Bill says something about not liking heights and clangs noisily back down the stairs. A moment later, Iris appears at my side, smiling.
“Let me guess,” she says, tone dry, “you hate it?”
I glance at her, chest aching. The blue of her beanie makes her eyes even more vivid, and I swear I could fall into them. I could drown in those eyes.
“I don’t hate it, Cupcake,” I say, voice pitching low.
Fire kindles in her eyes, her breath catching at my use of her nickname. Maybe I shouldn’t have said it, but I don’t care. She swallows, and my gaze falls to her mouth, lingering. Longing. Wishing. Heat curls through me when her tongue darts out to moisten her lips, and I lean forward, overtaken by a force beyond my control.
“Ready?” Bill calls impatiently from the bottom of the stairs, and we jump.
But instead of leaning back and breathing out in relief, grateful to be interrupted from doing something monumentally stupid, disappointment slices through me. Iris sighs, heading back down the metal stairs, and my heart sinks. Because I was going to kiss her.
I’m running out of reasons not to.
I release a long, unsteady breath, dragging both hands down my face. Then I clomp back down the steps, out into the freezing air.
We thank Bill for his time, climbing into my car in loaded silence. I start the engine, unsure where I’m going. We’ve still got a few hours to kill until our evening meeting, and it’s too early to grab something to eat. I drive aimlessly back into town, pulling into a parking spot on Main Street. I can’t stand the silence between us, and mentally search for something to say.
“The lighthouse isn’t too bad,” I murmur at last. “We’ll need a structural report, but from what I can tell, the bones appear to be solid.”
Iris twists in her seat to look at me. “The views were incredible, weren’t they? There’s so much potential there.”
I nod, stroking my beard absently as I study her, wanting to ask her to take the lead on this project, like she did with the studios. I’m certain she’d come up with something better than I could for such a unique space, but something’s holding me back.
Motioning to the row of stores along Main Street, I smile. “Want to explore a little?”
Her brows rise. “Really?”
“Sure.” I lift a shoulder. “You thought the town looked cute, right? Let’s check it out. We’ve got time to kill.”
A smile touches her lips. “Okay.”
We step from the car, wrapping up against the icy wind blowing in off the ocean at the end of the street. Iris leads the way along Main Street, past The Saltbox Cafe and a place called Ed’s Hardware, pausing outside Tide’s End Bookstore to look at their window display. False cherry blossoms and “spring reads” are already up, which feels a little premature, especially when I glance at the heavy gray clouds pressing in, promising snow.
Iris asks if I want to go inside, but I shake my head, and we continue on. We pass a pizza place called The Salty Slice,but both agree it’s too early to eat, so we make a note to circle back. Then, Iris pauses outside a women’s boutique called The Mariner’s Daughter, peering into the window.
“Want to go in?” I ask.
She shakes her head, turning to go, but I stop her.
“Yes, you do.”
“It’s fine.” She waves a hand. “I’d never do that to you.”
I lift my brows. Is that a challenge?
Without waiting for another word from her, I open the door and step into the warmth of the store. I hear her laughter through the door, and with a playful roll of her eyes, she eventually follows. A bell trills on the door as she does, the shopkeeper glancing up to greet us.
“You don’t have to do this,” Iris murmurs at my side.
“We’ve got hours to kill, Iris. Take your time.”
I wander over to inspect a rack of scarves, less out of interest and more in an attempt to encourage her to look around. With a sigh, she turns to a rack of blouses with a SALE sign hanging on the front. I watch from the corner of my eye as she grabs a few then heads toward the fitting rooms. She stops at the last minute, reaching for a dress hanging nearby, adding that to her pile before slipping behind the curtain.
I pull my phone out and lean against the wall beside the fitting rooms, checking emails. One from John, reminding me not to miss the evening meeting, and irritation fizzles in my gut. Has he always been so patronizing?
Before I can follow this line of thought any further, Iris steps from the fitting room to check her reflection in the large full-length mirror. She’s in a cream-colored blouse, dotted with tiny red hearts. I try to keep my eyes trained on my phone, but as she turns in front of me, I lose the battle. My gaze drifts up the trail of red heart buttons on the front, pausing at the V-necklineexposing the faintest hint of cleavage, before meeting her gaze in the mirror. Her cheeks flush.
