Page 33 of Beach Cottage Kisses

Until something inside her clicked into gear. The anger. The determination not to let the drunk who’d stolen life win it all.

She was still there. Had to contribute to the world for both of them. Herself and Ivy.

She glanced over at Scott as he said, “You know…” and then held his gaze as he continued with, “All the years I’ve been looking at your photos, they’ve spoken to me. It’s like I can see you in them, as well as whatever you’re shooting. You know your pictures have always reached me. But today…it’s like there are captions here.”

She smiled. Filled with pride. Gratitude.

With a gush of emotion that overwhelmed her.

Until fear took over.

It was just like at the wedding.

And that could not be allowed.

Chapter Eight

Why in the hell was his praise of Iris’s work turning her eyes cold, as though she was offended? Or in shock?

It wasn’t the first time he’d found profound value in her work. It wasn’t even the hundredth.

The only thing that had changed from any of those previous times and the current one was the sex.

He’d come out to the beach with determination. Optimism.

And a bit of tamped-down trepidation, too. Telling himself that if he let worry in, he’d cause the ruin he wanted to avoid.

As he watched her, Iris blinked. Seemed to focus more clearly on him. And asked, “Can you do something for me?” Even her voice sounded different.

His imagination? Or he wasn’t wrong to think that they had a problem.

“Of course.” His answer was a no-brainer. That night. But any other night in the past, too.

“Show me the shots, specifically, that speak to you. Talk me through them.”

Eager to have such a simple task, when he’d faced the question with dread, Scott immediately clicked on the screen, and moved to stand beside Iris.

And, eventually, to sit with her, on the steps of her porch,with the outside lights on, as they munched on pita bread with fig jelly, and she brought photos up on the twelve-inch tablet she’d brought outside.

She’d noted photo numbers. He’d tell her what he saw. Sometimes she nodded. Sometimes she just wrote. And then they’d move on.

It wasn’t anything they’d ever done before. And yet…it wasn’t the least bit sexy, either.

It was them. Just on a deeper level.

Liking what he was feeling, seeing, between them, he continued to munch bread, rather than the baked chicken and broccoli salad he had waiting at home for dinner. And to watch Iris work.

She was so intent, to the point of not even always seeming to see him as a person, but rather, as an extension of her apps and programs, showing him a side of her that he’d never seen before.

A couple of hours later, as they reached the end of her day’s shoot, she offered him a beer.

Relaxed, enjoying the new them, he nodded, and took a seat on one of the deep wicker chairs with cushions that she indicated. Uncapping a beer and handing it to her, before reaching for the other, which he opened for himself.

A move he’d have done for any date he’d been with.

After a brief glance at Iris, to make certain she hadn’t caught on to the move, he took warning. Glad that he hadn’t messed things up between them.

But aware that new normals didn’t just appear fully formed. They had to be made. Over time. By continuous choices.