There was no judgment in his tone, just a statement of fact, but my cheeks burned anyway at the memory of my previous, disastrous attempt.
It was like that kiss existed in some alternate universe, a bizarre, heat-fueled blip on the radar of our otherwise prickly neighborly relations. Part of me, the sensible, self-preservation part, was immensely relieved. Another, smaller part felt a ridiculous pang of disappointment.
“No! I mean, yes! Help would be, er, amazing,” I stammered, pushing aside the confusing tangle of my emotions. The practical relief of knowing that siding would be properly secured was overwhelming. “Thank you, Austin. Really.”
Okay, Iris. Professional. Neighborly. Pretend Friday didn’thappen. Pretend your lips aren’t still tingling with the memory of his. Pretend he’s just a capable, somewhat grumpy, distractingly handsome, and surprisingly helpful Good Samaritan with a sexy tool belt.
“We can nail up the rest of it in no time. Can’t leave the moisture barrier exposed like that.”
Working with Austin was… intense. He was all focused competence, his movements economical and precise. He set up the two ladders with an efficiency that made my earlier efforts look like a slapstick comedy routine. He showed me, with patience I wouldn’t have thought him capable of, how to hold my end of the long siding boards steady while he expertly wielded the nail gun, its loud, percussive reports echoing in the humid air.
There was a lot of close proximity. More than once, his arm brushed against mine as we maneuvered a particularly unwieldy board, sending a jolt of awareness zinging through me that had nothing to do with static electricity. The scent of him surrounded me. It was a potent brew of sunshine, clean male sweat, and something musky and enticingly male. I tried to focus on not dropping my end of the siding, on not staring at the way the muscles in his forearms flexed as he handled the nail gun with such easy, masculine grace.
It was not easy.
To break the charged silence, and to distract myself from the entirely inappropriate direction of my thoughts, I started asking questions.
“You seem to know a lot about old houses,” I began, trying for a light, conversational tone. “And power tools. Is that a prerequisite for being a fishing captain in the Keys?”
He didn’t look at me, his attention fixed on aligning the next board. For a moment, I thought he might just grunt and ignore me. But he didn’t.
“Grew up at Sunset Siesta.” His voice was still gruff,but less guarded than usual as he spoke of something familiar. “It’s the family resort. An old place, so something always needing fixing, something else falling apart. You pick things up. Or you learn to swim fast when the dock collapses under you.”
The corner of my mouth twitched. A hint of humor? From Austin Coleridge? Wonders would never cease. “Brenna mentioned your family has owned it for a long time?”
He nodded, sighting down the edge of the board. “Over a hundred years. Coleridges have been in Dove Key longer than there’s been a decent road connecting it to the mainland.” There was a low-key pride in his voice, an understated connection to this place that resonated deep within me, someone whose roots felt as shallow and scattered as sea grass in a storm.
“It’s in our blood, I guess,” he continued, the rhythmicthwack-thwack-thwackof the nail gun punctuating his words. There was a touch of weary affection in his tone now. “The resort. The water. This damn island. At one point, we owned most of Dove Key, but it was sold off over the years. Now the resort is all we have left, except for what we own individually. We all learned to work hard. Had to, really, especially after Dad…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening as a shadow flickered in those stormy gray eyes.
The unspoken hung in the air between us. I didn’t press. I had never heard him utter so many words in one go.
He nodded with his head back toward his property. “I bought my house seven years ago. It was a bit better off than Heron House, but I spent a lot of sweat equity restoring it. Pretty much done now.”
“That’s impressive,” I said. “To have that kind of history, that deep connection to a place, to a family legacy.I’m an only child, and my mom and I… well, we moved around. I don’t think I’ve ever lived in one place for more than five years.”
He turned his head then, his gaze meeting mine, direct and intent. “And this place was what brought you down here?”
“Yes, Aunt Constance.” A smile touched my lips as I thought of her letter. “No one was more shocked than I was when she left it to me. And enough money to try and bring it back to life, may she rest in peace.” I paused, then, driven by a sudden curiosity, asked, “Did you know my Aunt Constance at all?”
Austin picked up the last piece of siding we needed to secure, running a calloused thumb along its edge. “Not well. She kept to herself mostly. A private woman. But this house…” He looked up at the section we’d just repaired, a flash of something in his eyes. Respect, maybe, for the old structure itself. “I helped her out with a few things over the years. A loose shutter after a storm, patching a section of that old porch roof once. Nothing major. She always wanted to pay me, but I wouldn’t take her money.”
A wave of warmth spread through me. So, he had known her, in his reserved, practical way. Then, a teasing thought popped into my head, too tempting to resist. “You know, first the sprinkler, now the siding… Maybe Heron House has cast some kind of spell over you, Captain. Dooming you to a life of fixing its—and its owner’s—never-ending disasters.”
I’d expected a scowl, or at least one of his signature dismissive grunts. Instead, to my utter astonishment, the corner of his mouth lifted. Then the other. And before I knew it, Austin Coleridge was actually, certifiably, smiling.
It wasn’t a wide, beaming grin. It was quieter, a subtle crinkling around his eyes and a softening around hismouth. But it was undeniably a smile. And it transformed his face, chasing away the shadows. His smile revealed a warmth and an unexpected, almost boyish charm that made my stomach perform a series of enthusiastic cartwheels.
“More like a damn curse,” he said, but the words held no heat, and the smile, that rare smile, still lingered. “This whole stretch of coastline is probably built on an ancient Calusa burial ground, doomed to perpetual renovation and quirky new neighbors.”
I laughed, a happy sound that echoed off the wall. “Well, I’ll try to keep the disasters to a minimum. No promises on the renovations, though.”
The smile faded slowly from his lips, replaced by that more familiar, thoughtful intensity, but the air between us was different. Lighter. As if that shared moment of humor had cleared away some of the lingering awkwardness, some of the unspoken tension.
He picked up his hammer again, all business once more. “Last board. Let’s get it done.”
We finished securing it, the satisfying thud of the last nail echoing in the sudden hush. For a moment, we just stood side-by-side on our respective ladders, a comfortable silence settling between us that was broken only by the rustle of the magnolia leaves.
“Well,” I said, trying for a light tone, “I think it’s safe to say I won’t be quitting my B&B dream to become a professional sider anytime soon. You, on the other hand, seem to be a natural.”
