“You’re welcome.” The words sounded inadequate. “Listen, I… I have a really early charter tomorrow. A full day.” It wasn’t true. My calendar was no busier than usual. But it was a necessary lie, a desperate attempt to create some space, to give myself a chance to process the monumental shift that was occurring inside me. “I should turn in soon, and I don’t want to wake you when I leave before dawn.”
“Oh,” she said, a flicker of disappointment in her eyes that she couldn’t quite hide. “Of course. I understand.”
“I’ll… I’ll call you tomorrow,” I added, the promise leaving my lips before I could stop it.
Her face brightened instantly, that thousand-watt smile returning. “I’d like that.”
I forced myself to turn and walk away. I didn’t lookback, couldn’t look back, as I left her standing on the porch and holding my flower. The scent of her and a future I didn’t know what to do with followed me all the way home.
I walked through my living room, a space I had designed for peace and order. The carefully chosen nautical charts on the wall looked flat, lifeless. The fabric of my sofa, usually so inviting, offered no comfort. I moved to my back patio, where the sky was now a deep, bruised purple streaked with the last fiery remnants of the sunset. The lights of Heron House flickered next door, a warm, inviting glow against the deepening twilight. Her silhouette moved behind a window, maybe putting the hibiscus I’d given her in a bowl of water.
I replayed the moment on her porch over and over. The soft, unguarded delight on her face when I gave her the flower. The way she’d laughed at my stupid, gruff joke about her book club. The easy way she’d teased me. The way my mouth had curved into a smile without my permission.
It was real.
The thought landed not with a jolt, but with a weighted certainty. This thing with her wasn’t just about the physical pull anymore, the raw, undeniable chemistry that had exploded between us in that dusty, demolished room. That was the easy part, the part a man could understand and compartmentalize. This was something more dangerous.
I liked the sound of her laugh. I liked the way her eyes lit up when she was passionate about something. I liked her stubborn determination, her ridiculous G-rated curses, her surprisingly good baking.
I liked her.
I had real, developing feelings for her.
And I could, if I was foolish enough to let my guard down for more than a few stolen moments, picture a future. Waking up with her. Sharing coffee. Listening to her talk about her plans for Heron House. Seeing her smile that blinding smile because of something I’d said, something I’d done.
And that was the most terrifying thing in the world.
Because it inevitably brought the ghosts rushing back from the deep, dark places where I kept them chained. The jagged memory of a different life—a different future—crashed back, a world snatched away in an instant.
Caitlin.
The echo of her laughter, so different from Iris’s, but bright in its own way. The memory of a day on the water, the sun warm on our faces, the whole world vast and endless, like it would never run out.
Until it did.
I gripped the kitchen counter, my knuckles white, grounding me in the here and now. I wanted to leave the past where it was. Over. Forgotten. I’d told Brenna as much.
But I was beginning to realize the truth. That maybe you can’t bury the past and be done with it. If I wanted a real future, a life, I might have to unlock the one door in my mind I had bolted shut. It wasn't just grief that lived behind that door. It was the frigid memory that happiness could come at a terrible price. And the thought of letting Iris all the way in was like tempting fate to come and collect its due all over again, with her as the payment. And I knew exactly what that looked like.
The chaos, the screaming, the terrifying water, the silence…
And the crushing, suffocating weight of my survival.
I didn’t know if I had the strength to turn that key. And I was terrified that if I did, the guilt I’d spent all these years trying to outrun would finally end me for good.
Chapter Nineteen
IRIS
Once a splintered messof sagging boards, the porch of Heron House was now a solid, welcoming expanse. I worked on a section of railing, the rhythmic swipe of my paintbrush a soothing meditation. Primer. A clean slate.
The scent of sawdust and the nearby sea filled the air, a perfume of progress and possibility that was finally feeling more like home than a challenge. This was the part of the renovation I loved—the tangible work of bringing something beautiful back to life.
In a way, it reminded me of Austin. A small, secret smile curled my lips, my thoughts drifting back to the other night. The day following his tense retreat after giving me the flower, he’d been true to his word and called me.
His voice on the phone had been its usual low rumble. “Caught some fresh yellowtail. Enough for two. Come over for dinner at six o’clock?”
The fact that he had called, that he was initiating contact, had sent a happy flutter through my chest. He wasa man who couldn’t be rushed. Like the hibiscus he’d given me, he’d open up on his own schedule. At times, that was frustrating to me. But when we were together, the outside world didn’t matter. Dinner at his place had been an education. Everything had a place; every surface was clean. We’d moved around each other in the space, a charged dance of awareness. He’d grilled the fish, and I’d made a salad, the air between us comfortable, full of the low hum of undeniable attraction.
