Page 1 of Scorched in Pelican Point (Pelican Point #5)

Daisy

“ O kay, Peaches, this is it,” I say, downshifting as my pastel pink truck rumbles into town like a cupcake on wheels.

“Pelican Point. Population: not many. According to the internet, it’s known for a charming harbor, nosy neighbors, and more seasonal festivals than the town has stoplights.

There’s a Pie Palooza, a Dog Days Parade, and I kid you not, something called Flamingo Bingo.

Because nothing says 'quaint coastal charm' like competitive lawn games in neon pink bird hats. I assume costumes are involved at some of these.”

Peaches, riding shotgun, yawns like I’ve personally offended her with facts.

“I also read that everyone here knows everyone else’s business within ten minutes, which means we are already behind. So, no pressure, but try not to embarrass us right away, okay?”

Peaches lets out a bark and sticks her head farther out the window.

“Right. Got it. You’re going to do whatever you want and leave me to clean up the glittery chaos. As usual. Our new beginning. Our great adventure. Our—oh crap, is that a squirrel?”

It’s not just a squirrel. It’s the kind of chunky, overconfident squirrel that looks like it runs a tiny crime syndicate. It’s perched on the edge of a picket fence like it owns the town, twitching its tail and locking eyes with Peaches in a showdown worthy of an old western.

Peaches lets out an excited woof and nearly launches herself out the passenger window, her golden retriever ears flapping in the breeze like she’s auditioning for a dog food commercial.

I roll the window up a few inches on her side.

"Not today, Missy. No spontaneous squirrel homicides on my first day in town.

Not like last time." I pause. "You remember the duck pond incident. "

Taylor Swift’s Welcome to New York is blaring from the speakers, completely inappropriate given our location in Florida, but spiritually? It works. I roll down my window farther, letting the salty air mix with the scent of Peaches’ breath and stale dog treats.

I spot the now familiar hand-painted sign: Waverly Blooms. It's surrounded by wildflower beds that are doing more ‘wild’ than ‘flower’ at this point. That'll need fixing pronto.

I pull into the angled parking spot out front, tires squealing a little as I brake too fast—because out of nowhere, a man with his dog steps directly into my path.

One second, the coast is clear, and the next, he’s just there, like some scowling guardian summoned by my terrible parking skills.

I lurch forward, heart in my throat, as Peaches erupts into barking frenzy from the passenger seat.

It’s a miracle I don’t hit him. Or faint. Or both.

I slam the brakes. Peaches barks. Taylor wails a high note, and the man in question—tall, built like a forest fire could bounce off him, and glowering so hard it might crack concrete—turns slowly, jaw clenched, like he's counting to ten just to keep from spontaneously combusting.

He levels me with a stare that could melt asphalt and growls, “Seriously?”

I scramble out of the truck, trying to quiet Peaches, who is losing her ever-loving mind in the passenger seat—barking, bouncing, and wagging like we just won the lottery instead of nearly committing accidental manslaughter. My entire truck is shaking back and forth.

“Peaches,” I hiss under my breath, ducking back through the door to grab her leash.

“This is not how we make friends. I Googled small-town etiquette, remember? We are supposed to be polite, unobtrusive, and bake something with rhubarb within our first seventy-two hours. Remind me later to look up what rhubarb actually is. Is it a fruit? A vegetable? A pie-specific conspiracy?”

Peaches lets out a yap like she is offended by my question. She pants harder, tongue lolling, no remorse or poise whatsoever in her fluffy golden face.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter. “You couldn’t have picked a less controversial entrance, could you?”

Peaches gives my elbow a happy nudge.

Right. I guess we’re leaning into chaos today.

“I barely tapped the brakes!” I protest as I stand next to my truck while yelling at the stranger and brushing wind-blown hair out of my face. “You stepped in front of a moving vehicle! In flip-flops! Who does that?”

“I'm not wearing flip-flops.” He lifts a booted foot slightly as if to prove it.

Okay, so not flip-flops. But still. “I just assumed you were wearing flip-flops. Everyone seems to around here. So, fine. Combat boots or whatever. Same energy.”

“Nice try at deflection,” he says. “But next time you try to distract someone, maybe don’t shout ‘flip-flops’ like it’s a legal defense.”

I narrow my eyes. “Look, I didn’t hit you, and my dog didn’t jump out the window and attack, so let’s call this a win and move on with our lives.”

“I’m trying,” he mutters, bending to check on the enormous German Shepherd sitting calmly at his side, not even remotely fazed by the chaos happening around us. “You just nearly parked on top of my dog.”

“Peaches, come say hi to... um...” I wave a hand at the dog, then the man. “Who exactly did I almost-murder?”

The man straightens. “Ashe McAllister. Firehouse Lieutenant.”

Of course he is. Of course, the glowering Adonis with shoulders like a Greek statue is a local hero.

The kind of guy who probably saves kittens in trees, fixes leaking faucets for little old ladies, and grunts stoically through town council meetings.

And of course, I almost ran over him and his dog on my first day like I’m trying to collect small-town enemies before I’ve even unpacked my boxes.

“And this is Smokey,” he adds, like I should already know, like everyone already knows.

I look down at his dog, meaning to keep things simple, but Smokey locks eyes with me and cocks his head, as if he's silently evaluating my life choices.

It's oddly distracting—he has that same cool, unreadable demeanor as his owner, like they're sharing a single brain cell dedicated to disapproval.

I blink, momentarily thrown, and forget whatever clever apology I was about to make.

Peaches, naturally, uses this exact moment to hurl herself out the now-half-open window.

She lands with a thud, bolts around the front of the truck with all the grace of a cannonball in a tutu and immediately starts licking Smokey’s face like they are long-lost lovers reunited in an airport terminal—complete with dramatic whimpers, tail wagging at warp speed, and what can only be described as doggy jazz hands.

It’s a scene. A very wet, very enthusiastic scene.

“Oh my God, Peaches! No tongue!”

Smokey doesn’t move. Ashe doesn’t either.

They just endure the onslaught like this happens all the time—Smokey with the stoic resignation of a dog who’s seen things, and Ashe with the barely-restrained fury of a man who would rather run into a burning building than deal with one more drop of dog slobber before his morning coffee.

I grab Peaches’ collar, tug her back, and attach her leash. “Sorry, she thinks everyone wants kisses. Consent is a work in progress.”

Ashe’s lips twitch. Just a flicker. “Apparently so.”

“Are you okay, Smokey?” I ask, shooting a side-eye at Ashe, who’s still wearing his grumpy pants like it's part of the uniform. Not exactly the warm-and-fuzzy welcome I imagined. “Are you traumatized? Do you need a floral arrangement and an apology treat?”

Smokey gives me a slow blink.

“Seriously,” Ashe says, folding his arms with the full-body exasperation of someone who regrets leaving the house today. His brows are knit tight, his jaw flexes, and I’m pretty sure if he sighed any harder, the paint might peel off the building. “What are you doing?”

“Um, what does it look like I’m doing?” I say, with the slow patience of someone explaining gravity to a goldfish. I gesture to the flower shop behind me with exaggerated flair. “I’m Daisy Waverly. My aunt Violet left me Waverly Blooms. I’m the new owner. Hence, the truck. The dog. The glitter.”

He looks me up and down. Takes in the paint-splattered overalls, the glittery 'Plant Lady' T-shirt, and the truck still blasting Taylor. “I see.”

“Wow,” I say, plastering on a syrupy smile. “Did that burn coming out of your mouth, or is your resting expression just set to ‘judgmental gladiator’?”

He doesn’t reply. Just turns to Smokey and gives a sharp whistle. Smokey immediately sits at his side like an obedient statue.

Peaches, of course, flops onto her back with the grace of a potato sack in freefall and presents Ashe her belly like she’s auditioning for 'America’s Next Top Attention Seeker.

' Her tail thumps against the pavement with such enthusiasm, it’s basically a percussion section.

She even lets out a hopeful little grunt, just in case Ashe needed a verbal cue to commence belly rubs.

Ashe and Smokey just watch the spectacle unfold—Smokey with calm indifference, and Ashe with the tired disdain of a man who expected nonsense and somehow still feels affronted by its arrival.

“Look, sorry for the near miss,” I say, trying to sound like an adult. “It’s been a weird and wild morning, and I didn’t realize Pelican Point came with its very own broody parking police-slash-crossing-guard.”

“You passed the arrival part,” he says dryly. “But you failed the spatial awareness section. Maybe try looking at the road instead of belting out Taylor Swift like you're auditioning for a glitter-themed musical reboot of Fast & Furious.”

We stand there for a beat. His eyes are this smoky gray that matches his dog and his attitude, and there’s a faint sunburn on his neck like he refuses to wear sunscreen out of sheer principle.

He’s completely unreadable—like all my efforts to make amends are sliding off him like rain on a tin roof.

It’s maddening. I’m throwing out charm, wit, sincerity, and he’s giving me nothing but monosyllables and silent judgment.

Does he have a personal vendetta against friendliness, or is he just constitutionally opposed to giving someone the benefit of the doubt?

I, of course, am an open book in Comic Sans—bright, bold, slightly chaotic, and impossible to ignore.

I radiate sunshine whether people want it or not, tossing out optimism like confetti even when someone’s throwing storm clouds in return.

And right now? I’m practically tap-dancing in a hurricane of his scowl .

Time to go. “Well,” I say, grabbing Peaches’ leash and backing toward the shop with my best customer-service smile, “if you ever need an emergency bouquet for, I don’t know, an apology, a breakup, or your next PR disaster, come on by. We do roses, lilies, and top-shelf damage control.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” With one last unreadable glance, he turns on his heel, Smokey rising fluidly to his side. Together, they walk off down the sidewalk like a grumpy superhero and his trusty sidekick, leaving me and Peaches in a wake of judgment and silence.

By the time I unlock the door and step inside Waverly Blooms, Peaches is wagging like she owns the place, which, to be fair, she kind of does now.

The shop looks nothing like the dusty time capsule I inherited two months ago.

It's been completely renovated—bright new paint, gleaming floors, custom floral coolers, and a front counter I built myself with only two meltdowns and one trip to urgent care.

For a moment, I just stand there, taking it all in. Pride bubbles up in my chest, tangled with nerves. This place is mine. Ready to open. Ready to be something. And for the first time in a long time, maybe I am too. I'm ready to plant roots... both plants and life roots.

I never even knew I had an Aunt Violet until the lawyer called.

I never met her. She passed away before I could say thank you or ask what the heck she was thinking leaving a whole flower shop to a total stranger with a Pinterest addiction and a sketchy track record of commitment.

The only thing she left behind besides the deed was a card with my name on it and a note inside: "A good bloom takes root in chaos.

" I had no idea what she meant, but I think I’m starting to.

But now that I’m here… I want to make her proud.

Even though I never met Aunt Violet, there’s this invisible thread tying me to her—a wish, maybe, or a whisper in the petals she once arranged.

I hate that I never got the chance to sit across from her and ask why me.

Why this place? But maybe the why doesn’t matter as much as what I do with it now.

If she saw this shop and saw me trying, maybe she’d smile.

Maybe she’d believe I could actually pull this off.

The opening is this week, and for once in my life, I might actually be ready—scared, sure, but ready.

Like I’ve somehow duct-taped together enough courage, caffeine, and blind optimism to take this leap.

It’s terrifying and exhilarating and makes me want to both scream into a pillow and throw confetti at the same time.

Peaches trots toward the back staircase as she's exploring and finds our little apartment loft is right upstairs.

It's cozy, sunlit, and smells like lavender and hope and just a little bit of construction dust. I glance toward the staircase, heart doing a weird flutter, part excitement, part sheer panic.

Opening week is almost here. Oh shit! What if no one comes? Oh double-shit! What if everyone does? Maybe I should’ve included a complimentary mimosa with every arrangement. Or a stress ball shaped like a daisy.

My heart is still hammering from the non-brush with death. One wrong move and I’d have made a very dramatic first impression as the town’s newest vehicular menace. Great branding. I should print business cards: 'Florist, dog wrangler, almost-homicidal maniac.'

That man. That scowl. That… everything. Why am I still thinking about him?

It’s not like he was friendly or even mildly tolerable.

But something about that broody glare, the way he barely blinked through the madness, and the fact that his dog looked li ke he moonlights as a therapy animal for storm clouds—it’s all stuck in my head like glitter after a craft project.

I shake it off, but the image stays wedged in like a splinter under my skin.

Welcome to Pelican Point, Daisy. Chaos has followed you home.