“That’s really nice of you. Is there anything I can help with?”
She pats me on the chest and then smiles at me. “Enjoy yourself. Enjoy the town. And take some of this food with you. That’s all you need to do.”
I can’t help but notice something strangely dismissive in her tone. She’s not unkind, but it sort of sounds like Iris is trying to give me an out. Like she thinks I’m just being nice and offering her help because we just had sex, and I’m being polite.
Iris has a lot to learn about me.
But I don’t want to overwhelm her.
“Nah. I’m saving up my appetite for breakfast. Good night, Biscuit,” I say, pressing my lips to her forehead.
She laughs. “Good night, Ridiculous. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Ten
Iris
The next day, I wake with a deep twinge between my legs.
I’m hit with a fresh wave of emotion. What’s it called when you feel a little hungover and embarrassed but also giddy at the same time?
I throw on the outfit I have planned for today — a red wrap dress that is hopelessly out of date and yet so comfortable I can’t part with it. Though it shows off my curves, I negate all of that by pairing it with my favorite oversized cardigan, so I can remove a layer if the weather gets warm. Then, I reach for my phone and head downstairs. Next, coffee.
I start a fresh pot and pad over to the French doors, drawing back the curtains to peek across the yard.
All looks quiet at the carriage house.
I feel…different.
I’ve had my share of one-night stands before. I’ve even had anonymous sex once. None of the above ever made me smile like a freaking idiot the next morning. Usually, because they’vealready decided to ghost me. Alas, those are the kind of guys I pick.
Oliver is one of a kind.
I must have stood there and gazed at the carriage house for a full ten minutes because the beep of the coffee pot pulls me out of the moment.
I pour a cup, then intend to shoot a text to Skylar. But when I look at my phone, I notice I have half a dozen notifications.
Uh oh.
I scroll down and click the earliest one, which came in late last night. It’s from Maddie next door.
Maddie
Bridie Wilson was out walking her schnauzer and came knocking on my door about fifteen minutes ago, all in a tizzy about some shirtless man in your backyard. She wanted me to make sure you were okay. Are you?
Another text followed that one, again from Maddie.
I take my coffee and wander into the parlor, looking over at Maddie’s house to see if anyone’s awake over there yet. Does not look like it.
Oh god. If Bridie Wilson was so worried, why didn’t she call the police?
I think we all know the answer to that. If the town had trophies for gossip, Bridie would be the undefeated champion. She probably saw that Maddie’s office light was still on, and wanted to know if Maddie knew something she didn’t. Bridie wasn’t worried about me; she was going by history and vibes.
Back in the kitchen, I begin prepping breakfast, working up the nerve to read the rest of the messages I missed overnight.
While the biscuits are baking, I read the next text, this one from Skylar, sent at seven this morning.
Skylar
