Page 52 of Found by the Pack

“Then it will,” I tell her. I can see the faint smudge of chalk dust across her cheekbone, the streak of pale pink hair curling loose from her ponytail.

I glance at my watch. “You need more chalk for that?”

She nods, brushing off her hands. “And a couple paint bases. I’ll be mixing colors before I start shading.”

“McAllister’s, then,” I say, jerking my chin toward my truck.

She hesitates, the way she always seems to when it comes to accepting anything from me. “I was just going to bike.”

I glance at the ladder still leaning against the wall. “You’ve been up and down that thing for hours. Humor me.”

A beat passes, and then she nods.

We load her supplies into the back of the truck and head toward McAllister’s Hardware. The old place smells like sawdust and paint thinner the second we step inside, and Sam McAllister himself waves from behind the counter, calling me “Captain” the way he always does.

Sadie drifts toward the art section, scanning the neatly arranged rows of pigment jars. I hang back, letting her have her space, but watching enough to notice how methodical she is—reading labels, testing chalk texture between her fingers, even checking the edge sharpness on the pastels.

When she’s done, I carry half the load to the register without asking. She doesn’t argue.

I drop her off at her place, figuring that’s the end of it, but as she’s unloading her bag I hear myself say, “I’m heading into town to grab something to eat. You want to join me?”

She looks up, startled. “I’m a little exhausted. I was just going to rest.”

I could leave it there. Should leave it there. Instead—“There’s a fish shack near the beach. Walking distance back. I’ll have you home in two hours, promise.”

Her mouth tugs to the side, like she’s weighing the risk. “Let me just change.”

Five minutes later she’s back, trading the paint-smudged jeans for a soft skirt and a light top, sandals on her feet. The simple change somehow makes her look like she belongs in the sunlight—except for the way she keeps rubbing at her wrist when she thinks I’m not looking.

I don’t comment.

The fish shack is the same as it’s always been—weathered cedar siding, picnic tables worn smooth by decades of salt air, gulls patrolling the edge of the beach. Mark behind the counter gives me a chin lift and goes back to flipping something on the griddle.

I steer Sadie toward a corner table, the one under the shade tarp that still catches the breeze off the water.

“Order for both of us?” I ask.

“Go ahead,” she says, settling into her seat.

I get us the fried snapper sandwiches—light batter, Mark’s homemade slaw—and a side of kettle chips.

When I sit back down, I lean forward on my elbows. “Going out on a limb here, but… I’m surprised you even agreed to lunch. You didn’t exactly seem to like me.”

Her eyes go wide in a way that makes her look younger, almost guilty. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” I counter, a half-smile tugging at my mouth. “First time you saw me, you practically ran.”

She glances at my chest, at the uniform shirt with the station patch. “It wasn’t you. It’s the uniform. I don’t exactly have fond memories of firefighters.”

I scratch my jaw, weighing my next words. “But… I thought Max was a firefighter.”

She nods, eyes dropping to her hands. “He was. But so was the rest of the pack.”

Something cold flickers in my gut. I want to ask more, but before I can a group of teens in board shorts and hoodies cut across the deck.

“Hey, Captain Ashford!” one of them calls. “You coming to the bonfire this weekend?”

I snort. “You know how I feel about fire.”