Impossible to please them both, even if we were on opposite sides of the grave.
But I still knew which one was going to be smiling down at me, telling me I’d made the smart choice.
And that parent would be my dad.
Then begrudgingly, my mom.
Because . . . Iris and her pies. Iris and her sweet smile. Iris and her passion for Christmas, the hurt in her eyes when she told me of the betrayal of her ex, her friends.
Because Iris was special and deserved to be with someone who recognized exactly how wonderful that special was.
Which probably didn’t make sense.
Or maybe it was all the big feelings filling me to bursting that had my mind going in ever-increasing circles. Those circles moving in one direction, growing larger and larger to encompass everything wonderful about the woman in front of me—the need to watch out for her, to care for her as she deserved, to prove I was worthy to make myself at home inside her soul, to promise that I’d make a safe space inside my soul for her in return, that had me doing some blurting of my own. “Do you want to go on a date with me?”
She frowned, head tilting to the side. “I thought . . . I kind of thought that’s what we were already doing?”
It wasn’t no.
It also wasn’t yes.
“I want to take you out to a nice restaurant. To dress up and hold your hand over dinner, to tempt you into dessert, then to drive you home and kiss you on this doorstep,” I said, cupping both of her cheeks. “I want you to have a nice night, to do this right. Because I’m into you, darlin’, and I don’t think I want to let you go.”
Her breath caught on an audible inhale.
Then, “I’m into you, too.”
My pulse had been thundering in my veins, but her words calmed the pounding, settled my heart.
At least until she said, “But—”
Thundering again, pounding so loud against my eardrums that I could barely hear her, and I definitely missed the mischief in her blue-green eyes. That I didn’t deduce until after the next exchange.
“You have two things wrong.”
I swallowed hard.
“First, you never have to tempt me into dessert.”
I relaxed, caught the mischief and smiled. “And the second?”
“I don’t think I want you to stop with just kissing me on this doorstep,” she murmured, body drifting forward, brushing against mine and making dread slide through me. “I’d be inviting you in, inviting you upstairs.”
Fuck. I hadn’t gotten that far.
I should have gotten that far.
I should have known it would lead there.
But I just . . . hadn’t let my mind go there.
Because I had a secret. A big, fucking secret that I needed to clue Iris into, one that would likely have all of her I’m into you, too turning into pity then turning into Yeah, no. That won’t work for me.
I had to tell her.
Now. Give her the out. Give myself the break of saving my heart from further damage when she invariably left.
A gentle palm stroked along my jaw. “Brent, are you okay?”
“Iris—”
My cell rang.
She stepped back. “It’s probably Kace,” she said. “You should answer it.”
I reached into my back pocket and silenced it. “No. It’s not important. Iris—”
It immediately began ringing again.
“Answer it, honey,” she said, pulling my cell from my pocket and handing it to me.
Kace’s name flashed on the screen. Shit. I’d been gone too long.
“It’s a yes,” she said, swiping a finger on the screen before putting it up to my ear. “To the date.” Then she waved, opened the front door, and disappeared inside.
I opened my mouth to tell her to wait, to stop, but then Kace’s voice drifted through the speakers.
“I’m sorry, man, but there’s been a disturbance in the bar.”
Fuck.
“I need you back here now.”
I didn’t follow Iris inside, didn’t tell her the secret that was weighing on me. I turned in the direction of Bobby’s and hauled my ass back.
Later, I wished I’d stayed, had told her the truth right then and there.
But by that time, it was too late.
Eight
Iris
I was getting ready for a date.
My first real date, if I was being honest with myself.
Because I was just discounting everything from the Frank Period in my life. A.D. and B.C., except I was going to more aptly call them, B.F. and A.F.—as in, Before Frank and After Frank.
Yeah. That.
And after was going to be so much better than during.
I slipped into my killer suede booties, arranged the cowl neck of my burgundy sweater dress to show just a little more cleavage.
Because why not?
I’d spent too much time in my life worrying about how things could go wrong, fluttering around, working my ass off to prevent them from happening, and . . . I was done, dammit.
I’d done everything possible to make things work with Frank, including making myself feel small, putting what I wanted on the back burner.
I’d wanted to rent a kitchen sooner, but he’d convinced me that I was going to fail, that it would be a risky financial decision to rent something. But then he’d used the money for a second Master’s degree, and while I appreciated him wanting to learn, had wanted to do my part to help build our future, to facilitate his dreams, I also knew now that I deserved to have some of my dreams come true, too.
And I was starting by going on a date with a funny, kind, gorgeous man and continuing by not questioning everything that didn’t seem to make sense between us—including but not limited to: he was beautiful, I was not; he was a ten, I was a six on a good day; he was hilarious, I could occasionally make someone chuckle—
“Enough, Iris,” I muttered.
No more denigrating when I should be lifting myself up . . .
