Page 10 of Scorched in Pelican Point (Pelican Point #5)

Ashe

T hree dog park meetups.

Three.

And in all of them, Daisy has talked to everyone else except me.

She’s friendly to the dog walkers, sweet to the elderly couple with the three Chihuahuas, and practically besties with the surfer dude who brings his Min-pin in a backpack.

But me? I get a polite smile. Maybe a nod. If I’m lucky, a quick "Hey." Like I’m the mailman or the neighbor she doesn't particularly like but tolerates because his recycling bin blew into her yard once.

Smokey doesn’t care. He and Peaches are all over each other, play-bowing and rolling through the grass like they’re reenacting Lady and the Tramp: The Park Years. Every time they nuzzle, I swear Smokey gives me this look like, Do something, you idiot.

Yeah, I know, buddy. I know .

I don’t blame Daisy. After the way I bolted on her that morning, then ghosted her afterwards, and then I show up like some golden retriever hoping for scraps, I wouldn’t talk to me either.

And every time I try to get a moment alone with her, she’s busy—or pretending to be.

Her voice stays chipper, her smile effortless, but there’s a wall there now. One I built. Brick by cowardly brick.

And the thing is? I can’t stop thinking about her.

About that night in her loft. Her knee pressed against mine under the covers.

Her breath on my neck. The way her laughter filled up the entire space like light.

I’ve never felt anything like it. I’ve had flings, sure.

Women who were fun and fiery and uncomplicated.

But Daisy? She’s not just a spark—she’s a whole damn bonfire I’m afraid to get too close to.

But the truth is, I’m already burned.

I walk over to where she's having a vibrant conversation with a couple—mid-sixties, matching sun hats, and a golden retriever named Marmalade—about the best kind of leash for a large dog.

"We’ve tried the retractable ones," the woman says, her sunglasses perched on her nose like a movie star. "But Marmalade thinks it’s a game to see how far he can go before it yanks him back."

Daisy laughs, bright and easy. "Peaches did that for months. I finally switched to a padded harness and a six-foot lead. Gave her just enough freedom without the slingshot effect."

"That’s brilliant," the man says. "Where’d you get it?"

"Paws and Pets, the little pet shop on Main Street. They’ve got a display near the front window with all their favorite ones. Go by tomorrow and I'm sure they'll even give you a demo."

I hover on the edge, trying to look casual as I inch closer. "That’s great advice," I offer, adding a small smile. "Smokey still acts like he’s auditioning for the Iditarod."

Daisy glances my way, her smile dimming to polite neutrality. Before I can say more, she glances at her phone and blinks. "Oh shoot—look at the time. I promised Julie I’d stop by and help her with a delivery."

She turns to the couple. "It was lovely chatting. Give Marmalade a belly rub for me."

Then she whistles low and firm. "Peaches, let’s go!"

Peaches bounds toward her without hesitation but stops short when she sees Daisy holding up her leash like a prize. She then opens her mouth to show that she’s got Daisy’s car keys. How did she even get a hold of them?

"Nope. Not this time," Daisy mutters, dodging to the left as Peaches attempts a strategic zigzag. "You are not running off with those keys again."

Peaches barks once, tail wagging furiously, and bolts around Daisy’s legs, causing her to spin in a circle like a malfunctioning wind-up toy. "I swear, if you make me chase you across this park like last time?—"

She lunges and catches Peaches' collar mid-dash, managing to wrest the jingling keys free. "Victory!"

Daisy straightens, breathless, and notices the couple still laughing nearby. She grins. "Dog yoga. It's a thing."

Then she offers me a half-wave and turns for the gate, Peaches trotting at her side, head high with mischief. Daisy doesn't look back.

I think I've really fucked up.

Today started like any other shift—until it didn’t. A three-car pile-up on Route 1. One fatality. Two kids were injured. The kind of call that guts you from the inside out. I did everything I could. I always do.

But nothing prepares you for telling two crying kids that their mom isn’t coming back.

She was still alive when we got there—barely.

She was pinned, crushed, her eyes already glassy.

We worked on her for what felt like hours, but she coded just as we got her out.

And those kids—they saw it. I watched the life leave her body.

I saw their faces and something in me cracked.

When I got back to the station, I couldn’t stop shaking.

One of the captains clapped a hand on my shoulder, his voice gruff but knowing.

"Whatever happens in life, McAllister, it's what you do in life that matters.

" Then he jerked his chin toward my phone.

"Now go call the girl before she thinks you don’t give a damn. "

And the only thing I could think was I need to hear her voice.

So, I call, and it goes straight to voicemail.

I call again. Still nothing.

I try texting. Nothing.

By the fourth try, panic has my stomach in a vise. I don’t do panic. I handle emergencies for a living. But this? Not knowing if she was okay? Needing to hear her voice? It's unraveling me in seconds.

So, I do something I haven’t done since I was a teenager with a busted skateboard and a broken wrist—I run.

Not metaphorically. I literally run through town like a madman.

I check Waverly Blooms first—locked up tight.

No lights on. I swing by Seaside Sweets, thinking maybe she needed sugar therapy, but there was no sign of her there either.

My next stop is the historical museum, though I have no idea why she’d be there, and I’m sweating through my shirt now like a lunatic.

Just when I’m ready to give up, I head toward the beach as a last-ditch effort. And there she is. Barefoot in the sand, her sundress fluttering around her knees, Peaches darting in and out of the surf. She's laughing at Peaches. Glowing like the sun.

I almost drop to my knees from relief, the sight of her and Peaches intact hitting me like a gut punch of gratitude.

But the surge of emotion curdles into something sharp and hot—anger, fear, frustration all tangled up together.

Instead of collapsing, I stomp across the sand like an unhinged lunatic, fueled by the sheer terror of thinking something had happened to her and the maddening helplessness that came with it .

"Daisy!"

She turns, eyes wide. "Ashe? What the hell?—"

"Why didn’t you answer your phone?" I cut in, breathless, shaking. I probably look like a wild animal. Great look, Ashe. Real smooth.

She blinks, her brow knitting. "I… I left it upstairs charging. Why?" Her tone shifts, unsure now, like she's not sure if she’s in trouble or if something horrible has happened. "Ashe, what’s going on? You're kind of scaring me right now."

"I called you three times! After the call we just had at work—I thought something happened. I thought you were—" I drag a hand through my hair. "You can’t just disappear. Not after?—"

Her expression hardens, eyes narrowing as her voice sharpens with disbelief. "Excuse me? I can’t just disappear? Isn’t that rich coming from you? Because if memory serves, you vanished like a magician with commitment issues."

I flinch at her tone and her anger, but she's not wrong.

"You don’t get to demand my attention when you won’t even return the favor, Ashe. You kissed me. You held me. Then you shut me out so fast I got whiplash. And now you want me to jump every time you call? That’s not how this works."

"Daisy, I care about you. I?—"

"Then show me ." Her voice wavers, but her spine is steel. "I’m not going to keep chasing after someone who only wants me when it’s convenient. I deserve more than halfway, Ashe. If you want me in your life, you’ve got to meet me there. Fully. Or not at all."

I open my mouth. Close it again.

The wind picks up, tossing her curls across her cheek. She doesn’t brush them away. Just looks at me like she’s already walking away in her mind.

And maybe she is.

Maybe this is the moment I lose her—for good.

I sit down hard in the sand, watching the trail of her footprints slowly fading behind her, like a fuse burning out on something explosive.

The tide thrums in and out, loud in my ears, syncing with the beat of regret in my chest. The wind stings my face, whipping past like it’s in a hurry to leave me behind, too. I barely feel it.

All I can think about is everything I didn’t say—everything I should’ve done differently. The words I swallowed, the chances I dodged, the walls I built and reinforced with silence. And now they’re the very things keeping her away. My own damn blueprint for loneliness.

That morning after the storm, I felt something shift.

In her—softness behind the sass, trust just beginning to bloom.

In me—a spark of something terrifyingly real.

But instead of facing it, I panicked. I pulled away.

I ran. Just like I did back then, when the grief was too sharp, when I convinced myself that distance was the only safety.

And now? That same fear is threatening to steal something that might’ve been everything.

I close my eyes, and the memory crashes back—years ago, that call that changed everything. The teen boy, the pills, the noose, the mother’s wails when I had to tell her we didn’t make it in time. That moment carved something out of me. Something I’ve never filled back in.

I told myself if I never let anyone get close, I’d never feel that hollow again—that gut-wrenching, soul-crushing emptiness that carves you open and leaves nothing but echo behind.

And now? Here I am, sitting in the wreckage of my own damn fear, like some idiot who barricaded himself in a fortress only to realize the best thing that ever happened to him is on the outside, walking away. And I built the damn walls myself .

My captain’s words echo in my head. “Whatever happens in life, McAllister, it's what you do in life that matters.”

What am I doing? Letting fear call the shots again?

That’s not the man I want to be. That’s the man I promised myself I’d never become after that kid’s funeral—the one who lets silence and guilt drive every damn decision.

I’m tired of hiding behind my own trauma like it’s armor.

It’s not strength. It’s just loneliness in a fancy costume.

I look out over the water, watching Peaches bounce beside Daisy in the distance, her golden fur catching the late afternoon light like a sunbeam with legs. Daisy bends to scoop up a stick, her laugh drifting back to me on the breeze—carefree and beautiful and everything I’ve managed to screw up.

I’ve got to fix this. Not tomorrow. Not next week.

Now. Because every second I wait, she gets farther away—not just in distance, but also in heart.

And if I don’t do something soon, I’ll be nothing more than the man who watched the best thing that ever happened to him walk away, one paw print and heartbeat at a time.

Because she’s worth it and I won’t lose her without a fight.