“More than painless,” I replied. “It was wonderful.”
I walked back to Heron House with the new book tucked under my arm and Liv’s number safe in my contacts. The air was soft, fragrant with tropical flowers. Dove Key, which had felt so daunting just a few days ago, was starting to feel different.
Smaller. Friendlier.
Like a place where a thirty-year-old woman with a dream about a rambling old house and a love of baking might actually find her footing. Aunt Constance’s letter feltlike a quiet blessing, and Liv’s offer of friendship and mentorship a practical lifeline.
Maybe I could pull this off.
And maybe the pastry offensive needed to continue. I could bake something else for my grumpy, handsome sea-captain neighbor. Just to see if I could make him almost smile again. Surprisingly, the thought didn’t fill me with terror. It filled me with a curious, hopeful, and possibly inappropriate little flutter.
Chapter Seven
AUSTIN
My surf rodbent in a familiar, satisfying arc, the braided line hissing through the guides as the lure sailed out over the breakers. I worked the shoreline behind my house, the wet sand cold and firm beneath my bare feet, my movements a practiced, meditative rhythm. This wasn’t work. This was church. Out here, with the sky beginning to blush from indigo to a soft, promising lavender, I wasn’t Captain Coleridge.
I was just Austin.
When nothing bit, I reeled my line in and cast again. And again. It wasn't about the catch. It was the nervous flicker of baitfish in the shallows, the gentle tug of the current on the line. A conversation with the ocean that settled my mind and scoured away the week’s tensions.
When the sun was fully clear of the horizon, throwing a glittering path of gold across the water, I reeled in for the last time. An easy, private smile touched my lips. The hook was bare, but my head was clear. A fair trade.
I walked back toward my house, the peace of the morning a comfortable weight on my shoulders. It was only as I was rinsing salt and sand from my gear at the outdoor spigot that I saw it. As if materialized out of pure nerve, a plate was propped on my porch swing, covered with a familiar faded floral napkin, a folded note beside it.
Frowning, I stowed my gear and wiped my hands as I strolled toward the patio. Hints of cinnamon carried on the breeze.
Holloway.
Iris.
Whatever.
A mix of resignation and, dammit, a flicker of reluctant anticipation settled in my gut. What culinary weapon had she deployed this time? Another batch of those surprisingly tasty cookies? Or had she branched out? Experimented? That thought was vaguely alarming, given her track record with other forms of experimentation.
I picked up the note with a sigh that felt older than my thirty-four years. Her handwriting was a loopy, enthusiastic script, the kind that probably dotted its i’s with little circles or hearts.
Austin,
I was experimentingin the kitchen again and ended up making waaaay too much of this coffee cake. Enough to feed a very hungry army. You’d be doing me a huge favor if you could help me eat some of it, so it doesn’t go to waste. Hope you like cinnamon!
Iris
P.S. No sprinklers were harmed in the making of this cake.
“Made too much. Right.”
I arched a brow at her use of my first name, unable to decide whether that was progress or presumption, then narrowed my eyes at the plate. As if I didn’t know a strategic pastry deployment when I saw one. The woman was relentless. But the excuse, the sheer, transparently well-intentioned ridiculousness of it, was so… Iris. And the postscript coaxed a rough sound from my throat that might have been a laugh. If I were a different kind of man.
I took the plate inside, the scent of cinnamon and baked apples already teasing my nostrils. When I lifted the napkin, the coffee cake looked surprisingly professional, a generous slab with a crumbly, golden-brown topping. I poured some coffee and cut myself a slice.
As if on cue, the first discordant sounds of battle erupted from next door. The guttural roar of a generator followed swiftly by the whining screech of a power saw.
My jaw tightened. “Damn it, woman.”
The coffee cake, however, was undeniably edible. Okay, pretty good. Well-spiced, with chunks of apple and topped with a buttery, cinnamon-laced crumble. Blocking out the noise, I chewed slowly, savoring the taste despite myself. It was a damn pity she couldn’t manage a construction crew or basic plumbing with the same competence.
After finishing, I returned outside, ostensibly to inspect the new growth on my still-recovering hibiscus hedge. I glanced at my watch, confirming I didn’t need to be on the boat for another hour. But my attention, as it often did these days, was drawn inexorably toward the racket next door.
