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

by Ashley Herring Blake

For Iris, the blatant lack of romance in her life was wonderful. No drama.

“You’re not. You’re just terrible at one-night stands. There are worse things to be.”

“Delilah Green didn’t care about anyone and consistently forgot the names of the women she slept with. Until she met Claire Sutherland.” I like it. Catchy

Every night of the week, strangers met strangers, hooked up, fell in lust, fell in love.

Stepping into being someone else . . . well, it was a relief, if she was being honest.

Stefania was beautiful and sexy and a complete disaster. Iris couldn’t walk away now if she tried.

“Like, fake dating. In a rom-com,” Iris said.

“For what what’s like?” Stevie asked. “Love,” Iris said, waving a hand. “Romance. You know, soul mates and stars and moons and all that shit.”

“It’s just . . . do you ever feel like the you you want to be isn’t the person anyone else wants?”

She simply was, with another disaster by her side—because Stevie was one hundred percent an adorable disaster—and it felt like that first gulp of cold water after a long hike.

God, the woman practically emanated sex. Stevie was pretty sure the only thing she ever emanated were stress hormones.

She craved the idea of herself caught up in romance, an Iris Kelly completely thrown over by love.

Romance was nothing but brain chemicals and some pretty words, a nice setting. That’s all it was. A fiction brains told to hearts.

“This feels like something we should do,” she said. “Dance in the rain on the beach.”

“I know you’ve had some shitty people say they love you. I know you don’t think you’re built for dating and relationships. And if you truly don’t want that in your life, fine. I won’t argue with you. But I wanted you to be sure. I wanted to show you.”

In her place was a woman whose heart felt tender and raw. A woman who was tired, so fucking tired of fighting the way Stevie Scott made her feel.

“Show me what?” she asked one more time. “Stevie.” Stevie pressed her forehead to Iris’s. “That you’re worth loving.”

“I’m just a girl standing in front of another girl, asking her to fuck her senseless.”

“I want you here tomorrow. And the next day. Maybe even the next.”

But that was the tricky thing about love—it was selfless and also needy; generous, but greedy and desperate too.

Because Iris Kelly was worth loving. And she always had been. She turned around, smiled at them. “I need to go to New York.”

Yes, Stevie Scott would be just fine without Iris Kelly. But she wouldn’t be this.

“Maybe I was just built for you.”