“Ben. Finding everything you need in the school supply aisle?” Her voice dripped with an icy politeness that was somehow more offensive than outright rudeness.
The man—Ben, apparently—didn’t flinch. He turned to face her, his expression flat, unimpressed. “Looking for some new index cards.”
“Index cards,” the woman repeated, drawing the words out as if they were a strange and exotic contraband he hadno business possessing. My eyes widened. She looked him up and down, as if studying him for stolen merchandise.
Ben’s gaze remained steady. “Because I’m in school, Francine,” he replied, his tone still flat, but with an underlying edge of steel. “Hence, school supplies.”
“Fine.” Francine sniffed. She gave him another long, hard look, a look that was full of a history I couldn’t begin to understand, then huffed and pushed her cart away without another word.
I stood there with a floral-print notebook clutched in my hand, a hot flare of indignation burning in my chest on his behalf. I didn’t know what the story was, but I knew rudeness when I saw it.
Ben was staring after Francine, the cool reserve in his green eyes now tinged with weary frustration.
“Wow. And I thought I got the third degree around here sometimes.” I offered a sympathetic smile. “Maybe being new in town is easier than being a local.”
His head snapped toward me, his brows reaching halfway up his forehead. Then a laugh escaped him, a short, sharp bark that transformed his face and chased away the shadows. The coolness in his eyes warmed instantly, replaced by a friendly, appreciative light. “You might have a point there. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try to make a new start, people will only see the past.” He gestured with the package of index cards in his hand. “I’m trying to make one, actually. A new start.”
“Oh?” I asked, curious now as I strolled closer.
“Just started the coursework to become a paramedic.” The flicker of pride in his voice was quickly dashed as he looked at the floor. He continued in a lower tone, “Trying to get a jump on the memorization. Figured flashcards couldn’t hurt.”
“That’s amazing! Congratulations.” The thought ofsomeone so dedicated and serious on the local rescue squad was reassuring. “That sounds like a huge amount of work.”
A small, self-conscious smile returned to his lips. “It is. But hopefully worth it.” He paused, then his expression shifted, his gaze direct and polite. He held out a hand. “Ben Coleridge, by the way.”
My brain did a little stutter-step. Coleridge. Of course. The green eyes. The reserved intensity. Austin’s brother.
I shook his hand, his grip firm and warm. “Iris Holloway. It’s nice to meet you, Ben. I’m… I’m Austin’s neighbor. The one trying to resurrect Heron House.”
His eyes widened in recognition. “Oh, right. The B&B.” He smiled again, and this time it was warmer. “Chase was telling me about it. Said you’ve got a hell of a project on your hands, but a great vision for it.”
So the family knew about the project. That made sense. But Ben’s open demeanor gave no indication that he knew anything more. That he knew his reclusive brother was spending his nights tangled up in the sheets of the new neighbor.
“It’s a beast,” I admitted with a laugh, “but I’m getting there. My new contractor, Gus, is fantastic.”
“That’s good to hear. You need a good team on a job like that.”
I could see the family resemblance now, not just in his features, but in the underlying steadiness he projected, that same solid, dependable quality I’d come to recognize in Austin. But where Austin’s steadiness was wrapped in layers of grumpy, keep-your-distance armor, Ben’s was more approachable.
“Well,” he said, lifting his package of index cards. “Gotta get these home and put them to use. Pharmacology isn’t going to memorize itself, unfortunately.” He gave meanother one of those smiles. “It was nice meeting you, Iris. Welcome to Dove Key, officially.”
“You too, Ben,” I said.
Then he walked away, his stride confident and his uniformed shoulders straight. I absently grabbed a notebook with a vibrant floral cover, but my mind was no longer on stationery. I paid for my groceries in a daze, the earlier contentment now replaced by a swirling mix of new thoughts and questions.
Meeting Ben, seeing that brief, ugly flash of small-town judgment from the woman in the aisle, hearing the pride in his voice as he talked about his new path… it solidified something for me.
The Coleridges weren’t just a family. They were an institution in this town. For better or for worse, they were known. Their history, their triumphs, and their failures were all part of the local lore. I knew the solitary, intense, surprisingly tender man next door, the man who built walls so high it was a miracle anyone could scale them.
I didn’t know the respected fishing captain.
And most importantly, I didn’t know the brother, the man who was part of this complex, tight-knit, deeply rooted family.
In that moment, a more painful realization hit me. Ben's friendly but polite demeanor gave no indication he knew anything more about me. To him, I was just the neighbor. Austin hadn't told them about us.
The thought was a hard thud in my chest. I needed to see that other side of him, to understand the place that had shaped him. It wasn’t just idle curiosity. It was a necessity. If this was going to be real, we had to exist publicly as a couple. If I was going to have any hope of understanding the man, I had to understand his world.
And I was determined to find a way to get him to let me in.
