Page 12 of Scorched in Pelican Point (Pelican Point #5)

S ix Months Later

Ashe

Smokey looks ridiculous. Absolutely, undeniably ridiculous.

He’s wearing a bowtie—a red one with little white tulips on it—and he’s got a sign hanging around his neck that reads in bold, slightly crooked letters: WILL YOU MARRY ME?

It took me three hours, a lot of hot glue, and a deeply humiliating trip to Coastal Couture where Desirae insisted on helping me “color match for maximum impact.” I let her, mostly because I was afraid of her scissors and unflinching opinions .

Now Smokey and I are standing in the middle of Pelican Point’s Saturday morning farmer’s market, surrounded by stalls overflowing with sunflowers, tomatoes, and the smell of fresh bread, and I’m about to have a stroke.

My palms are sweating, my heart is thundering in my ears, and I’m ninety percent sure my left eye is twitching.

Smokey, meanwhile, looks like he’s about to win Best in Show.

I spot Daisy almost instantly—floral dress swirling around her knees, a big sunhat tipped just enough to cast her in golden light, and that bright smile as she chats animatedly with the honey guy in the booth next to hers.

Her laugh carries over the crowd and hits me right in the chest, sending my already-shaky confidence into a tailspin.

She's pure sunshine—effervescent, glowing, impossible to look away from.

I am, at best, a patch of moody weather with a fifty percent chance of making a fool of myself in public.

But this is it. No more waiting, no more second-guessing. No more running from how I feel. This is the moment I stop being afraid of love and start believing I’m worthy of it.

Smokey trots beside me proudly, bowtie flouncing, sign swinging. We cut through the booths—past organic candles, homemade dog treats, and three separate people who whisper, "Oh my God, that’s Ashe!"

I clear my throat. "Daisy!"

She turns. Her eyes go wide. She blinks rapidly, like she’s not sure what she’s seeing. Her mouth opens, then shuts again. One hand flies to her chest, the other fumbles with the edge of her table. Her gaze drops to Smokey’s sign, and her lips part in a stunned gasp.

Then she looks back at me—completely floored, a mix of shock and joy blooming across her face like she’s trying to reconcile a dream with real life.

And for a moment, I forget my speech. The one I practiced in the mirror for two days straight.

Then I remember.

I pull the slightly wilted tulips from behind my back. “They were supposed to be fresh,” I say. “But Smokey sat on them in the truck.”

A laugh bubbles from her lips. That’s a good sign. I hope.

I kneel. Right there in front of the honey booth guy, between jars of clover blend and a basket of cinnamon sticks.

“Daisy Waverly,” I say, heart in my throat.

“You crashed into my life like a cactus tornado and made everything smell sweeter. The way you make me laugh. The way you make me feel like I’m more than just a guy in turnout gear.

I tried to fight it, you know? But I can’t fight it anymore. I don't want to.”

She covers her mouth. Her eyes shimmer.

I keep going, voice thick. “You’ve seen me at my worst. I think you saw through me before I even figured out I was hiding. And yet you still let me in. Let me love you. So... here I am. Sign, tulips, bad handwriting and all.”

I gesture to Smokey, who barks at perfect comedic timing. “We’re kind of a package deal.”

Daisy

The sun is out, the breeze is sweet, and I smell like eucalyptus and beeswax. Which, all things considered, is not a bad way to spend a Saturday morning. The Farmer’s Market is in full swing, and I’ve been buzzing with customers since just after sunrise.

I’m chatting with Frank—the honey guy in the booth next to mine—about whether his wildflower batch tastes fruitier than the clover one, when I hear it .

"Daisy!"

I turn, and everything stops.

Ashe is standing in the middle of the market looking like a walking Hallmark movie.

Only better. Because he’s real. And beside him is Smokey, looking unbearably proud in a red bowtie with little white tulips on it.

Hanging around his neck is a hand-painted sign in lopsided letters: WILL YOU MARRY ME?

I blink.

Nope, still there.

My hand flies to my chest. I feel my mouth drop open like a cartoon character, and Frank the honey guy is suddenly nowhere in my periphery. It’s just Ashe and Smokey, and me trying to remember how to breathe.

Then Ashe pulls out a bouquet of slightly squashed tulips from behind his back. "They were supposed to be fresh," he says sheepishly. "But Smokey sat on them in the truck."

A laugh bursts out of me, tangled in a sob. Because oh my God, this is happening. This is really happening.

Ashe kneels. Right there in front of the honey jars and the tomato lady.

“Daisy Waverly,” he says, voice thick. “You crashed into my life like a cactus tornado and made everything smell sweeter. The way you make me laugh. The way you make me feel like I’m more than just a guy in turnout gear. I tried to fight it, you know? But I can’t fight it anymore. I don’t want to."

The crowd quiets, holding their breath. People lean in. Phones are out. Someone whispers, "Is this real?" And I don’t even care.

He keeps going, his voice thick "You’ve seen me at my worst. I think you saw through me before I even figured out I was hiding. And yet you still let me in. Let me love you. So... here I am. Sign, tulips, bad handwriting and all.”

Smokey barks as if to remind Ashe about him. He glances at Smokey. “We’re kind of a package deal.”

I step forward, kneel down, and throw my arms around his neck immediately.

"Of course, I’ll marry you, Ashe McAllister," I say, my words wobbling. "Even if your tulips are squished and your sign looks like it was made by a sugared-up preschooler."

He kisses me, and it’s magic. Not fireworks and orchestras kind of magic—real magic. The kind that tastes like strawberry pop tarts and hope .

Smokey barks again and immediately licks my cheek.

“Hey! That was my job!” Ashe grins.

Before I can wipe my face, Peaches bolts around the front of my booth like a golden bullet of excitement and tackles Smokey. The two of them tumble in a blur of wagging tails and floppy ears.

“Peaches!” I shout.

“Smokey, heel!” Ashe yells at the same time.

They do not heel.

Instead, they chase each other through the market, weaving between booths like deranged parade floats.

Peaches barrels straight through a pyramid of cucumbers, sending them flying like veggie confetti.

Smokey, not to be outdone, skids into a candle display, knocking over wax towers with a series of dramatic clunks and splats.

A small child claps like this is better than cartoons.

Someone tries to record the madness but trips over a potted basil, lands in a crate of zucchinis, and yells, "I'm fine!

" while holding up their phone like it's a press pass.

“I guess that’s a yes from them too,” Ashe mutters, already jogging after the chaos.

I sprint after him, apron flapping around my legs, laughing so hard my stomach aches because this is my life now—glorious, messy, heart-full chaos .

And I wouldn’t change a single thing.

Not even the glitter on that bowtie.

Love, it turns out, is best served with dirt, dog slobber, and a wildly inappropriate amount of glitter.

Ready for the next book in Pelican Point? Click here to read Plot Twist in Pelican Point

Two broken hearts. One dangerously seductive rewrite.

I’m Kate Lawrence, bestselling author, hopeless romantic, and one missed deadline away from a career catastrophe. So when inspiration vanishes, I escape to the quaint seaside town of Pelican Point, hoping ocean air and solitude will revive my muse.

Instead, I find him.

Sebastian Cabot is the grumpy architect renovating the mansion next door into a lifestyle club for Cerberus. He’s brilliant, brooding, and built like sin, and he thinks romance novels are a waste of ink. Worse? He says it to my face in a voice that could melt steel.

He’s closed off, guarded, and infuriating. I’m all heart, hope, and heat. We clash from the start… until the sparks between us become impossible to ignore .

What starts as banter turns into flirtation. What begins as resistance turns to temptation. But just as I start to break through his walls, a mysterious break-in threatens his work, and my safety. As we dig deeper into the sabotage, we uncover something far darker than petty vandalism.

And when I realize the villain in my new novel looks a little too familiar, fiction and reality begin to blur.

He was supposed to be my muse.

Now he might be my biggest risk.

And the story we’re writing together?

Could be the last one I ever tell.