Page 3 of Scorched in Pelican Point (Pelican Point #5)

Daisy

I t’s ten a.m. on a Saturday, and my backyard looks like a unicorn exploded.

Streamers dangle from the garden trellis in every pastel color known to humanity—mint, lemon, baby blue, lilac, and at least three shades of pink that might be trademarked by a toy company.

Julie, from Seaside Sweets next door, hooked me up with dog-safe cupcakes shaped like bones, which are currently cooling on a picnic table covered in a gingham cloth and flanked by squeaky toy centerpieces.

A bubble machine whirs nearby, spitting out little orbs of joy for chasing, while Peaches trots around wearing a pink bandana that says “Hostess with the Mostest” in glitter letters so sparkly they could signal aircraft overhead.

I told myself I wasn’t going to go overboard with the Pup Playdate—just a few treats, a water bowl, maybe a chew toy or two.

But then the dog park flooded after a week of relentless afternoon rain showers, and I panicked.

One emergency craft bin raid and five online orders later, my backyard now resembles a canine birthday party thrown by Pinterest on a sugar high.

And honestly? I have no regrets—although my wallet might.

Peaches trots around the yard, tail wagging like a metronome set to hyperdrive, sniffing each decoration like she's the official Pup Playdate Quality Control Inspector.

She pauses at the photo booth backdrop made of pastel streamers, sniffs the edges of the sprinkler mat like it's suspect, and gives a thorough inspection of the cupcake station—which, to my horror, includes a generous amount of drool.

She's already licked the inflatable ‘Welcome Woofers!’ sign three times like she's claiming it, and I'm pretty sure she peed near the table leg closest to the biscuit bin, but honestly?

Spirits are high, even if the grass in that corner might not be green by tomorrow.

“Peaches, you’ve got approximately two seconds before I take that as a yes on sabotage,” I mutter, adjusting a sparkly sign that says ‘Pawty Zone’ and side-eyeing the suspiciously damp patch of grass by the treat table.

“Can’t have the hostess marking her territory.

It's bad optics—even if you're just trying to establish dominance. This isn’t ‘Survivor: Backyard Edition.’”

Peaches barks once—a short, sharp sound that I swear carries attitude—then takes off toward the fence gate like she’s on a one-dog reconnaissance mission to reclaim territory from the squirrels.

Her ears flap like little golden flags as she zooms across the lawn, clearly on a mission.

Probably to greet the next unsuspecting guest with her usual blend of unfiltered joy and mild chaos.

Not like last time, when she nearly tackled poor Mrs. Gladstone into a hedge during the bake sale earlier this week. Baby steps.

The guests begin to arrive one by one—Mrs. Honeywell with her schnauzer twins dressed in sailor hats, strutting like they’re on a cruise runway.

A teenager from down the street shows up with a very interested basset hound in a cowboy hat that keeps slipping over his droopy eyes.

A woman I don’t recognize brings a corgi in a bowtie who looks like he’s here for a formal gala and deeply offended there’s no red carpet.

It’s a parade of canine absurdity, paws and costumes everywhere, and I absolutely love it. The whole yard feels like a Wes Anderson movie collided with a dog treat factory, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I flit around greeting everyone, crouching to give each pup a peanut-butter-and-banana biscuit and carefully sticking on handmade name tags with glitter paw prints.

One dog is named Sir Barksalot, another is just called Meatball, and there’s a Pomeranian in a crown responding only to "Queen Barketh.

" I coo, giggle, and snap a dozen photos with my phone, fully committing to my role as canine cruise director. This is peak happiness—the kind that lives in wagging tails, soft fur, and the giggles of owners trying to wrangle dogs into themed hats. I’m floating on a pastel cloud of joy, sugar, and squeaky-toy symphonies.

That is, until I hear the sound of crunching boots—sharp and deliberate, cutting through the bubble-popping symphony like a record scratch.

My heart skips a beat. For a split second, I worry it’s someone from the city come to shut down my overenthusiastic backyard extravaganza.

Or worse—Mrs. Gladstone with a clipboard and a noise complaint.

I wipe my hands on my pastel apron, suddenly hyperaware of the drooping streamers and the way my voice sounds too high as I laugh with someone about bowtie etiquette for dogs.

I scan the crowd nervously, tugging my curls behind one ear in a futile attempt to look more pulled together.

There’s no real reason to be nervous. And yet. .. my stomach tightens anyway.

I turn, and there he is. Ashe McAllister. Firefighter, local grump, and recipient of one cactus to the butt with zero apologies.

He stands on the edge of the yard like he’s debating whether to turn around and go home or march directly into the chaos that is the pawty.

His jaw tightens, and his eyes scan the glitter-strewn yard like it’s a battlefield he didn’t agree to deploy into.

Smokey sits calmly beside him, tongue lolling in a goofy contrast, looking like the only reason they showed up at all—and maybe the only thing keeping Ashe from bolting.

Ashe is in jeans and a T-shirt that reads "Pelican Point FD" in faded letters, and unfortunately for my pulse, he wears both like they were custom tailored to drive women—specifically me—to the brink of distraction. The soft cotton clings to the breadth of his chest and those infuriatingly perfect shoulders, stretched just enough to hint at muscle without looking like he’s trying.

His jeans hug his hips with casual precision, and the way he moves—easy, unbothered, like he owns every square inch of ground he walks on—makes my mouth go dry and my brain short-circuit. Even his scowl has range.

It should be illegal to look that good while looking that annoyed.

I feel like I need sunglasses just to survive the heat radiating off him.

Just the sight of him sends my nervous system into absolute chaos.

My skin erupts in goosebumps, my breath hitches, and my brain?

Gone. Just a tumbleweed rolling through empty space while every nerve in my body buzzes like I’ve stuck a finger in a socket. It’s deeply and wildly inconvenient.

“Well, if it isn’t Captain Cheerful,” I call, hands on my hips, just as I trip over two dogs chasing each other in a blur of fur and paws.

I stumble forward, flailing my arms like a windmill on espresso, and manage to catch myself on a garden gnome with a suspiciously judgmental expression.

I straighten up quickly, cheeks flaming, and pretend that definitely didn’t just happen.

“Graceful as always,” I mutter under my breath, brushing off my knees and trying to salvage an ounce of dignity.

Ashe raises an eyebrow just as I start to wobble again—two terriers whiz past, knocking into my legs.

I lurch forward, flailing, and he instinctively reaches out a hand to steady me.

It lands briefly on my elbow before I catch my balance, muttering, “Oh for fluff’s sake,” under my breath.

He blinks, probably unsure whether I’m injured or just dramatic.

“It’s Lieutenant,” he says like it’s the most obvious correction in the world, “and are you okay? Have you been drinking?”

I can only nod right now because I’m afraid I’ll trip again.

Ashe looks around, “This is quite a dog party. It looks like it’s Coachella.”

“It’s a curated experience,” I say sweetly, smoothing down my sundress even though it’s already half soaked with sweat and clinging in all the wrong places.

I toss my curls over one shoulder and give him a too bright smile.

“Would you prefer a sad puddle and a muddy tennis ball? Because I could totally set that up.”

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck with the long-suffering weariness of a man who’s lost every argument to his dog this week.

“Smokey wouldn’t stop whining by the door,” he mutters, eyes narrowing at his furry sidekick, who is now doing literal circles around Ashe like he’s dancing.

“I think he’s in love. And frankly, I’m too tired to fight him on it. ”

“Aren’t we all,” I mutter, eyes trailing after Peaches as she barrels towards Smokey like she’s about to propose, complete with a dramatic tail wag that could rival a rom-com finale.

She’s bounding across the lawn with such single-minded determination that if I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s planning their wedding for next week—guest list, cake, and matching collars already in the works.

Smokey and Peaches collide in a joyous tangle of wagging tails, flailing paws, and enthusiastic snout kisses, spinning in circles like they’re reenacting a reunion scene from a canine soap opera.

Peaches lets out a delighted bark, hopping on her hind legs as if she’s performing for an audience.

Smokey leans into her affection with the stoic endurance of a dog who knows resistance is futile.

Ashe winces, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“They’re like magnets,” I say. “Messy, adorable magnets.”

He looks around like he’s still trying to calculate how many ways this could end in disaster. “So… what’s on the agenda?”

“Well, there’s a biscuit relay, a costume parade, a paw-painting booth—which, fair warning, is just chaos with non-toxic paint—and a nap station for the introverts and emotionally overwhelmed Labradoodles. ”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m dead serious,” I say, handing him a schedule printed on rainbow cardstock. “All events are optional but highly encouraged. Except the sprinkler dash. That one’s mandatory.”

He squints at me. “You made that up just now, didn’t you?”