Things were changing, whether I wanted them to or not. When I pulled my shirt off in the bathroom, I caught a whiff of Iris’s scent. The unfamiliar lightness in my chest battled with a deep, familiar sense of dread. And hell if I wasn’t entirely sure which one was going to win.
Chapter Seventeen
IRIS
“You'recertain that going with cypress on the porch ceiling is the right call, even with the humidity?” I squinted up at the bare joists of the wide, wraparound veranda. My gaze dropped to the sample board, which was undeniably lovely. I could already imagine the tight grain with its natural honey-to-reddish-brown tones stretching along the length of the ceiling.
Gus glanced up from the support beam he was inspecting. “Hundred percent.” His deep voice resonated with an authority that soothed my nerves. “We seal it right, front and back, it’ll outlast both of us. It’s what this house wants, Iris. You try to put cheap composite up there, an old girl like this, she’ll just reject it. Spit it right back out in the first decent tropical storm.”
A smile burst across my face. It had only been a week since Gus and his crew descended upon Heron House, and already the entire property felt different. The air, once thick with the lonely scent of dust and decay, now smelledof freshly cut lumber, sawdust, and the determined energy of progress. A crew of four men swarmed the exterior, their nail guns creating a steady, reassuring rhythm. Inside, another crew was deep in the demolition of the third floor, their work careful and planned.
Gus was a direct answer to a prayer I hadn’t even realized I’d been screaming internally. He was calm, professional, and he actually listened to my ideas before gently explaining why some were brilliant and others would lead to structural collapse. I sensibly nixed those.
But now I was left with a restive energy. Gus had a detailed schedule, a binder thick with permits, and a crew that knew exactly what they were doing. My role had shifted from crisis manager to, well, the lady who occasionally brought out cold lemonade and cookies while trying not to get in the way.
Which left my mind with entirely too much free time to drift next door.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, a hopeful flutter in my chest. It was a text from Brenna.
Brenna: Tour of Dove Key still on? I'm in desperate need of a non-book-related conversation. Meet me at Driftwood Beach in a half hour?
I typed back quickly.
Iris: Absolutely! See you there!
A thrill ran through me. I’d been looking forward to this all morning. With Gus and his army of capable workers handling Heron House, I finally had an outlet for that new restlessness—an exploration of my new town. To see it through the eyes of someone who knew its secrets.
“Gus, I’m heading out for a bit,” I called over the rhythmic hammering. “My friend is giving me a tour of the area.”
He looked up. “Good for you. This old house is ingood hands. We’ll keep making progress while you’re gone.”
“I have no doubt. I’m so grateful to have you here.”
Maybe spending a few hours with Austin's sweet, friendly sister would help me get a better handle on the complicated man himself. Or at the very least, it would be a conversation that didn’t involve me wondering if he was thinking about jumping me half as much as I thought that about him.
The past week had been a revelation. We had fallen into a strange, unspoken rhythm. He’d leave for a charter early, and I’d wake up to find a large, steaming thermos of his strong, black coffee left for me. A silent offering that was more intimate than a dozen roses. In the evenings, he’d find a flimsy excuse to come over, to “check on Gus’s progress” or to return an empty plate from whatever test bake I’d left for him.
And we’d actually talk. Austin was still reserved, but his walls were lower, the silences between us more comfortable. He acted less like heavy dental work was preferable to conversation. We’d even worked together on his hibiscus hedge one afternoon, a surprisingly easy and companionable task that ended with a long, hand-in-hand stroll along the north-shore beach as the sun melted into the horizon. And later…
Oh my stars.
We had spent nearly every night together since… well, since the conflagration, as I had taken to calling it. It had been a blur of tangled sheets and a raw, consuming passion that left me breathless and sore in the best possible way. When he touched me, when he looked at me in the quiet moments after, his gray eyes soft and unguarded, I felt seen. In a way I wasn’t sure I ever had before.
I walked to Driftwood Beach on the eastern edge ofthe Key, then down a long, zigzagging wooden staircase. Brenna was already there, her long, auburn hair a bright spot of color against the dark wood and pale sand. Her smile was pure warmth.
“There you are!” she called, waving me over. We headed toward the south end of the beach, where a structure grew larger as we neared. “This is our local celebrity: The Driftwood Dragon.”
The dragon was even more impressive up close—a whimsical, silent sentinel pieced together from the sea’s offerings. Its twisted driftwood body curved gracefully along the shoreline, weathered smooth by salt and time, creating something both ancient and timeless.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, brushing my hand along one of the dragon’s smooth curves. “How long has it been here?”
“The first one was built ages ago.” Brenna patted the arching neck of the sculpture. “But this version? Only a year or so. Every big storm takes some or all of it, and the community just rebuilds it. It’s never exactly the same dragon twice.”
There was something soothing about that—the idea of something being destroyed and rebuilt over and over but somehow maintaining its essential spirit. Like resilience made manifest in salt-smoothed wood.
We strolled back up the beach in comfortable silence, watching the waves roll in.
“So,” Brenna said, “how are things going with the house? And with life in general?”
