The man interjects. “They didn’t get matched by you. That’s just plain bad luck.”
“You’re sweet, honey.”
I smell coffee and waffles wafting through the window. In the yard, bumblebees drink from blooming bright pink azaleas. A tiny Carolina wren in a dogwood tree chitters, “tea-kettle, tea-kettle, tea-kettle.”
Spring has me in a chokehold.
I don’t know what comes over me, but before I know what’s happening, I’m lifting the iron latch, creaking open the wooden side gate, and letting myself into the backyard paradise.
Four
Iris
As I pour the coffee, I happen to look past Maddie’s shoulder and see something moving in the backyard. Something human.
Someone tall, dark, with an imposing build is staring at my koi.
I’m so startled, I spill some of the coffee on the floor.
“Oh my gosh, someone’s out there!”
Ewan is immediately on his feet, but I’m already opening the French doors that lead to the back patio.
“Iris, stay inside. I’ll get rid of him,” Ewan orders, but I ignore him.
Maddie asks, “Should I call 9-1-1?”
“It’s probably just a lost tourist who saw my flowers and wandered into the yard. I should add a code to the side gate as well,” I mutter.
No one answers me. I follow Ewan and Maddie outside.
I am nice, but assertive.
“Excuse me…can I help you?” I can’t help but feel protective when someone is staring right at my very expensive koi. I’veheard horror stories in the social media group dedicated to this hobby about people walking right up and stealing fish in the middle of the day.
The man looks up from the tall grass around the pond. His large frame, I now realize, is even taller and more built up close. His tee-shirt is slightly stretched over his arms, one of them heavily tattooed, and his tiny hoop earrings glint in the sunlight. He has a kind face and doesn’t look like someone who came to steal from me.
I’ve been living alone for several years now, and out of self-preservation, I’ve learned how to size people up quickly. This man doesn’t have the guilty look, or the deer-in-headlights look, or even the shameless sociopath look.
He looks up at me with a faint smile and softness in his devastating blue eyes. “Iris?”
Though it’s barely sixty degrees Fahrenheit this morning, my neck feels suddenly hot, and the backs of my knees are sweating.
Have you ever met someone so beautiful you could barely look at them? That’s the feeling I have right now.
This complete stranger who knows my name is standing in my garden, towering over me and my helpless little fish babies, with his tattoos and bulging muscles, and he knows my name. My eyes can’t take in all this rugged, hot perfection, so I stare at his hands.
They are big, rough, veiny, and strangely familiar.
Think about it for a minute, Iris. You know who this is.
The potter. Relief floods through me. I recognize him from his profile picture in the app. The picture of only his hands. I remember because I’d said to myself, “Those hands belong to somebody hot, somebody I’d throw my life away for. Be careful.”
I look back at his face and stare at the dark whiskers on his chin.
“You’re…” I swallow hard because even that chin is too sexy to be real.
He waits patiently, and finally, I get the words out.
