And in the darkness that followed, the storm we’d unleashed only grew in intensity. But this time, it was different. There was a raw, almost desperate intensity to his lovemaking, a fierce possessiveness in the way he touched me, as if he couldn’t quite believe I was real and truly there in his arms, in his bed. But it was tempered with a new tenderness. Slow, lingering kisses that spoke more than his carefully rationed words ever could. The feel of his calloused hands, so gentle as they traced the curve of my spine. He’d held me all night, a solid, warm weight against my back, his breathing a steady rhythm in the darkness.
The soft crunch of boots on the shell path made me look up. Austin walked with that familiar, easy stride, two sweating bottles of beer in one hand. He didn’t say anything at first, just set one of the bottles on a sawhorse near me as we exchanged nods. He leaned against a support post with his arms crossed over his chest and watched me for a moment.
“Are you painting that or just giving it a light dusting?” he asked, that dry humor filling his deep voice. “My grandmother moves faster.”
“This is called precision, Captain,” I said without looking at him, a smile touching my lips. “Something a man who wrangles fish for a living likely wouldn’t understand. Besides, look at you, over here and willingly participatingin whimsical renovation.” I dipped my brush and drew a clean, perfect line before gesturing with it toward his property line. “That spite-flower hedge of yours is looking awfully friendly these days.”
He snorted. “Don’t get cocky. And again, it’s not a spite flower.” Pushing off the post, he came over. “Give me that. You’re holding it wrong.”
“I am not.” But I let him take my hand, his fingers wrapping around mine to adjust my grip. The simple, practical touch sent a now-familiar jolt straight to my core.
“Like this,” he said, his voice close to my ear. “Lets you control the stroke better.”
He grabbed his own brush, and we painted in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the whisper of our brushes and the chirping of songbirds. The work was easier with him here, the load lighter. I had to admit his advice on holding the brush made the job easier.
“So,” he said, breaking the stillness. “What are you going to call these rooms when you’re done? The Room of the Rodent Attack?”
I shuddered theatrically at the war I’d raged getting a family of squirrels to vacate the premises. “Very funny. I was actually thinking of naming them after the things you can see from their windows. The third-floor suite, the one you, uh, found me in? That’ll be the Magnolia Suite. And the one I was painting yesterday, at the other end of the hall? The Sea Turtle Suite. I saw one from the balcony last week.” My vision for the B&B looked sharper and more real as I said it out loud to him. “I want Heron House to be a sanctuary. A place people come to feel peaceful and rejuvenated.”
I risked a glance at him, half-expecting a cynical grunt. Instead, his gray eyes were thoughtful, his expression open.
“It’s not just a business for you, is it?” he asked.
“No. It’s more than that.” The words were out before I could stop them. “It’s not just my dream, you know. It was hers, too.”
“Whose?”
I took his paintbrush and set it down with mine, the mood between us shifting from easy banter to something more intimate. “Come here. I want to show you something.”
He followed me without question, his boots thudding softly on the newly sanded floors. I led him through the demolished but promising great room to the window seat that overlooked the magnolia tree in the backyard.
I opened the drawer and set aside the dried magnolia sprig before pulling out the letter. “I found this a while ago.”
After unfolding the pages of cream-colored stationery, I handed them to him. It felt like handing over a piece of my heart. He took them carefully, his large hands gentle with the fragile paper.
I studied him as he read. His gaze slowed as he took in my aunt’s words, the confession of her regrets, the hope she had placed in me. A muscle in his jaw tightened, and his throat worked as he swallowed.
He was silent for a beat after he finished, his gaze still on the page. Then he carefully folded the letter and handed it back to me. His eyes, when they met mine, were full of deep, quiet understanding. He didn’t offer platitudes. He didn’t say he was sorry for my family’s past. He just reached out, his thumb gently brushing across my jaw.
“A warm, determined heart.” His voice was quiet while he quoted the letter. He studied me, a whole world of respect and validation in his steady gray gaze. “Constance knew what she was doing, leaving it to you.”
“I sure hope so.”
He smiled and leaned over to kiss me, his lips soft and warm against mine. It was a kiss of acceptance. Of seeing me and not flinching. And in that sunlit room, with the presence of my aunt’s hopes hanging in the air between us, something new and solid clicked into place. He wasn’t just my neighbor anymore. He was part of this. Part of my home.
The Sipsand Pages book club meeting was winding down. A few days after sharing the letter with Austin, I’d walked into Pam’s bungalow with a bottle of white wine and a confident stride. The air was a familiar, happy mix of wine, Liv’s incredible miniature lemon tarts, and the excited chatter of women who had found their tribe.
As we discussed our latest romance novel, a second-chance romance, I caught Brenna’s eye across the circle. She gave me a wink. This was so different from my first meeting, where I’d felt like an outsider on display. Now, I was one of the girls, debating the merits of fictional men and real-world desserts.
As the meeting began to break up, the conversation splintered into smaller clusters. A chic woman with sharp, stylish dark hair approached me, her smile warm.
“You’re Iris, right? The one tackling Heron House?” She extended a hand. “I’m Suzanne Hainey. I have a marketing firm in town. I couldn’t help but overhear you talking about your B&B plans. It sounds amazing. If you get to the point where you’re thinking about websites or branding, give me a call. I’d love to help you tell the story.”
A surge of professional excitement rose within me. “I’m not quite there yet, but I absolutely will. Thank you.”
“Of course,” she replied with a warm smile. “Andanother tip from one business owner to another. If you need help with your financial planning, Dean Mercer on Main Street is the best. He’s a certified financial planner and fairly new in town. He was a huge help getting my firm on solid footing.”
“Thanks for the recommendation.” I made a mental note. Another piece of my new life was clicking into place, a network of support I knew I would need sooner than later.
