Chapter 6
Six
Iris
I’ve seen men eat. And then there’s Oliver.
I’m so pleased at how much food he can put away. At least nothing will go to waste.
Is it weird to invite a guest inside who is eight hours early? Maybe. But I make my own rules. I always have.
After breakfast, Oliver says, “Let me thank you for your hospitality.” His voice is dripping with manners that somebody taught him.
“Oh, that’s not necessary, I—”
But he’s not hearing me.
I watch as he runs out the way he came in, through the yard, out the gate, and opens the trunk of his car.
A moment later, he returns carrying something wrapped in plain paper.
“What in the world?” I ask with a laugh.
Those beautiful hands set the item on the marble island and gestures for me to unwrap it.
His rough hand brushes past mine as I reach for the edge of the paper. The transfer of heat in that slight touch makes my skin tingle.
As I unwrap it, I pray that this gift is something I’ll hate, like taxidermy, or inventory from a multi-level marketing scheme. If it is, I’ll have an easier time setting aside how attracted I feel to this man.
But alas, it is neither of those things. It is the prettiest red clay bowl I’ve ever seen, with carved swirls around the rim that look like waving grass.
“Look at that,” I say, in awe.
“It matches the red curtains in your studio,” Maddie chirps.
“You make that yourself?” Ewan asks.
All three of us look at Oliver. I stare at the bridge of his nose, working up the courage to move on to his eyes.
Oliver answers the question with his blue eyes fixed on me. “I did.”
He made it himself, dammit. The attractiveness just tripled.
Finally. I succeed at looking directly at his eyes. Oliver’s gaze travels over my face, and it feels like time and space don’t exist anymore. To him, I’m the only person in the room.
It’s becoming hard to catch my breath. He’s daring me to look away.
“Thank you. So much. It’s a really unique piece,” I say.
I should say more words. Smart words. Some astute observation. Or be more curious about how he learned to do such lovely work. My heart is beating too fast, and the blood is rushing everywhere except my brain.
“For a unique place and a unique lady. I’ll get out of your hair now, so you can clean.”
I inform Oliver that I’ll text him through the app when the place is ready for him, but I’m happy to let him check in before the standard time.
Everyone clears out, and I can finally get a hold of myself.
The entire time I clean the carriage house, I can’t think of anything but the way Oliver looked at me. The way that look made me feel.
I gather up the sheets, tote them to the washing machine, replace them, and put on a new duvet cover and pillowcases. I tidy up what little there is to tidy after one night, and remind myself to be careful.
My track record with men is not great. I’m not known for attracting men who treat me right. Hell, I can’t even attract a man who doesn’t ask me to cosign for a loan on the fourth date. I’m such an idiot sometimes.
I’ve finally gotten my head straight by the time Oliver returns to officially check in.
And once again, I’m absolutely turning to mush when he smiles at me.
I try not to stare while I show him the carriage house, filling him in on local highlights, letting him know where the best cell reception is, and which festival vendors are tried-and-true and which are overpriced.
“Home sweet home. I hope you enjoy the festival, or whatever else you have planned,” I say.
“What else do I have planned?” He asks this like he really wants me to tell him.
“Oh, I don’t know. There’s hiking and stand-up paddleboarding. There’s a lake about 15 miles from here. You can rent supplies at the store downtown. Don’t mind Foster, though; his bark is worse than his bite. Oh gosh, I’m babbling. Sorry.”
I give a dry laugh and lift my gaze to the ceiling, hoping for the Rapture.
“I don’t mind. You’re a cute babbler.”
He winks. Oliver actually winks. And now he’s ten times more charming than before.
I’m toast.
“You’re very kind. And patient, and a charmer. I’ll get out of your way now.”
I head to the door, and as soon as my hand touches the brass handle, Oliver covers it with his.
Whoa.
“Wait. One more thing.”
“Yes?”
My lashes flutter like I’m daft.
“You said something about biscuits in the morning?”
I smile. “Yes.”
“I can’t wait to taste your biscuits again.”
My cheeks burn, and I self-consciously lick my lips.
Slowly, he lets go of my hand.
“You know what?” I say, summoning the confidence from somewhere. “Come on up to the house for breakfast tomorrow, again. I’d like the company.”
Oh no. Too far, Iris.
“I’d like that, too,” he says, all low and rumbly and too, too unsafe.
I shrug and try to look breezy. “I’d invite you over for dinner tonight too, but I’m going to be in my studio, working straight through until I pass out. I’ll probably shove a tofu dog in my face if I even remember to eat.”
“A tofu dog,” he repeats. “You’re a vegan?”
I shake my bead. “No, I just like fake meat sometimes.”
And now I’m thinking about dildos because I said fake meat, like the weirdo I am.
“Whatever you want to cook, I’ll eat. As long as it’s biscuits and real butter.”
I laugh unconvincingly. “I’m going to spoil you for fast-food biscuits forever. Two things I know how to do. Sew and make my MiMi’s biscuits.”
“I’ll just have to come back to Songbird Ridge every Saturday just for you,” Oliver says.
My conscience says, Be careful with this one. Guys who flirt this hard are always cheaters.
“I wouldn’t let you down,” I say with a flirtatious smile, because my ego is lapping up every morsel this man is dishing out.
“Have a good evening, Biscuit Lady.”
“You too, Oliver.”