Iris.
Like my thoughts delivered her to me, Iris is standing right there, tucked into a group of people clustered at the entrance of the box not too far from ours. Is it my imagination? No, a figment of my imagination wouldn’t charge the air and heighten every detail. Everything is clearer, sharper, crisper. For my senses, she’s a magnifying glass. She’s a megaphone.
And she’s standing right there.
Her hair is different. Tamed. It’s long, straight, and hanging to the middle of her back. Color splashes her lips, eyes, and cheeks, layered over the beautiful nakedness of last night’s face. Instead of the casual clothes from the bar, she wears a short top that stops right under the roundness of her breasts. The skirt sits low on her hips, molding to the length of her legs and the curve of her ass, leaving a stretch of toned stomach bare. I could tell last night she had a great body, but the reality of her shape, her soft, coppery skin—it shames my imagination. She looks different, but it’s still her. My gumbo girl. Every cell in my body confirms it, and my feet are taking me toward her before I realize where I’m going.
“Iris?”
When I call her name, she searches the space around her, sifting through the knot of people until her eyes meet mine, widening with surprise. She quickly picks her way through the small crowd gathered at the entrance to the box, crossing the space until she reaches me. She smells the same, and the effect she has on me, it’s exactly the same. A lightning strike. A power surge. Our eyes tangle in the tight space, in the brief silence. Those eyes are the color of whiskey tonight, and they’re just as intoxicating. She goes right to my head.
“Hey.” My voice comes out raspy and labored, like I took the stairs at top speed instead of the elevator to get here.
“August, hey.”
She sounds breathless, too. It must be the live wire running from me to her because she hasn’t exerted herself. As a matter of fact, she couldn’t look more perfect. “You look . . .”
I stop to steady myself. Adrenaline courses through me like I’m in the heat of a close game, a nail-biter. Like the ball is in my hands for the last-second shot.
“You look beautiful, Iris.”
“Oh . . . um, thanks.” She tugs at the top like maybe she’s self-conscious. Then her eyes go wide again when she looks up at me. “Oh, God, August. Congratulations! Incredible game. I’m sure your father’s proud of you today.”
Her softly spoken words move me. All the pieces of myself that never seemed to quite fit lock with this girl. I recognized it last night, and I know it now. Maybe it’s because we grew up with some of the same challenges, of never feeling like we belonged. Maybe it’s the nitroglycerine chemistry boiling between us, just waiting for the strike of a match.
“Thanks.” I clear my throat, not sure what to say next except the obvious. “What are you doing here? I mean, I’m glad. Really glad, I just—”
“Iris.”
The sharp voice just beyond her shoulder captures my attention. She stiffens, her lashes drifting down for a second before she glances back up.
“August, I—”
“Hey, baby. I was looking for you.” The tanned arm that wraps possessively around her waist belongs to the guy I just defeated.
“Caleb, hey.” Iris flicks a glance between the two of us.
What. The. Fuck.