Page 98 of Found by the Pack

The story is clear: Driftwood Cove doesn’t forget where it came from. It rises because of it.

Sadie stands there with the bouquet hugged to her chest, sunlight catching her pink hair, looking like she doesn’t quite believe she made this happen.

The applause doubles, louder now, with cheers breaking out from the younger crowd near the food stalls. Sadie flushes bright, a mix of pride and disbelief, and when Jake calls her forward, she moves like she’s walking a line between terror and awe.

She steps up beside him, and for a second she looks out over the crowd like she might bolt. But then she catches sight of me.

Just me.

And her mouth curves—small, soft, real.

For one dangerous heartbeat, I let myself believe it. That maybe the smile is for me. That maybe she’s looking at me the way I’ve seen her look at Boone, like he’s her anchor in a storm.

The thought slides in too easy, too tempting. It makes my chest ache.

She speaks into the mic, voice low at first, then steadier as she goes. “I don’t… I don’t usually do speeches. I’m better with paint than words. But this wall, it’s not just mine. It’s yours. It’sDriftwood Cove’s. I wanted it to hold hope. To remind anyone who looks at it that no matter how much we burn, we can rise again.” Her voice cracks just slightly, but she doesn’t falter. “Thank you for letting me try.”

Applause erupts again, even louder this time, and the pride in the crowd is palpable. People are clapping, whistling, stomping their feet against the pavement. Even the kids are clapping, their little palms smacking together with unfiltered joy.

I’ve seen plenty of community events in this town—library fundraisers, harvest festivals, Fourth of July fireworks—but nothing like this. Nothing that feels this alive.

And in the center of it, Sadie looks like she’s glowing.

The mural behind her blazes in the sunlight—the phoenix’s wings stretched wide, feathers painted in strokes of gold that shimmer against the rough brick. The contrast of stormy blues below makes the flames look brighter, more alive. She’s captured grief and hope in a single image, and the town feels it. I feel it.

When the speeches wind down, the mayor thanks the businesses that donated scaffolding, paint, and supplies, then dismisses the crowd to enjoy the food stalls and music. The square dissolves into chatter and laughter again, people crowding closer to snap photos of the wall.

Sadie finds me almost immediately, weaving through neighbors with the bouquet still tucked under her arm. Her eyes are searching, guarded but expectant.

“Shep.” Her voice is careful, but her shoulders are straighter than they were an hour ago. “How was it? Really.”

I don’t sugarcoat. “It was perfect. The mural is stunning, Sadie. You gave this town something to believe in again.”

She exhales, relief softening her features. “Good. I wasn’t sure I—” she cuts herself off, shaking her head. “Never mind. Just… thank you for being here.”

I nod, but I have to tell her. “Boone wanted me to say he’s sorry. He got called out on an accident. He didn’t want to leave, but he didn’t have a choice.”

Her mouth tightens, but she nods. “Of course. Work comes first. Always does.”

There’s a flicker in her eyes—something between disappointment and understanding—and I wonder if she knows how hard Boone fought with himself before leaving.

“You should be proud,” I say, redirecting, because the heaviness doesn’t belong here. “This is yours.”

She fidgets, shifting the bouquet from one hand to the other. “I never know what to do at these things. Smile and wave? Stay ’til the last person leaves?”

I grin softly. “There’s no rulebook. But I do know a place that makes the best hot chocolate you’ve ever had.”

Her brow arches. “And I’m supposed to ditch my own unveiling for cocoa?”

“No one would blame you,” I assure. “You’ve already given them more than enough. You deserve a break.”

Her lips curve again, faint but real. “Lead the way, librarian.”

We slip out through the edge of the crowd, unnoticed amid the bustle of kids and families crowding toward the mural. I guide her down Harbor Street, past the florist, the antique shop, the old post office. She walks close, quiet, clutching her bouquet like it’s still holding her upright.

The chocolate shop sits at the far edge of town, tucked near the boardwalk where the harbor meets the rocky shoreline. It’s a squat, cheerful building painted robin’s-egg blue with white trim, a bell over the door and planters overflowing with trailing ivy. The hand-painted sign reads: The Cocoa Nook.

Sadie’s brows lift. “Cute.”