Page 4 of Scorched in Pelican Point (Pelican Point #5)

“Yes,” I say, flashing him a grin and lifting my brows with mock innocence, “only because I saw you coming and needed a really good excuse to watch you get soaked.” I trail my eyes down his shirt, deliberately slow, letting the silence last just long enough to make him shift his weight.

“You’ll wear sprinkler well, Lieutenant. ”

The party continues in a blur of barking, laughter, and one deeply chaotic round of musical sit.

Smokey wins, of course—gracefully sliding into position with military precision.

Peaches is the first one out, distracted by a rogue butterfly and an unclaimed treat near the lemonade cooler.

When Ashe picks up the squeaky toy trophy, he doesn’t just look proud—he looks like he’s just been knighted in the court of backyard dog games.

There’s a smugness that settles over him, subtle, but unmistakable, curling the edge of his mouth and twitching one brow like even his face is having a victory lap .

Then it happens.

Peaches, in all her exuberant glory, barrels toward the treat table like she just caught a whiff of something delicious—her tongue lolling, eyes wild with anticipation.

Her paws pound the ground with all the subtlety of a toddler on a sugar high.

Someone’s kid yells, “She’s gonna crash!

” right as she leaps through a cluster of balloons.

And oh, she does crash… hard.

With one elegant leap, Peaches takes out the table leg like it insulted her mother and then refused to compliment her new haircut.

Treats explode into the air like confetti.

Pupcakes somersault through space in majestic arcs of banana-frosted doom.

The decorative vase does a dramatic roll across the grass, landing upright like it meant to be part of the show.

A horrified gasp echoes from the treat table vicinity, followed by a delighted squeal from someone who must think the pupcake explosion is part of the entertainment.

Chaos doesn’t just erupt—it cartwheels into pandemonium.

And in the middle of the madness, just as the last pupcake hits the grass, someone yells “Incoming!”, a tiny pug in a rainbow tutu makes a break for it—zooming between a pair of startled golden retrievers and launching itself over a toppled garden gnome, its chubby legs churning at top speed, tutu bouncing with every bound, a blur of rainbow fluff and pure rebellion.

“Fifi!” Janine-from-three-doors-down screams, clutching her sunhat like she’s witnessing a royal scandal.

The pug darts under a lawn chair and into the sprinkler zone, a blur of fluff and determination.

The sprinkler kicks on with a hiss, shooting an arc of water into the air just as a group of guests—Mrs. Honeywell, Janine-from-three-doors-down, and the teenager with the basset hound—let out startled squeals and scatter in all directions like pastel-colored bowling pins.

Someone shrieks, “Not the hair!” while another yells “Save the pupcakes!” Lawn chairs tip, hats go flying, and at least one sandal is lost to the grass forever.

The pug, undeterred, charges through the chaos like it’s leading a rebellion, tutu bouncing triumphantly with every bound.

Without thinking, I sprint after her, the hem of my sundress flapping wildly and my flip-flops slapping against the grass like overexcited applause.

Peaches, naturally, thinks this is the best game ever invented and joins the stampede, barking encouragement like the world’s most chaotic cheerleader.

The other dogs fall in line behind us—every tail wagging, every tongue lolling—as if someone yelled “Free bacon!” and we’re all suddenly Olympic-level sprinters.

What started as a retrieval mission has now become a full-blown canine conga line, weaving through streamers, sprinkler spray, and shrieking humans with the precision of a dog-powered tornado.

The grass is slick, my shoes are impractical, and within seconds, I’m slipping through the sprinkler spray like a contestant in a very weird reality show. Fifi zigs. I zag. I’m soaked. I’m laughing. I’m yelling apologies and commands like, “You are a menace in sequins, Fifi!”

Behind me, I hear more barking… and Ashe cursing.

He’s running after me now, long legs closing the gap fast. Smokey follows, focused like a search-and-rescue professional, while Peaches is just thrilled to be part of the action.

Fifi skids to a stop near the hydrangeas, tongue out, tail wagging.

I lunge—arms outstretched, dress plastered to my legs, heart pounding—and miss by a mile.

She jukes left just as I dive right, and I end up grasping at empty air.

Just as I start to groan in frustration, Ashe swoops in from the side, catching Fifi mid-bound with one arm like he’s done this a hundred times before.

She lets out a surprised bark, her tutu puffing up dramatically like she’s a Boadway star caught in a wind machine.

Ashe straightens up, pug tucked under one arm, expression unreadable but eyes flickering with the tiniest bit of amusement as if this whole circus might’ve cracked through his stoic armor—just a little.

Fifi, tutu puffed out and glistening in the sprinkler mist, beams at the crowd like she’s just won Best in Show and knows it. She strikes a pose on Ashe’s forearm, tongue out, ears perked, soaking in the applause as though she orchestrated the entire thing herself.

Ashe, for his part, stands tall and unbothered, his soaked shirt clinging to every delicious muscle in a way that looks vaguely illegal.

With a pug tucked under one arm and an expression that teeters between exasperated and bemused, he looks like this is just another day at the office—if the office were a rom-com gone rogue.

I stand in front of him, drenched and wheezing. “I can’t believe you just?—”

He shrugs, “Hero complex. Occupational hazard.”

I laugh. Like really laugh. Head back, full- bodied, can’t hold it in joy. And when I look back at him, he’s… not scowling. He’s not exactly smiling either. But there’s a softness. A shift. A quiet moment hanging in the air between us that neither of us moves to break.

“Thanks,” I wheeze, legs wobbling, lungs protesting as I silently vow to reacquaint myself with a cardio machine before my next pug chase through sprinklers.

“Don’t mention it,” he says, his voice a low rumble as he nods toward the sprinkler still spinning behind us, casting little arcs of mist across the lawn.

“You’re soaked.” His eyes flick over me—wet curls, plastered sundress, bare feet squishing in the grass and for once, there’s no trace of sarcasm in his tone.

Just quiet amusement. Maybe even appreciation.

Which should not make my heart flip the way it does.

I glance at him—t-shirt stuck to his ribs, hair plastered to his cheeks, grass clinging to his jeans like confetti after a parade—and a grin “So are you.” My gaze travels slowly up from his soggy boots to his drenched shirt, no, practically painted on to his chest shirt.

“Completely soaked, Lieutenant. That sprinkler doesn’t mess around. ”

He exhales a small laugh, and for the briefest second, we’re just two soaked ridiculous adults in a yard full of barking dogs and soggy treats, standing in the aftermath of cupcake carnage and tutu rebellion like it’s the most natural place in the world.

The chaos, the wet grass, the glitter—none of it matters.

It’s all part of the moment. And somehow, the mess feels less like a disaster and more like a beginning.

Maybe it’s perfect, but then Smokey noses his leg. Peaches bumps her head against mine, and just like that, the moment passes.

But it happened, and I don’t think either of us is going to forget it.