Well, at least he knows I exist now.
And despite the ruined hibiscus and the ruined Saturday, despite the almost certain knowledge that my disconcertingly hot and snarly neighbor considered me a certifiable menace, the smallest of smiles touched my lips.
This was going to be interesting.
Chapter Three
AUSTIN
The water was scalding,or as close as I could stand without peeling skin. Thick, suffocating steam filled the shower, but it did nothing to soften the jagged knot of anger lodged in my chest. I scrubbed at my hair, raking my scalp with my fingertips, then moved to my skin with a pressure that bordered on punitive, as if I could physically wash away the mud, the floral damage, and the sheer, unbelievable gall of the woman next door.
Iris Holloway.
Even her name sounded like a whimsical, fluttery disaster waiting to happen, a pastel-fragranced bomb set to detonate in the middle of my monochrome existence.
“Experimental irrigation,” I muttered under the drumming spray. “Sweet Jesus.”
I leaned my forehead against the cool, white subway tile, the porcelain a soothing contrast to the water sluicing over my back. Four years. Four damn years I’d nursed that hibiscus hedge from scrawny, hopeful transplants into avibrant wall of crimson. A living shield. In less than four minutes, she’d nearly blasted it into the ocean with the misguided enthusiasm of a toddler wielding a firehose.
Holloway was a scourge. A genuine, grade-A, property-value-lowering, peace-shattering scourge.
Dressed in clean cargo shorts and a plain white T-shirt blessedly dry against my skin, I stalked into the kitchen. The rich, dark scent of coffee did little to soothe my mood. I poured a cup before automatically reaching for the box of Wheaties from the pantry. Routine. Order. The cornerstones of a life that made sense.
I sat at the wooden table I’d salvaged from a junk shop and refinished myself, its surface scarred yet beautifully smooth beneath my fingertips. My gaze drifted to the window, the one specifically placed to offer an uninterrupted view of my little kingdom—my yard and, further out, the sea grapes that bowed gracefully in the breeze.
And my hibiscus hedge.
Even from this distance, the damage was brutally obvious. Gaps in the lush green like missing teeth in a once-perfect smile. A noticeable, drooping section that had borne the brunt of the assault. It looked wounded.
“Can’t even have a goddamn bowl of cereal in peace,” I grumbled to the empty room.
I ate, my jaw working overtime. My Saturday morning, usually an expanse of solitary productivity or restorative ocean time, had been utterly hijacked.
Maybe I’d been a dick about it. The thought flickered, unwelcome as a sand fly at a picnic. Her face, when I’d confronted her, had been a mask of sheer dread. Those wide blue eyes—eyes I had to admit were rather striking. And she’d been soaked, the thin cotton of her floral blouse doing nothing to hide the curves underneath. But then the image of my drowned flowers resurfaced.
No.
I hadn’t yelled.
I’d been firm. Direct.
Controlled, even, considering the provocation. She needed to understand this wasn’t some community-garden free-for-all where whimsical destruction was chalked up to artistic expression. This was my goddamn property. My peace. She caused the problem, not me. That was the simple, unvarnished truth.
The cereal bowl was empty, my stomach churning with stale Wheaties and fresh resentment. I couldn’t sit here. Couldn’t just look at the damage and let it fester.
My gardening shears were solid and familiar in my hand. I strode to the hedge, the earth still squishy and dark beneath my boots where the Holloway-generated deluge had lingered. Up close, the carnage was worse. Broken stems hung limply, their vibrant green insides exposed like fresh wounds. Perfect, intensely red blossoms were torn and mud-splattered, their delicate, papery beauty ruined.
“Damn it, Holloway,” I muttered, the words a low, frustrated growl that did nothing to alleviate the pressure in my chest.
I started work with methodical, almost surgical precision.Snip.The shears bit cleanly through a hopelessly damaged branch, the sound crisp in the humid air.Pluck.A ruined flower, its life cut short by horticultural waterboarding, dropped into the bucket at my feet with a soft, mournful thud.Wipe.I gently swiped my thumb across a mud-caked leaf, trying to restore some of its dignity, to let it breathe again.
This hedge wasn’t just a row of plants. It was a statement. A living symbol of patience, care, and the stubborn satisfaction of nurturing something beautiful in a world that often felt relentlessly chaotic.
I’d never intended to enter the damn thing in any competition. Braden, with his usual uncanny talent for goading me into things I’d rather avoid, was the sole culprit behind that particular foray into public horticulture.
I’d won the whole damn shooting match.
And Holloway, with her good intentions that paved the road to hibiscus hell, had nearly drowned that accomplishment.
