“I’m trying,” she said, and I could hear the quiet pride in her voice. “This house has been neglected for a long time. I want to make sure we do right by her.”
I stood hidden in the shade, absolutely poleaxed. This was not the same woman who had tried to fix a sprinkler with a pair of rusty pliers and a vague memory of a YouTube video. Or who had blushed furiously over a story about catching a trout at summer camp. This was a woman discussing building envelopes and flashing techniques with a seasoned contractor.
She was a business owner.
And the respect I experienced was a companion to the relentless physical attraction that was a constant, low thrum in my blood. It made her more real. More formidable. And infinitely harder to dismiss as just a temporary complication.
The conversation between Iris and Gus wound down. He tipped his hat to her, said his goodbyes, and headed for his truck. Iris remained on the porch, her back to me, staring at the blueprints still spread across the makeshift table. Her posture was straight, confident.
The twitchy energy that had been plaguing me since Brenna’s call coalesced into a single, undeniable impulse. My feet started moving before my brain gave them permission.
I found my sharpest pruning shears, the ones I used for nothing else, and walked over to my hibiscus hedge. Theone she’d almost sent to a watery grave, the one we’d worked on together just a few days ago. It was recovering beautifully, new growth dotted with vibrant, defiant blooms. Carefully, with the precision of a surgeon, I snipped one flawless crimson flower. Its petals were a rich, bright velvet.
After dropping the shears, I walked through the gap in the hedge where a path was slowly but surely being worn. I went up the steps of her porch, the flower held carefully in my hand. The bloom felt both foolish and incredibly important.
It was an apology for every grumpy thought I’d ever had about her.
And a question I still didn’t know how to ask.
She must have heard my footsteps on the old wood. She turned, a question on her face, and her eyes widened when she saw me standing there holding the flower. I stopped in front of her, feeling strangely, uncharacteristically shy. I didn’t say anything. I just held out the flower.
She stared at the crimson bloom, then up at me, her blue eyes searching mine for a long, breathless moment. A slow, wondrous smile spread across her face, an expression of unguarded delight that made my heart do a two-step.
“Austin,” she breathed, her gaze dropping back to the perfect, velvety petals as she took it from me. She lifted it to her nose, inhaling its faint, sweet scent, her eyes gently closing for a second. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
“It’s a good one,” I managed, my voice rough. “Figured it belonged with you.”
She looked up at me again, her smile so soft it made my chest ache. I stepped forward and cupped her jaw, my thumb stroking the soft skin of her cheek. Her eyes fluttered, her lips parting on a soft breath.
Lowering my head, I touched my mouth to hers.
Her lips were soft, yielding, welcoming. The memory of our first, explosive encounter flared, but this was different. This was a slow, deliberate coming together. Slower. Deeper. More dangerous, maybe, because it felt less like a loss of control and more like a conscious surrender.
She leaned into me, the hibiscus still held carefully in one hand. This quiet, intimate moment on her porch, with the scent of sawdust and her perfume filling my senses, was more real than anything I’d allowed myself to feel in thirteen years.
I pulled back, reluctantly, my hand still cradling her face. Her eyes were dark, dazed, color high on her cheeks.
The memory of my phone call with Brenna, the one I’d been trying to shove into a dark corner of my mind, suddenly surfaced. The absurdity of the situation, of me standing here, kissing my neighbor just hours after my sister had interrogated me about her, hit me. A soft, unexpected laugh escaped me.
Iris blinked, a confused little frown appearing between her brows. “What’s so funny?”
“I, uh… I talked to Brenna earlier,” I admitted, feeling a fresh wave of heat creep up my neck. I dropped my hand from her face, needing the distance. “She mentioned her little tour of Dove Key yesterday.”
Iris’s eyes widened in dawning horror, then narrowed with a sharp glint of amusement. “Oh, did she? She casually mentioned knowing about you and me?”
“Something like that,” I grumbled, my usual defenses starting to reassert themselves now that our lips weren’t touching. “She has a way of extracting information in unexpected ways. I didn’t even know you two had met.”
“Well, you knew I joined her book club,” she teased, her smile returning. “It’s not a huge leap in logic to think Imight have gotten to know the woman who is a huge part of it.”
“I don’t pay attention to all that… day-drinking club crap,” I said, the familiar gruffness a welcome, if slightly ill-fitting, shield.
“It’s a book club, you heathen.” She laughed again, a full, honest sound that settled something deep inside me. “And the wine is purely for literary enhancement, I’ll have you know.”
The ease between us, the shared humor, was a new and dangerous territory. It felt good. Too good. And the look in her eyes, the way she was smiling at me as if I were the most interesting, baffling man she’d ever met, made it hard to think straight.
The smile faded from my face. “It suits you,” I said, my voice suddenly rough again as I nodded toward the crimson flower she was still holding. “The color.”
She looked down at the bloom, then back up at me, her expression softening. “Thank you for bringing it to me.”
