"The cabin's ready?"
"Asked me that yesterday. And the day before. Yes, it's ready. I went up Wednesday, made sure everything's stocked, got the heat running, chopped extra firewood. It's perfect for your romantic weekend."
"It's not romantic. It's a charity obligation."
"Right. That's why you've been wound tighter than a trip wire for three days. Because it's an obligation." He leans against the workbench. "Man, just admit you like her."
I like her. More than like her. And I've only spent five minutes in her presence.
That should concern me. Should send up red flags. I don't do instant connections. Don't believe in love at first sight or any of that bullshit.
But there's something about Iris. Something that reached inside my chest and grabbed hold, and now I can't stop thinking about her. Making her smile. Figuring out what put that shadow I glimpsed behind her warmth.
"I'm going to clean up," I say instead of admitting anything. "Need to be at her place by six."
"It's two in the afternoon."
"I want to shower. Change. Make sure the truck's clean."
Jonah's grin widens. "You're primping for her."
"I'm being respectful."
"You detailed your truck. I saw you this morning, vacuuming the interior like your life depended on it."
I ignore him and head for the small bathroom at the back of the garage. He's not wrong, I did detail the truck. And I've already showered once today. And I laid out three different shirts this morning before settling on a dark henley.
This woman has me acting like a teenager, and I'm not sure whether to be annoyed or terrified.
At five-thirty, I'm parked outside her house on Magnolia Street, engine idling, forcing myself to wait. Showing up early screams desperate, and I'm trying to maintain some semblance of control here.
Her house is small, well-kept, with a neat front porch and flower boxes that are dormant now but probably bloom beautifully in spring. There's a warm glow in the front windows, and I can see movement inside. She's home. Probably getting ready. Maybe nervous, like I am.
At exactly six o'clock, I kill the engine and walk to her front door. My leg aches from the cold, but I ignore it. I've dealt with worse. I knock. The door opens almost immediately, and there she is.
Iris, wearing jeans and a soft green sweater that makes her eyes even more vivid. Her hair is down, falling in waves around her shoulders, and she's got a nervous smile on her face that makes me want to pull her close and tell her she has nothing to be nervous about.
"Hi," she says, and that one word in her sweet voice makes the long wait worth it
"Hi." I have to clear my throat. "You ready?"
"Yeah. Just let me grab my bag—"
"I'll get it." I step inside before she can protest, and immediately the scent of vanilla and something floral wraps around me. This is her space. Her home. And she's letting me into it.
The interior is cozy, worn furniture that looks comfortable, books stacked on every surface, photos on the walls. I spot a younger Iris with an older man who must be her father. Both of them are smiling, but there's something fragile about it. Like they're holding onto happiness with both hands.
Her bag is by the door. I pick it up, heavier than it looks, and turn to find her watching me with an unreadable expression.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing. Just... you really don't have to carry my bag."
"I want to."
"Why?"
Because taking care of you feels right. Because I like being useful. Because the thought of you carrying anything heavy when I'm here makes something primal rise up in me.
