The thought of getting to Sunset Siesta and takingLine Dancerout on today’s charter was a lifeline. Out on the ocean, things made sense. The wind, the tides, the subtle, almost imperceptible signs of fish moving beneath the surface. Hard work and tangible results. No unpredictable neighbors. No flood-inducing repairs threatening prize-winning flora.
Just the vast, honest, unforgiving welcome of the sea.
As I pulled my truck out of the driveway, I glanced involuntarily at Heron House. Still. Silent. Looming like a sleeping giant, its windows dark and watchful. I pressed down on the accelerator, leaving my complicated, unfortunately attractive, and undeniably disruptive new neighbor behind.
For now.
Chapter Four
IRIS
Sunday morning greetedme with bright sunshine and dry, heavy eyes. The image of Austin Coleridge’s furious face—his gray eyes narrowed into stormy slits as he surveyed the watery carnage of his hibiscus hedge—was seared onto the inside of my eyelids. It had replayed on a loop all night, a silent horror film starring me as the hapless, mud-caked villain, complete with a soundtrack of gushing water and my pathetic, squeaked apologies.
“Experimental irrigation,” I groaned into my pillow. “Why did I say that?”
When I dragged myself into the kitchen’s echoing expanse, it did little to dispel the gloom. Dust motes danced in weak shafts of sunlight struggling through salt-crusted windowpanes. The ancient percolator sputtered and hissed like a dying dragon before reluctantly producing coffee that tasted faintly of rust, regret, and possibly nineteenth-century despair. After putting up with this relic for two weeks, I needed a real coffee maker. STAT.
From the window, I could see it.
The scene of the crime. His hibiscus hedge.
Even through the distorting haze of ancient glass, it looked sad. Accusatory. Yesterday afternoon, I’d caught a glimpse of Austin back out there, his tall, lean frame bent over the damaged plants. He’d moved with focused, almost tender precision, assessing the destruction I’d wrought and gently snipping broken stems, his dark head bowed.
I’d wanted to run over then, to babble a fresh torrent of apologies. To offer to personally hand-pollinate every remaining bud with a tiny paintbrush if it would help. But my feet had remained rooted to the dusty floorboards, my courage shriveling under the imagined weight of his disapproval. My optimistic smile from yesterday was long gone.
As I sipped my questionable coffee, the guilt gnawed at me, a persistent, uncomfortable itch right between my shoulder blades. When my world spun out of control, one thing always centered me.
Baking.
The familiar ritual was a tangible act of creation in the face of my recent act of destruction. I rummaged through boxes stacked haphazardly in what I hoped would one day be a charming butler’s pantry, but which currently resembled a cardboard-box shantytown. I unearthed my mixing bowls, a half-empty bag of flour, a canister of sugar that felt depressingly light, and one precious bag of semisweet chocolate chips I’d bought for just such an emotional emergency.
“Chocolate chip cookies,” I announced to the chipped Formica countertop. “The universal peace treaty. The culinary white flag. No one can stay furious at someone who brings them warm, homemade chocolate chip cookies. Right?”
But as I assembled my meager supplies, another truthemerged. I had exactly zero vanilla or eggs. Operation Apology Cookie was already hitting a logistical snag.
“Okay, Iris,” I coached myself. “Nothing a quick trip to the Island Market can’t fix. Plus, I can pick up a new coffee maker.” I spun around and trotted to my room to change.
Island Market on a Sunday morning was a cheerful mix of locals stocking up for the week and bewildered tourists searching for sunscreen and Key lime pie. I navigated the bustling aisles with focused determination, grabbing flour, sugar, a carton of eggs, and a brand-new, generously sized bottle of pure vanilla extract. Then I triumphed by adding a glorious new coffee machine to my cart. Mission accomplished.
Driving back down Dove Key’s charming, sun-drenched Main Street, a sense of cautious optimism filled me. Then a storefront caught my eye—a splash of cheerful paint and a whimsical, hand-painted sign that readBookshop in Paradise. On an impulse born of a desperate need for a temporary escape from my head and the looming specter of Austin Coleridge, I pulled over.
The bell over the door chimed a welcoming, melodic greeting as I stepped inside. The air was cool and enveloped me in the immediate, comforting aroma of old paper, binding glue, and freshly brewed coffee. Bookshelves lined every wall, crammed with colorful spines that promised adventure, romance, and mystery.
“This place feels like a hug,” I murmured, my shoulders relaxing.
“Good morning!” a warm, friendly voice called out. I looked up to see a woman with long, auburn hair and kind, intelligent green eyes smiling at me from behind a counter laden with new releases. She looked to be about my age, with an open, welcoming face. “Can I help you find anything?”
“Oh, just browsing. This place is absolutely lovely.”
“Thank you.” Her smile widened. “I’m Brenna. I own the place.”
“Iris Holloway,” I replied, returning the smile. “I’m new in town.”
“Welcome to Dove Key!” Brenna’s green eyes widened.
“Thanks.” I took a fortifying breath. “I just inherited Heron House. Over on Frigate Lane?” I braced myself, expecting the polite but wary look I’d started to recognize.
To my surprise, Brenna laughed, a warm, sympathetic sound. “Oh, Heron House! Wow, that’s quite an undertaking. You’re brave. My brother Austin lives right next door.”
