her cheekbone from the croissants she made this morning—from scratch, because Cat does everything from scratch, including driving me slowly insane.
"I was thinking about the herb garden," I say, which is only partially a lie. "Jacques mentioned it needs work."
"It does. Want to tackle it today?"
"Sure."
She smiles, and I look away before I can notice how it changes her face.
My phone buzzes while we're gathering supplies from the barn, and I see Nadia's name flash across the screen. I let it go to voicemail—I'll call her back later.
But Cat is watching me.
"You should answer that."
"It's not important."
"Could be important."
"It's my friend Nadia. She just wants to check in."
Cat raises an eyebrow. "So check in."
"Later."
There's something too perceptive in her gaze. I grab my phone and retreat to the far side of the barn.
"About time," Nadia says when I answer. "I was starting to think you'd been kidnapped by your sexy European inheritance."
"My inheritance isn't sexy. It's a farm."
"Farms can be sexy. Have you seen those calendars?" Nadia's voice is warm with amusement. "How's France? How's the house? How's the mysterious other heir?"
"France is fine. The house is beautiful. Cat is—" I hesitate.
"Cat? Her name is Cat? That's adorable."
"Catherine. She goes by Cat."
"And? What's she like? Old? Young? Horrible?"
"She's thirty-six. A chef. British." I glance across the barn to where Cat is now sorting through seed packets, humming something under her breath. "She's... not horrible."
"High praise from you." Nadia laughs. "Is she hot?"
"What?"
"Is. She. Hot. It's a simple question, Iris."
My face goes warm. "I haven't noticed."
"Liar."
"I'm not—"
"You definitely noticed." Nadia's voice goes more serious. "Iris. What's going on?"
"Nothing's going on."
"You sound different. Softer. Dare I say, relaxed?"
"I've been gardening."
"Gardening doesn't make you sound like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're actually enjoying yourself." A pause. "I haven't heard you sound like this in years. Maybe ever."
I don't know what to say to that. Cat is still humming, swaying slightly to her own tune. The morning light catches the copper in her hair.
"I have to go," I say. "We're working on the herb garden."
"We," Nadia repeats. "You and the definitely-not-hot roommate."
"Goodbye, Nadia."
"Call me later! I want details!"
I hang up before she can say anything else, my heart beating faster than it should.
The herb garden is behind the kitchen, a small walled enclosure that's been overtaken by neglect. What should be neat rows of rosemary, thyme, sage, and lavender is instead a jungle of competing growth, weeds strangling the useful plants, everything tangled together in verdant chaos.
"Grand-mère would be horrified," Cat says, surveying the damage. "She took such care of this garden."
"We'll fix it."
Cat glances at me, that half-smile tugging at her lips. "Listen to you. 'We'll fix it.' Very can-do."
"I've been working on my optimism."
"I noticed."
We divide the garden between us and get to work. The morning sun beats down, the scent of crushed herbs rising around us as we pull weeds and prune overgrowth. Cat works with the easy competence of someone who's done this a hundred times before, her hands sure and quick among the plants.
I work with the grim determination of someone who has a lot of catching up to do.
"Too aggressive," Cat says after a while. She's suddenly beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body. "See how you're tearing the roots? You want to work them out gently."
She reaches past me, her arm brushing mine, and demonstrates the motion. Her fingers are deft, careful, almost tender with the plant.
"Like this," she says. "Let the soil give before you pull."
"I was pulling too hard?"
"You pull everything too hard." She looks up at me, and her face is very close. "You approach everything like it's a battle to win. Sometimes you just need to... breathe. Let things be."
I can smell her—sweat and herbs and something warm beneath.
"I'm not very good at letting things be," I manage.
"Got it." Her smile is soft. "But you're learning."
She moves away to return to her section of the garden, and I remember how lungs work.
We work through the morning and into the afternoon, stopping for water and a lunch of bread and cheese that Cat produces from somewhere. The garden slowly takes shape under our hands, the chaos giving way to something ordered and intentional.
I'm starting to understand why she loves this. There's something meditative about the work—the rhythm of it, the slow satisfaction of visible progress. My hands are dirty, my back aches, and I feel more grounded than I have in years.
"Where’s the trowel?" Cat asks.
I reach for it at the same moment she does. Our hands collide, and suddenly we're very still, her fingers wrapped around mine, the trowel forgotten between us.
"Sorry," I say.
"Don't be."
Neither of us moves. Her eyes are very green in the afternoon light.
"You have dirt on your face," she says quietly.
"So do you."
"Not new for me to have dirt on my face. You're the one who looks like she stepped out of a magazine even when she's gardening."
"I don't—"
"You do." Her thumb brushes across my cheekbone, gentle, and I stop breathing. "There. Got it."
She steps back, and the moment breaks like a soap bubble. I turn back to the garden, my face burning.
The sun is low when we finally finish, the garden transformed from chaos to something almost beautiful. The herbs stand in neat rows now, the weeds are gone, and there's a clear path of stepping stones that we uncovered beneath the overgrowth.
"Not bad," Cat says, surveying our work. "Grand-mère would approve."
"High praise."
"The highest." She stretches, arms above her head, and her tank top rides up to reveal a strip of tanned stomach.
What is wrong with me?
I've worked with attractive people my entire career. I keep my composure, maintain professional distance, stay in control.
But Cat isn't a colleague. Cat is here, in this house, every moment of every day, and I can't seem to stop noticing her. The way she hums when she's content. The way she talks to the plants—encouragement, mostly, with the occasional threat.
The way my stomach flips when she smiles.
"I should shower," Cat says, pulling me from my thoughts. "I'm disgusting."
"You're not—" I stop myself.
She raises an eyebrow. "Not what?"
"Nothing. Go shower."
She grins like she knows exactly what I almost said, and disappears into the house. I stay in the garden for a few more minutes, breathing deeply, trying to get myself under control.
This is nothing. Proximity, isolation, the strangeness of this whole situation. It doesn't mean anything.
It can't mean anything.
That evening, we eat dinner on the terrace—grilled vegetables and pasta, simple but delicious. Cat opens a bottle of rosé, and we watch the sun set over the lavender fields in companionable silence.
"Can I ask you something?" Cat says finally.
"You keep asking me that, and you always ask anyway."
"Force of habit." She takes a sip of wine. "Why events?"
"What?"
"Your job. Event planning. Why?"
I consider the question. No one's ever asked me that—most people assume it's obvious, or don't care enough to wonder.
"Control," I say finally. "That's the honest answer. Event planning is about controlling variables, managing expectations, creating perfect moments. Everything has a place. Everything goes according to plan."
"But things never go according to plan."
"No. But I get as close as possible." I turn my wine glass in my hands.
"When I was a kid, everything felt chaotic.
My parents fighting, my mother's moods, the secret of my grandmother that no one would explain.
I couldn't control any of it. But when I started planning—" I shrug. "At least that felt manageable."
Cat is quiet for a moment. "And is this manageable? This situation?"
"Not even slightly."
"Good." She sets down her glass. "I think maybe you've had too much manageable in your life. I think maybe you need some chaos."
"Chaos and I don't mix well."
"Maybe you've never tried the right kind."
Her eyes meet mine across the table, and something passes between us. Before I can respond, she stands.
"I'm turning in. Early morning tomorrow—Jacques wants us to check the irrigation system."
"Right. Okay."
She pauses in the doorway, silhouetted against the warm light from inside.
"You know," she says, "you're not as uptight as I thought."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's an observation." Her smile is slow. "You've got layers. I'm starting to see them."
She disappears inside, and I'm left alone on the terrace, watching the stars emerge and trying to convince myself that my racing heart is just the wine.
It's not the wine.
The realization settles over me like a wave, terrifying and inevitable.
I want Cat, and I have no idea what to do about it.