Holloway stepped hesitantly into my living room, her eyes darting around as if she’d just entered an alien spacecraft. Which, compared to the chaotic jungle of Heron House, my home probably was. She looked so out of place, a brightly colored, slightly disheveled tropical bird that had somehow flown into a minimalist art gallery. Her presence, her nervous energy, and the sweet scent of her damn cookies filled my carefully ordered space.
Without comment, I turned and led her into the kitchen. Cookies belonged in the kitchen.
Her eyes darted around the room, taking in the clean counters, the gleaming maple Shaker cabinets, the lack of clutter, the restored Dade County pine floors that shone with a hand-rubbed luster. Probably comparing it to the disaster zone she was inhabiting next door. A strange, inexplicable urge to apologize for its neatness rose in me. Which made zero sense.
“You can, uh, put that there.” Gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen table, I was still off-kilter, like the deck ofLine Dancerin a sudden squall.
“Oh. Right. Thank you.”
She placed the basket down with an almost reverent care, as if it contained fragile, priceless artifacts. An awkward silence descended, thick and heavy as pre-hurricane air. I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, trying to project an aura of unconcerned detachment I was far from feeling.
She stood by the table, fidgeting with the ribbon on the basket. Her gaze landed on the cluster of fishing rods propped in the corner. Tools of my trade, symbols of my escape, an integral part of my identity. To her, they were probably just sticks.
“Fishing rods, huh?” she asked, her voice still a little breathless. “You fish a lot?” She was clearly grasping at conversational straws.
“It’s my job,” I said, my tone brief. “I run charters out of Sunset Siesta. It’s our family’s resort on the western edge of Dove Key.”
“Oh! You are a captain. That’s… that’s really something.” She paused, then rushed on, a delicate pink flush rising in her cheeks. “I’ve been fishing! At summer camp as a kid. Caught a trout, or maybe it was a bass. It was very small.”
She finished with an earnest nod, then blinked rapidly as she apparently realized how that sounded to a man who caught marlin for a living. She gestured with her hands, indicating something the size of a minnow, and shot me a fleeting smile.
I almost snorted. It was clueless yet somehow utterly, disarmingly sincere. The way she was blushing now, a deep crimson spreading from her neck to her hairline, like she’d just confessed a heinous crime instead of a minor fishing inadequacy. It was…
Endearing?
No. That was absolutely not the word.
Just less actively annoying than the sprinkler incident. Yeah, that was better. The color in her face reminded me of dawn on the water. Dammit, I was staring.
“Oh, shucks and sticks. I’m sure that sounded really stupid.” Her voice came out hushed, her gaze fixed on the floorboards. “Comparing my… my trout… to what you do.”
A beat of silence stretched. Then, I heard myself say, “No. It’s just different, Iris.”
The use of her first name hung in the air, a small but significant shift, like the tide turning. Her head snapped up, and our eyes held.
“Deep-sea fishing is a bit more involved than pulling a trout out of a lake, but it’s the same principle.” I almost smiled. The corner of my mouth might have twitched. It was hard to tell.
The blush on her cheeks softened, replaced by a hesitant, shy smile that did strange, unwelcome things to my insides. “I can imagine.”
The tension in the kitchen eased a fraction. The air was still charged, but the immediate threat of open warfare—or at least a stern lecture on property boundaries—seemed to have receded.
“Oh! I went to Bookshop in Paradise today and met Brenna,” she offered, as if trying to establish common ground. “She mentioned you. That you were her brother.”
“Brenna talks too much,” I said, but there was no real heat in it.
“She was very nice.” Warmth filled her voice. “She invited me to her book club. To get to know people.”
“That sounds like her.”
The book club. Of course. Next, Iris would be organizing neighborhood potlucks and trying to get me to participate in a group singalong. The thought was horrifying.I leaned back against the counter to ground myself in reality.
“Well…” Iris glanced toward the door as if suddenly remembering she was in enemy territory. “I should let you get back to whatever it is sea captains do when their hibiscus hasn’t been destroyed.” She gave a self-deprecating grimace. “Thank you for letting me apologize. Properly this time.”
Thick, awkward silence stretched for a beat. I just watched her, this whirlwind of earnest apology and accidental destruction. My default setting was a curt nod and a retreat into monosyllables. But instead, unbidden words emerged.
“The hedge will recover.” My voice came out rough, like an engine that hadn’t been run in a while. I cleared my throat. “Yesterday, I might have been… abrupt.” Abrupt was an understatement. “You, uh, caught me off guard.”
Her head, which had started to droop, lifted slightly. A flicker of surprise, maybe even hope, sparked in those wide blue eyes.
