It was a purely practical measure. So I wouldn’t have to keep trekking over to this disaster zone. That was all.
“Oh! Of course. Good idea.” She fumbled for her phone, her fingers slightly clumsy as she navigated the screen. We exchanged numbers, the brief brush of our fingers as I took her phone to input my information like a zap of static electricity. As soon as the transaction was complete, I experienced the overwhelming, desperate urge to escape.
“Right,” I said as I backed away. “Gotta go.”
I turned and fled back to the sanctuary of my porch, the scent of her banana bread still clinging to me, her phone number a dangerous addition to my mind. A light sweat broke out under my shirt, despite the relative coolness of the morning.
This was why.
This was exactly why I avoided people. Women. Complications. Closeness.
I’d had a short relationship with a tourist a year or so ago. Easy, no strings. She’d left when her vacation ended. That was my speed. I never got close to women, not really. Because closeness brought… this. This acute discomfort. This unsettling awareness. These emotions.
Emotions were dangerous.
Unpredictable.
Guerrilla fighters in the carefully ordered territory of my life.
I’d spent thirteen hard years systematically suppressing mine, burying them deep beneath layers of routine and solitude and the vast, indifferent expanse of the sea. The last thing I needed was for Iris Holloway, with her disastrous DIY skills, her wide, beautiful blue eyes, her surprisingly good banana bread, and her even more surprisingly addictive kiss, to start dredging up all that old pain. And all those feelings I’d fought so hard to lock away.
But as I stood on my porch, the echo of her hopefulthank youstill in my ears, I had a sinking feeling it might already be too late.
Chapter Thirteen
IRIS
My house hada bad case of the rattles.
More specifically, the temporarily nailed siding on the west wall of Heron House played a clattering drum solo that sounded like a skeleton trying to learn the cha-cha every time the wind blew in off the ocean. It had been like that for six long days—since Austin’s quick fix, which, while keeping the siding from falling, couldn’t stop the clatter. And I was becoming worried that every gust of wind was making it less secure.
And five days had passed since Chase Ashworth’s reassuring, if slightly terrifying, consultation. Chase had been a godsend. He’d put me in touch with two reputable local contractors. I’d scrambled to get bids, my stomach a knot of anxiety as I showed them around the glorious, crumbling money pit that was my inheritance. I’d gotten a wonderful vibe from one of them, and a quick call to Chase reinforced that Gus Davis was who he consulted when he presented with a thorny issue he needed helpwith. Chase also mentioned that Gus specialized in historic renovations. Yesterday, I’d signed a contract with him. And, miracle of miracles, he didn’t treat me like I was a clueless child playing house.
The only catch? He couldn’t start for another week. So, the siding continued to knock. A constant, visible reminder of my precarious situation.
I was out in the yard, ostensibly weeding a patch of ridiculously resilient ivy that seemed to thrive on neglect, but mostly I was just worrying. Worrying about the siding. Worrying about the budget. Worrying about the persistent flutter in my chest every time I thought about Austin and the kiss that had absolutely, positively, never happened. Except it totally had. And he hadn’t mentioned it since. Not a word. Not a flicker. It was like trying to pretend a rogue wave hadn’t just swamped your very small rowboat.
A shadow fell over me.
I looked up, shielding my eyes against the bright late-morning sun, my heart giving an immediate lurch.
Austin.
He stood there, a vision in faded denim and a plain gray T-shirt that did nothing to hide the impressive breadth of his shoulders. He had a sturdy-looking aluminum extension ladder propped against one of those shoulders and a serious-looking tool belt slung low on his hips. He looked too handsome, too competent, and entirely too much like he’d just stepped out of one of my more embarrassing daydreams.
“Morning, Iris,” he said, his voice its usual low rumble, though perhaps a fraction less… grumpy than usual? Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part.
“Austin! Good morning.” My voice came out a little breathless.Play it cool, Iris. He’s just a neighbor. A handsome, verygood-kissing neighbor who you may or may not have accosted last week. Nothing to see here.“What brings you over?”
He gestured with his chin toward the thumping siding. “That thing’s not going to hold through another decent squall like that. Figured since I’ve got a free morning and you’re waiting on your new contractor, we could get it properly secured. Don’t need it crashing down and taking out my hibiscus.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
I stared at him, dumbfounded. He was offering to help? Voluntarily? With actual tools and ladders that didn’t look like they’d collapse if a strong-willed seagull landed on them? After I’d practically mauled him with my face?
“You want to help me?” I managed, my brain struggling to process this unexpected development. “With the siding?”
“Got another ladder in the truck,” he said, as if that explained everything. “And a nail gun. Be faster. Unless you’d rather wrestle with it solo again. Your call.”
