“Well, shit,” she muttered, then clapped a hand over her mouth, her cheeks flushing a delightful shade of pink. “Sugar! Professionalism, Iris. I meant… Oh, son of a biscuit!” She looked utterly exasperated with herself.
I stared at her, my mouth open. The absurdity of her self-correction in the face of a potential structural disaster was so profoundly Iris that a strange sound escaped me. It might have been a laugh. I quickly suppressed it, turning it into a cough.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice carefully neutral, though the image of her invoking biscuits in a moment of stress was going to stick with me. “Well.”
She saw my reaction. “I’m, uh, trying to decrease my swearing.” Her voice dropped a little, as if sharing a profound secret. “For the B&B, you know. When I become an official hostess, I’ll need to use less salty language.” She offered an almost apologetic smile.
I just blinked at her. The woman was trying to stop swearing while renovating a certifiable money pit with a dubious contractor. I mentally addedtalks like a deranged kindergarten teacher when annoyedto my ever-expanding list of baffling things about Iris Holloway.
“Anyway,” she continued, clearly wanting to steer theconversation away from Riley and her bizarre linguistic choices. “Mick says they’ll be moving the majority of the work inside soon. Starting on the en-suite bathrooms for the guest rooms. So hopefully that will mean less noise for you.” She offered me another of those hopeful, slightly anxious smiles.
En-suites. In that old wreck.
Ambitious didn’t even begin to cover it.
“Right. Bathrooms.” The image of tangled, ancient plumbing lines and rotted floor joists flashed through my mind. “Well. Just… keep an eye on things.”
“I will,” she said, her voice firm. “Thank you, Austin. For the heads-up.”
The sincerity in her tone, the way she stared at me then, not with fear but with a kind of reluctant gratitude, did something strange to the usual knot in my gut. It didn’t exactly loosen it, but it shifted. Made it feel less like anger and more like… Hell, I didn’t know what. And I wasn’t about to stop swearing.
I just nodded, a curt dip of my chin. “Thanks for the coffee cake. Gotta get to work.”
Then I turned and walked back toward my property. A final glance revealed her standing there, her expression thoughtful and a little worried as the distant laughter of Mick Riley echoed across the yard.
Chapter Eight
AUSTIN
That evening,after a productive charter, the familiar scent of salt-tinged woodsmoke drew me toward the beach. A bonfire was already crackling in the family’s usual spot near the home we’d grown up in, spitting sparks into the dusky sky. The residence was a distance down the beach from the resort, affording the family some privacy.
Harper and Chase were now fully settled into the house in the distance, but a quick scan showed no sign of them around the fire. Several driftwood logs were pulled up close to the flames. I hadn’t planned on joining our semi-regular family gathering, but the thought of sitting alone in my house, stewing over my chaotic neighbor, was even less appealing.
Our eldest brother, Ben, was perched on one of the logs with a glossy brochure from Monroe County Community College. He’d been an EMT with the Dove Key Fire Department for a solid four months now, and by all accounts, including his captain’s, he was doing a damngood job. Ben had almost blushed when he recounted to me how Rick had recently pulled him aside, told him he had a knack for it, and said he should seriously consider going for his paramedic certification. It had always been Ben’s dream, the one he was too afraid to reach for. The brochure was a clear indicator he was mulling it over.
Braden was poking at the fire with a long piece of driftwood, a bucket of ice next to him. He glanced up as I approached. “And Austin makes it complete! Look at us, the last of the wild Coleridges.” He let out a dramatic sigh. “The domesticated ones are no doubt at home knitting matching sweaters.”
I grunted, a smile touching my lips. “Maybe they’ve just got better things to keep them warm than a fire and our ugly faces.”
“Touché,” Braden conceded, grinning. His blue eyes held equal amounts of humor and shrewdness. He grabbed the growler from the bucket and poured some into a pint glass. “This is my new IPA on tap. Hopical Storm. Figured you’d appreciate the name.”
He handed me the glass, and I nodded my thanks. We Coleridges varied in our hair and eye color. Eli and Braden had the lightest hair, I had the darkest. Ben was in between, similar to Harper’s shade. Only Brenna got the tinge of red.
I nudged Ben with my knee. “Contemplating a higher education, old man?”
Ben snapped his head up, alarm flashing in his green eyes before he folded the paramedic-program brochure neatly and tucked it into his pocket. “Something like that. Rick’s been on my case about it.” He took a sip of his Hopical Storm. “Still thinking. I just got done with EMT school. Not sure I want even more.”
I knew better than to push. “Plenty of time to decide.”
He barked a laugh. “Not really. The new semester starts next week. I need to fish or cut bait, to use a metaphor you’d appreciate.”
“See, you’re already sounding all educated. Using big words like metaphor.” I lifted the glass to my lips. The beer was perfect—hoppy, crisp, with a citrusy bite that cut through the lingering taste of salt and diesel from the day. Braden excelled at his chosen profession. I gave him a nod. “Not bad.”
“Just not bad?” Braden feigned offense. “That, my brother, is liquid gold. So, Captain Grumbles, how’s life next to the ongoing symphony of destruction? Still getting those daily serenades via power tool and off-key pop song?”
I already regretted complaining to him about the noise. “It’s a work in progress. Hers, mostly. At least I’m getting breakfast out of it.” My mouth rarely betrayed me, but as soon as the sentence left my lips, I knew I was toast.
Braden, who’d been about to toss another piece of wood on the fire, froze mid-motion. He slowly lowered the log, his eyes zeroing in on me like a barracuda spotting a wounded snapper.
