Page 2 of Scorched in Pelican Point (Pelican Point #5)

Ashe

I hate errands.

I especially hate errands that involve small talk, forced smiles, and shops that smell like potpourri and pastel anxiety—like someone tried to bottle cheerfulness and anxiety together and set it loose in the air vents.

The kind of place where every corner has a chalkboard sign with a pun on it, and you just know someone’s going to try and sell you dried lavender wrapped in twine and emotional vulnerability.

But Captain Martinez put me in charge of “bringing a touch of cheer” to the firehouse common room in time for the open house this weekend, and apparently that means buying flowers.

From the new shop. The one owned by the woman who almost ran me and my dog over the other day in a truck that looks like it was frosted by a five-year-old with a glitter glue addiction.

I pause outside the door, Smokey sitting dutifully at my side. “Are you ready for round two?” I mutter, eyeing the deceptively charming storefront like it might explode glitter at any moment. Smokey lets out a low huff and lifts his paw, which I choose to interpret as a brave but reluctant yes.

When I open the door, it jingles. Of course it jingles—high and bright and aggressively cheerful, like the damn shop is already judging me for my mood. I swear the bell is in on it with the floral wallpaper and the bucket of bright pink hydrangeas staring at me from the corner.

Inside, the place is... nice. I hate that it’s nice.

Bright and airy, not a fake flower in sight.

There’s a clean, herbal scent hanging in the air, like lavender and eucalyptus had a well-balanced child.

Buckets of flowers line the walls, everything in neat rows and soft colors.

The counter’s a slab of reclaimed wood that looks like something Marcus King would have made.

The man is not only a police officer in town, but also an expert craftsman.

Then I hear it. The voice. “Oh no, no, no—Peaches, heel! Heel! That is not your friend! ”

I don’t have time to process what’s coming. One second, I’m checking out a bundle of cheery, yellow sunflowers. The next, something golden and fuzzy barrels into me from the side. “Shit—” The leash wraps around my legs and I lose all control.

My balance? Gone.

My dignity? Also gone.

I stumble, try to grab the counter, fail spectacularly, and land backward into a display of succulents with the grace of a tranquilized moose. Clay pots shatter everywhere. A cactus lodges itself somewhere deeply personal, and Smokey woofs once and sits like this is any normal Tuesday.

“Oh my God,” Daisy says, breathless—part horror, mostly laughter. She’s got one hand over her mouth like she’s trying to look concerned, but she’s shaking with giggles. “Are you okay? Because I swear, if you broke anything important, I need to know if it’s my display or your tailbone.”

“No,” I say flatly, removing a tiny aloe from my armpit. “Totally fine. Didn’t break anything but my pride. But I’ve been assaulted by a sunflower-colored torpedo.” I turn and glower at Peaches, who just tilts her head and wags like I complimented her instead.

“She’s just excited to see you and Smokey,” Daisy says, unbothered, hauling Peaches off me by the harness with one hand while using the other to awkwardly sweep up a pile of broken clay shards with a nearby dustpan.

She nudges a cactus out of the way with the toe of her boot, muttering under her breath about poor plant placement.

“They had a moment the other day, remember? Instant connection. Zero chill.”

“I remember being almost run over by a cupcake on wheels, driven by someone who thought defensive driving meant using sarcasm as a seatbelt. That’s what I remember.”

She reaches a hand toward me, clearly intending to help me up, but before she can, Peaches gives a gleeful wiggle and somehow manages to wriggle right out of her bright pink harness.

With a triumphant bark, she bolts across the shop floor and launches herself at Smokey like a furry missile.

Daisy gasps and dives after her, trying to both grab the loose harness and sweep up a cluster of shattered pots with the dustpan at the same time, muttering something about needing six more arms. I shake my head and shrug off her attempt to help, already pushing to my feet. “You say run over, I say destined.”

I glare at her as I brush soil off my jeans.

Smokey trots over and nudges Peaches, who responds by flopping to the floor and licking his snout with embarrassing enthusiasm.

I shoot Smokey a look—betrayal, disappointment, all of it wrapped in a scowl.

“Really?” I mutter. “One romantic sniff and you’re on her side now?

” Smokey wags his tail and gives Peaches a satisfied lick in return, utterly unbothered by my suffering.

I swear he’s enjoying this way too much.

“Are you really okay?” she asks, trying—and failing—to look serious. “Because I do have a first aid kit behind the counter. I think it has band-aids shaped like tulips.”

She disappears for a second, then pops back into view holding up one tulip-shaped bandage between two fingers like it’s a peace offering. “See? Pastel pink and everything. Guaranteed to fix bruised egos and cactus-related trauma.”

“I think I’ll risk infection, thanks.” I give her a look—one part deadpan, one part warning—not to push her luck with the tulip-shaped medical accessories.

She grins, then gently places the bandage back in the kit with mock solemnity. “Suit yourself.” She wipes her hands on a floral apron that says 'Plant One On Me'.

“Do you always bring your dog to work?” I ask.

“Yes, because we live here. Upstairs.” She points to the ceiling.

“If I leave her alone, there's a real possibility of chaos happening. Which, to be fair, there always is.” She watches me for a second, then tilts her head. “So... why are you here, Lieutenant Grumpypants? You don’t strike me as someone who buys himself spontaneous flowers. Do you need something for the wife? Girlfriend? Both?” She grins and winks.

“No girlfriend or wife,” I say, keeping my tone flat. “The firehouse has an open house this weekend and apparently it needs a cheerful centerpiece. Captain’s orders.” I pause. “Something low maintenance. Nothing crazy.”

She snorts, then glances around the shop with exaggerated studiousness, as if evaluating her own vibe like a scientist cataloging chaos. “So... the opposite of me, got it.”

I say nothing, mostly because it feels like a trap. Like if I answer, I’ll either insult her or admit I don’t totally hate the idea of her chaos. And I’m not ready for either of those outcomes.

She leads me to the back wall. “Okay, so for firehouse-friendly arrangements, we’ve got sunflowers, eucalyptus, maybe some thistle if you’re feeling bold.”

“I'm not feeling bold after the cactus assault. ”

“Noted,” she says, then glances down at the dogs. Peaches has her head resting on Smokey’s paw like they’ve been dating for months. “They’re...really into each other. They look so cute together.” She whips out her phone and snaps some pictures of the pups.

I blow out a breath and scrub my hand down my face, already regretting every life choice that led me to this moment. “Can I just get the flowers now?”

“I’m just saying. I’ve seen less commitment in actual weddings.” She laughs again—bright and unapologetic—like she’s having the best time watching me suffer. Which, honestly, she probably is.

Smokey gives me a pointed look, and I swear to God, even he’s rooting for this disaster.

I look around the shop again. It really is nice.

Clean except for the cactus disaster in the corner.

Thoughtful. Like someone took a broken thing and built something new from the pieces.

I get that. “Give me two of those—” I point to the eucalyptus bundle.

“And whatever doesn’t smell like it wants to hug me. ”

“No hugging flowers coming right up,” she says, grabbing a pair of floral scissors. “Also, if you ever want to book Peaches and Smokey for engagement photos, I know a guy. Very reasonable rates. Discount if you promise to scowl in every shot.”

I groan under my breath, pinching the bridge of my nose like that might somehow block out her voice. “You never stop, do you?” I mutter, already knowing the answer and hating how much I don't hate it.

“Not when I’m on a roll,” she says with a wink.

I shake my head, but the corner of my mouth twitches before I can stop it. Damn it. I think I like it. I open my mouth to retort, but nothing comes out, so I close it deciding silence is the safer choice.

Ten minutes later, I leave with a modest bouquet, a mild cactus injury, and the creeping suspicion that I’ve just walked into something far bigger than I meant to.

The bell above the door jingles behind me with a chipper farewell, like even the building is laughing at me.

I glance down at Smokey, who looks entirely too pleased with himself.

Peaches watches us from the shop window, barking like she’s cheering us on—or taunting me. Her tail thumps against the glass with zero shame. Smokey turns to look back, ears perked like he’s already planning their next playdate.

“Don’t get any ideas,” I tell him, but my voice lacks the usual bite. Smokey just wags his tail, all smug satisfaction and floppy optimism, like he already knows I’m a goner. I narrow my eyes. “You traitor. You meet one pretty golden retriever and suddenly you’re writing your vows.”

He wags his tail, and I realize I am so screwed.

The leash hangs limply from the hanger on the wall like it’s mourning the loss of better days, and Smokey flops down on the floor near the front door with the dramatic weight of a dog who’s just lost his will to live—or at least the will to fetch.

His sigh is the kind that belongs in a Shakespearean tragedy.

“You’re being ridiculous,” I mutter, crossing my arms as I lean against the doorframe.

"I take you to the fire station every shift. You’ve got the whole crew wrapped around your pinky-paw, you get leftover breakfast sandwiches, and you nap in a recliner like a retiree with a pension.

Don’t you want a day to relax for once?"

He lets out a sigh that’s half huff, half theatrical performance, then turns his head to look at me—full of betrayal and longing, like I personally canceled the sun on him all week.

I rub the back of my neck and glance out the window.

It rained again this morning. The fifth day in a row.

The dog park is under a foot of water, sealed off with a laminated sign by the City of Pelican Point, and a coil of soggy caution tape.

I’d taken Smokey by this morning just in case it had dried up, but he’d only stared through the fence like he was paying respects at a grave.

“You don’t even like the dog park that much,” I argue, grabbing my keys and tossing them from one hand to the other. “You hate that yappy spaniel and the weird poodle that humps everything with a pulse.”

Smokey sighs again. Loudly.

You've got to be kidding me. I’m arguing with a dog.

A very smug, judgmental dog who clearly thinks he’s the brains of this operation—and honestly, he might be right.

What’s next, am I going to start texting him updates?

Ask for his opinion on wine pairings? This is how it starts.

One sarcastic stare from a German Shepherd and suddenly I’m the sidekick in my own life.

I blow out a breath and glance at the flyer that’s somehow ended up on my kitchen counter. Again.

Humans welcome.

Location: Backyard of Waverly Blooms.

Time: Saturday, 10AM .

Hosted by: Daisy Waverly and Peaches the Party Pup

It’s the same obnoxiously cheerful flyer that’s been chasing me around Pelican Point all week.

I’ve seen it posted at the Celtic Knot when I picked up a bottle of wine for Mom.

Saw it again at Seaside Sweets when I grabbed cinnamon rolls for the station—Julie shoved it at me and said “tell Smokey he’s invited” like he had his own social calendar.

Even spotted one taped to the glass at Coastal Couture when we responded to a call about a fire alarm malfunction. The damn party is following me.

Or she is. Daisy Waverly.

With sunshine eyes, glitter bomb dog, and the flower shop that smells like eucalyptus and emotional vulnerability. She’s been running laps in my head ever since the cactus incident.

Rodriguez left a miniature cactus on my locker last shift. Labeled it “Ashe’s Secret Admirer.” Taped a glittery heart to it too. Said it needed emotional support. Real mature. I caught Hastings trying to water it while quoting Taylor Swift lyrics. I’m never living this down.

Smokey stands and pads over to the counter, nose bumping the flyer like he's making the decision for the both of us.

“You want to go to this thing?” I ask, skeptical.

Tail wag.

“It’s at her place.”

Tail wags faster. Of course it does. That's also where Peaches lives—his floofy, slobbery soulmate and enabler of chaos. Because naturally, fate wouldn’t just toss me into the cactus-infested orbit of a glitter-drenched florist; it had to make sure my dog fell head over paws for her canine counterpart, too.

I groan and drop my head back against the fridge. “You know this is how it starts. One innocent cupcake party and suddenly you’ve got matching dog costumes and a joint Instagram account. I’m not doing that.”

He stares at me, and I cave.

“Fine,” I mutter, reaching for his leash. “You win. But I’m only going because you need socialization. Not because I’m thinking about her laugh or her obnoxious T-shirts or the way she looked at me when she offered me a tulip-shaped Band-Aid.”

Smokey barks once, triumphantly.

I clip the leash to his collar and try to ignore the flutter in my chest. It’s not nerves. Just caffeine. Or indigestion. Or maybe residual humiliation from being taken out by a potted succulent.

Either way, it’s not her.

It’s not.

I open the door, and Smokey trots out like he’s heading to prom, and I follow straight toward the pastel disaster I’ve been pretending I don’t want to see again.