Iris Kelly Doesn't Date (Bright Falls, #3)(15)

Luckily, Iris didn’t need much help finding someone she liked.

“Okay, one o’clock,” she said. “The person with the shaggy curls and plaid pants.”

“Lovely,” Simon said, yawning.

“Jesus, Simon, seriously?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve been up late the past week working on my book, and—”

“Oh, you poor New York Times bestseller.”

Simon had written a book a few years ago, The Remembrances, that had done extremely well, earning him enough to write full-time and be an insufferable, if loveable, ass about it. He’d finally turned in his second novel to his editor—a year after the first one debuted—and he was currently hard at work on his third. Bisexual himself, his stories were chock-full of queer characters, and Iris, despite her general disdain for literary fiction, really loved his writing.

“If it makes you feel any better, it’s going horribly,” he said.

“A bit,” she said, grinning. “And same.”

“Still no ideas?” he asked.

“Nothing I’d pull off a shelf. I think I spent all the romance from my past relationships on my first book. I’ve got nothing, feel nothing. Maybe I should write horror.”

“Okay, calm down,” Simon said. “You’re good at romance. Your writing is funny and sexy and emotional. You just need . . . I don’t know. Have you considered going on an actual date? Getting some real romance into the mix?”

“Hell no.”

“Iris. Jesus. You’re like the Scrooge of true love.”

“Bah humbug.”

“Scrooge caved in the end, you know. His heart grew three sizes or whatever.”

Iris laughed. “That’s the Grinch.”

“Potatoes, potahtoes,” Simon said, sliding his glasses down his nose so he could properly glare at her.

Iris sighed and motioned toward the writhing bodies on the dance floor. “This works for me, okay? I don’t want to complicate things.”

“And by things, you mean your heart.”

She ignored that. “Fiona thinks I need to do something else to get some space from my book. Like a pottery class or some shit, I don’t know.”

“That’s actually solid advice.”

“I know. Which is exactly why I’m here.”

“So . . . random sex with a stranger is creative?”

“It is the way I do it,” Iris said.

Simon laughed, his cheeks going a bit red. “Anyway,” he said, nodding toward Shaggy Curls. “She’s cute. Go for it.”

Iris nodded and had just started to turn away when he grabbed her hand.

“One question,” he said, his tone soft, concerned, and Iris knew exactly what was coming.

“I’m fine,” she said.

He lifted his brows, hazel eyes doubtful from behind his glasses.

“I am,” she said. “I just . . . my mom tried to set me up again. With a health fanatic.”

“Yikes,” Simon said. “Is your mother aware of how many bags of salt and vinegar chips you consume a week?”

“Exactly,” she said. “Not exactly my type. And then . . .” She inhaled, steadied her voice. “My ex, Grant, is getting married, which is totally fine and I’m happy for him, but my family . . . well, they just . . . they’re . . .”

“They’re being assholes about it,” he said.

She nodded. “They really loved Grant.”

He squeezed her shoulder and she leaned into him for a second.

“Hence,” she said, straightening up and nodding toward the woman, who was talking to an Asian person in a flawless gray suit and heels Iris had to remember to tell Astrid about. “I just need to let off a little steam.”

“Okay,” Simon said. “Understandable. But you know there are other ways, right? Ice cream? Watching rom-coms? A manicure?”

Iris laughed. “I’ll do all of that tomorrow.”

Simon nodded, but his brow remained creased. Iris knew her friends would never slut shame her—her choice to limit her romantic life to casual hookups was her own and they respected it—but lately, she got the distinct feeling that they agreed with her mother. Just a little. None of them ever said that they wanted to see Iris settled like they were. It was just a vibe she got, but it always made her want to fuck the next willing person she came across. If she was being honest.

She didn’t need to be settled to be happy. Sometimes, happiness meant the opposite of settled. Sometimes, happiness meant a cute, curly-haired person in a crop top whose name Iris was completely okay never knowing.

“You good?” she asked Simon.

“I’m good,” he said. “I’ll hang around for a few minutes. Just shoot me a thumbs-up or something if you’re okay. And text me when you get home, no exceptions.”

“So chivalrous,” she said, leaning up and kissing him on the cheek. Then she turned and started walking toward the woman, her shoulders back to show off her boobs, which, honestly, were usually the first things people noticed about her. Well, that, and her red hair—a thrilling combination for most.

Always good for a nice fuck, that Iris Kelly.

Iris’s steady stride faltered, just for a second. She shook off the words she remembered guys laughing over in high school and college, words she’d felt afresh when everything with Jillian went down over a year ago. Because honestly, she was good for a nice fuck.