Today, it was scones. A new recipe Liv Markham had shared at the book club, one she’d sworn was foolproof and guaranteed to produce light, flaky, buttery perfection. Cranberry-orange. Sure enough, the rhythmic, familiar process of cutting cold butter into flour, the gentle folding of the dough, and the bright scent of orange zest and tart cranberries helped to calm the frantic flapping in my chest.
The scones baked, filling the cavernous kitchen with a warm, comforting aroma that did battle with the lingering scent of ancient dust and despair. This allowed my mind, inevitably, to replay yesterday.
He’s probably locked himself in his house, barricaded the doors, and is currently fashioning a garlic wreath to ward me off,I thought with a grimace.Or maybe he’s just decided I’m too much trouble. A walking, talking liability he wants nothing further to do with.
The thought sent a sharp pang through me. That kiss had been a hurricane, tearing down all his defenses. But nothing was preventing him from waking up and starting to mortar the bricks back into place.
The scones, thankfully, emerged from the oven looking like something straight out of a glossy baking magazine—light, perfectly golden, an absolute triumph. Maybe Captain Grumpy would appreciate a scone? Or was that pushing my luck too far into the realm of desperate, slightly unhinged neighbor?
“Oh, for crying out loud, who cares? I’m already a certified disaster in his eyes. What’s one more pastry offering?”
I arranged half a dozen of the best-looking scones on a plate, covered them with a fresh napkin, and, with a surge of what felt more like reckless abandon than genuine courage, marched them over to Austin’s front porch. His truck was gone, so I scribbled a brief, carefully neutral note.
More kitchen experiments!These cranberry-orange scones actually turned out pretty well. Thought you might like to try one. Or six.
Iris.
I proppedit against the plate. No P.S. this time. I didn’t want to press my luck with sprinkler-related humor.
I spent the rest of the long Saturday trying to lose myself inKey West Affair, but the romantic travails of the heroine seemed pale and unconvincing compared to the reality of the awkward and confusing drama unfolding right next door. Every creak of Heron House, every distant drone from a passing boat, made me jump, my gaze darting toward Austin’s house.
I crawled into my bed that night, still out of sorts. Austin’s truck was back, and the scones were gone from his porch. I’d checked, peering through the spunky hibiscus hedge like a highly caffeinated spy, but there had been no word, no sign, from him.
The silence was a deafening contrast to the explosive heat of the kiss we’d shared. And I sure hadn’t imagined how he had reacted. The way his tongue had skated over mine. But with nothing to fill the silence but my thoughts and very vivid memories, a sinking feeling settled in my gut.
Sunday morning brought more of the same. Echoing stillness from Austin’s house. And, more alarmingly, continued silence from Mick Riley. No truck. No crew. No returned phone calls.
The knot of dread in my stomach tightened into a cold, hard fist of fury.
“That’s it,” I declared to the jaunty mug I was currently filling with what was rapidly becoming my stress-fueled beverage of choice—very strong, very black coffee. “He’s fired. Officially. Irrevocably. Fired.”
I dialed Mick’s number again, my thumb jabbing at thescreen with righteous indignation. Of course he didn’t pick up.
“Mick Riley.” My voice was clear, firm, and vibrating with barely suppressed rage. “This is Iris Holloway. Again. Since you have apparently decided to abandon the job and left my property in a dangerous and unsecured state, please consider this official notification that your services are no longer required. You are fired. For breach of contract and gross negligence. I expect a full refund of my deposit.” I ended the call with a satisfying click, my hand trembling only slightly.
There. Done. Good riddance to bad, lazy, unreliable rubbish.
I didn’t expect to hear back, let alone get my deposit returned, but I felt better for having said it. A wave of both triumphant relief and terrifying responsibility washed over me.
“Now what?”
I was alone with a half-sided house, a mountain of interior demolition that looked like a plaster-coated war zone, and no contractor. How in heckfire—see, professionalism!—was I going to find a replacement? Someone who wouldn’t try to rip me off or treat me like an idiot? I clearly had terrible judgment when it came to contractors. Austin had been right about Riley from the start.
Austin…
My mind snagged on the memory of his words from a few days ago:“My brother-in-law, Chase, is an architect…”
A tiny, desperate seed of an idea began to sprout. Could I? Dare I?
I paced my chaotic kitchen, the pros and cons warring in my head. Asking Austin Coleridge for another favor, especially a favor involving his family, after I’d already assaulted his prize-winning shrubbery and then, even morehorrifyingly, assaulted him with my lips… it was mortifying beyond belief. Especially since he’d been incommunicado since. He probably thought I was dangerous. Or worse, that I was chasing him?
Oh, sugar, this is awful.
My cheeks burned at the thought.
But I needed help. Real, professional, trustworthy help. And the thought of blindly picking another contractor from some anonymous online review site felt like playing Russian roulette with Aunt Constance’s legacy and my rapidly dwindling sanity.
I spent a good hour, possibly two, hemming and hawing, brewing another pot of coffee I didn’t need, and staring out the window at Austin’s silent, shuttered house as if it held the answers to all my problems. At last, late that afternoon, the familiar sight of his dark-blue pickup truck pulling into his driveway greeted me.
