Iris Kelly Doesn't Date （Bright Falls, #3）
Ashley Herring Blake
For Meryl and Brooke
CHAPTER ONE
IRIS KELLY WAS desperate.
She paused on her parents’ front porch steps, the June sun feathering evening light over the blue-painted wood, and took her phone out of her pocket.
Tegan McKee was desperate.
She typed the words into her Notes app, staring at the blinking cursor.
“Desperate for what, you little minx?” she asked out loud, waiting for something—anything that didn’t feel overdone and trite—to spill into her brain, but nothing did. Her mind was a terrifying blank slate, nothing but white noise. She deleted everything except the name.
Because that was all she had for her book. A name. A name she loved. A name that felt right. A name that Tegan’s best friends shortened to Tea, because of course they did, but a solitary name nonetheless. Which meant, in terms of her second full-length romance novel—the very one her literary agent was already up her ass about, that her publisher had already bought and paid for, that her editor was expecting to land into her inbox in two months’ time—Iris had nothing.
Which meant Iris Kelly was the one who was desperate.
She glanced up at her parents’ front door, dread clouding into her belly and replacing the creative panic. Inside that house, she knew what awaited her, and it wasn’t pretty. Her mother’s dentist, perhaps? No, no, her gynecologist more likely. Or, maybe, if Iris was really lucky, some poor sap who wanted to be there even less than Iris—because Maeve Kelly was nearly impossible to resist once she set her mind on something—and Iris and the aforementioned sap could commiserate over the absurdity of their situation.
Hell, maybe Iris could get some content out of it.
Tegan McKee was on a date. She hadn’t planned the date, nor did she recall being asked out.
Iris froze with one foot on the step and opened up her Notes app again. That actually wasn’t too bad . . .
“Honey?”
Iris dragged her eyes from that infernal blinking cursor—Why the hell don’t you want to go on a date, Tegan?—and smiled at her mother and father, now standing in the open doorway, arms around each other, marital bliss causing their faces to glow in the summer light.
“Hey,” she said, tucking her phone away. “Happy birthday, Mom.”
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Maeve said, red and gray-streaked curls bouncing into her face. She was a round woman, with soft arms and hips, and a hefty bosom Iris herself had inherited.
“More gorgeous every year, she is,” Iris’s dad said, kissing his wife on the cheek. Liam was tall and lithe, pale red hair ringing the shiny bald spot on top of his head.
Maeve giggled, and then Iris watched as her parents started full-on making out, which included a flash of Liam’s tongue and the definite, not-so-surreptitious slide of his hand down Maeve’s ass.
“Jesus, you two,” Iris said, stomping up the stairs and averting her eyes. “Can you give it a rest at least until I get in the house?”
They pulled away from each other but kept the obnoxious grins.
“What can I say, love?” Liam said, his Irish accent still fully in place even after forty years in the States. “I can’t keep my hands off the woman!”
More kissing noises commenced, but Iris was already past them and heading into the house. Her younger sister, Emma, appeared with her four-month-old, Christopher, hidden under a nursing wrap, which Iris assumed meant the baby was attached to one of Emma’s boobs.
“God, are they at it again?” Emma asked, chin-nodding toward the front door, where Maeve and Liam whispered sweet nothings in each other’s ears.
“Are they ever not?” Iris said, hanging her bag on the hook in the foyer. “But at least it’s distracting Mom from—”
“Oh, Iris!” Maeve called, pulling her husband into the house by the hand. “I have someone I want you to meet.”
“Fuck my life,” Iris said, and Emma grinned.
“Language,” Maeve said, then hooked her arm through Iris’s.
“Isn’t there a dirty diaper in need of changing?” Iris asked as her mother dragged her toward the back door. “A filthy toilet I could scour? Oh, wait, I just remembered I’m late for a pap smear—”
“Stop that,” Maeve said, still tugging. “Zach is perfectly nice.”
“Well, if he’s nice,” Iris said.
“He’s my spin class instructor.”
“Oh, fuckity fuck.”
“Iris Erin!”
Maeve shoved her onto the back deck, which was how she found herself sitting next to Zach, who, thirty minutes later, was busy extolling the virtues of CrossFit training.
“You never really know how far your body can go, what it can do, until you push it to the edge,” he was saying.
“Mm,” was all Iris had to say back. She sipped a Diet Coke, cursing her mother’s habit of saving the wine for the meal, and looked around for a savior.
Liam was silent at the grill, a stalwart of That’s none of my business, so he’d be absolutely no help. She loved her father, but the man was complete trash for his wife, bending heaven and earth for the woman whenever possible. Which meant Maeve sprung these “dates” on Iris nearly every time the family got together, and Liam would simply smile, kiss Maeve on the cheek—or make out for ten minutes as the case may be—and ask what she wanted him to grill for said blissful occasion.
Emma was currently sitting across from Iris at the redwood patio table, her red hair cut into a sensible, advertising executive bob, smirking at the whole situation. Emma thought her mother’s setups were hilarious, and she also knew Iris would never, in a million years, go for someone Maeve dragged home.
Mostly because Iris hadn’t gone for anyone at all in over a year.
“Have you ever done HIIT?” Zach asked now. “Feels like you’re going to die while you’re in the throes, but whew, what a rush!”
Emma snorted a laugh, then covered it by patting her newborn on the back.
Iris scratched her cheek with her middle finger.
Meanwhile, Aiden, Iris’s brother and the eldest of the three Kelly siblings, was running around in the backyard growling like a bear, chasing his twin seven-year-old daughters, Ava and Ainsley, through the dusky golden light. Iris seriously considered joining them—a good game of tag seemed like a better way to spend an evening than this tenth circle of hell.
Of course, Iris had expected this. Just last month, at a gathering to celebrate Aiden’s move from San Francisco to Portland, Iris had found herself seated next to her mother’s hairstylist at dinner, a lovely lavender-haired woman named Hilda who led off the conversation by asking if Iris was a fan of guinea pigs. Iris then spent the next week wasting at least five thousand words on her novel as Tegan wandered around looking for a meet-cute in a PetSmart. She’d ended up scrapping the whole thing, then promptly blamed her mother for the horrible inspiration.
“You know that stuff will kill you,” Zach said, nodding toward her soda and smiling wryly, showing all of his perfect teeth. He was a white guy—blond hair, blue eyes—but he was also vaguely . . . orange. Iris had to bite back a reply about tanning beds and skin cancer.