Page 57 of Beach Cottage Kisses
Which would give Sage and Gray time to get home. Built-in chaperones. Reminders to Scott and Iris of who they were and what they did and did not want. To return them to the roles they’d always played in each other’s life.
He’d most definitely done the right thing, taking on South Beach.
Thanks to the father who’d been so hard on him, instilling in him the abhorrence of failure.
A sense that he had to pull from within himself, give all he had to that which he was best at, and accept nothing less than success from himself.
Turned out, the old man had been right.
Where there was a will, there was a way.
And he most definitely had the will to be Iris’s friend for life.
Which meant, the hots had to go.
* * *
He was everywhere. Beneath her. On top of her. Inside her.
Even up her nose.
All she had to do was breathe to be enveloped by his essence. So she did. Long deep breaths. And it worked every time.
Iris moved, wanting to slide her arms around him…and rose to full consciousness instead. On the softest sheets. Her own sheets. She’d brought them with her. Had purchased her own king-size bed after Scott had raved about his one day on the beach. He’d said he slept better because no matter how much he moved, there was space to accommodate him.
Having been a restless sleeper ever since the accident, Iris had been willing to give his theory a try.
It hadn’t worked. She’d felt more alone than ever on the massive mattress. But she’d spent the money, so she’d kept the bed. Had adopted Angel to help her sleep, at Dale’s suggestion. And had solved both of her problems. Having the little collie around really did settle some of the demons that raged inside her in the blackness of night, but the girl helped fill up the spare mattress space, too.
As her thoughts traveled further from the nonsense she’d awoken to, Iris reached outside the covers for Angel. To get back in sync with herself.
And caught another whiff. Scott.
From the comforter. She’d exchanged his sheets for hers, but had failed to consider the icing on the cake.
Forbidden icing, no matter how strong the temptation was to let her relaxed,half-asleep self slide back into a place where she could make love to Scott one more time.
In a bed. With enough time to touch every inch of him. To feel his hands on parts of her no one ever touched.
Just to get it done and him out of her system.
An idea that sounded plausible, and almost smart, as she lay in the quiet dark of three in the morning, filled with his presence. Right until Angel, probably sensing Iris’s imminent slide into a bad place, woke, and climbed up on Iris’s belly, flattening herself out, wagging her tail and jamming her nose into Iris’s chin.
The mistress was awake, so the dog thought it appropriate to communicate her need to go out. Their regular morning routine. After which, Angel got to eat, which was what she really wanted. The bathroom-going thing was just the way to get breakfast.
Any other night, Iris would have told Angel it was too early. To lie down.
Scott was on the other side of the wall. Would he hear her?
A man who lived alone wouldn’t be used to hearing a voice in his home. The anomaly could wake him.
She’d iced him an hour before.
Which was probably what had brought on the whole adverse-to-her-ultimate-happiness thought process to begin with. It had been her first care visit with him in bed.
He’d been in pain. In the moment, she’d made it worse. And skedaddled as soon as it was done. His discomfort and her concern for him far overshadowing more shallow thoughts.
Until her psyche knew she was out and had run away from home. Getting her into trouble.
