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

Ashe

I almost kissed her yesterday at the Pawty, as she kept calling it.

The moment snuck up on me, right between the flying pupcakes and the sprinkler-induced chaos.

One second, I was trying not to trip over a pug in a tutu, and the next, she was standing there—soaked to the bone, cheeks flushed, curls dripping down her neck like some kind of chaotic sunbeam disguised as a woman.

It hit me like a lightning bolt, sharp and sudden.

That pull. That wild, reckless urge to close the gap, tilt her chin up, and see if her lips tasted like lemon frosting or something entirely more dangerous.

Like I said... I almost kissed her.

Thankfully, Smokey bumped my leg just in time—probably to save me from myself. Or possibly to keep Peaches from witnessing her mom's complete emotional hijacking by a man who once called her a menace in glitter.

“Thanks, partner,” I mutter, reaching down to scratch Smokey behind the ears. He huffs, paces to the front door, and whines low in his throat. Again.

He's been at it for the last hour. Ever since the storm warnings went out and the air got thick with that weird, heavy quiet that only means one thing: trouble’s brewing.

“Tropical Storm Flossie,” I say out loud, like announcing its name will make it less dangerous.

“Why do they always sound like grandmothers who knit aggressively and smell like licorice?” I shake my head, pacing a little.

The name doesn't match the unease crawling under my skin. A storm with a name like Flossie shouldn’t make my gut twist like this.

But it does. Because she’s out there—Daisy—with her glitter and her optimism and her tenacity like it’s part of her quirky charm.

And Peaches, who’d probably try to wrestle lightning if it looked at her funny.

I scrub a hand over my face. Damn it. I hate this feeling.

Smokey doesn’t answer. He’s too busy standing at the window like he’s the official welcoming committee for any incoming atmospheric doom—ears perked, tail twitching, and nose practically pressed to the glass as if sheer canine vigilance can hold back the storm.

His whole body is tense, muscles coiled like he’s preparing for action, eyes darting every time a tree branch outside sways too dramatically.

It’s not just weather he’s watching—it’s worry. And I know exactly how he feels.

I rub a hand over my jaw. I’ve been through my fair share of storms—growing up in Florida, you have no choice but to deal with these types of storms. But something about this one has me on edge.

Maybe it’s the look in Smokey’s eyes. Maybe it’s how the wind’s already picking up.

Maybe it’s the way Daisy’s laugh hasn’t stopped echoing in my damn head since the sprinkler ambush.

I fold my arms and stare at my phone lying on the kitchen counter. I shouldn’t call. I don’t need to call. She’s fine. That building was built like a fortress... a glitter fortress, but still solid. She’s probably MacGyvered a hurricane-proof flower arch by now using duct tape and a hot glue gun.

Still… Peaches. She probably has no clue what’s coming but can sense it in the air. Dogs are good like that.

That’s the excuse I land on. I’m not checking on Daisy , nope. I’m being responsible. Cautious. Heroic even. I'm checking on her dog. The one who thinks sprinklers are edible and nearly took out a table full of pupcakes like a furry bowling ball.

I pick up the phone and dial Waverly Blooms before I talk myself out of it. It rings three times. Then?—

“Waverly Blooms!” Daisy says in a voice about two octaves too high. There’s a crash in the background. Peaches barks twice. Something thuds.

"Are you okay?" I ask, sharper than I mean it to come out.

I hear the crash in the background and my spine locks up like I'm already halfway to the door.

It's not just a polite check-in. It's a reflex. The kind that comes from too many emergency calls and not enough happy endings. My brain’s already running triage—imagining her tripping over Peaches, slipping off a stepstool, getting walloped by a flying cactus named something ridiculous.

“Everything’s fine!” she says, the words tumbling out with the kind of speed that screams the exact opposite.

Her voice is too chipper, too forced, and I can hear the wobbly edge of nerves beneath it.

It’s the verbal equivalent of slapping a Band-Aid on a broken pipe and hoping no one notices the leak.

"So, everything’s not fine,” I reply, already heading for my boots, heart thudding a little too hard against my ribs.

I grab my boots like they're gear for a rescue mission, because hell, maybe they are. Daisy’s voice might be cheerful on the surface, but I’ve heard enough false bravado to recognize it when I hear it.

She’s trying to play it cool, but something’s off.

And that little voice in my head—the one trained to spot trouble—is screaming that I need to get over there. Fast.

“I didn’t say that.” Another crash echoes behind her. “I said it loudly and with enthusiasm. Which statistically increases the likelihood that I’ll believe it—and if I say it again while smiling, it might magically become true. That’s how disaster prep works, right?”

“Are you hurt?” I ask, my voice quieter now, but sharper too, cutting through her attempt at humor.

I hear the tremor in her laughter and know it for what it is—a cover.

A defense mechanism. My gut twists. "Because if you are, Daisy, I need you to stop pretending everything’s a picnic and tell me the truth. "

“No, no! Just… prepping for Flossie. Or Floosy.

Whatever her name is." Her voice pitches upward again, trying for chipper and landing somewhere around frantic. "I tried to tape up the back window—super responsible, right?—and then I stepped in a mo p bucket while holding a cactus named Reginald. Reginald didn’t make it.”

There’s a shaky little laugh after that. The kind that’s meant to be light, but it cracks in the middle. “He was a cactus. Or a succulent? I was never really sure. But he was mine, and now he’s mulch.”

She pauses, and I can hear her trying to steady her breath, like she’s brushing away nerves with humor. But it’s there—tight in her throat, tucked under the edges of every word. The kind of panic that sounds like a smile if you’re not listening too closely.

I can picture her trying to tape up a window with one hand, clutching a lopsided potted plant in the other, balancing like she’s in a blooper reel. But her voice has that paper-thin cheer again, like if she doesn’t keep talking, the silence might crack open something raw.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask again, softer now. I don’t care about the plant. I care about her—the woman who names her foliage, who throws pastel parties in thunderstorms, who laughs even when she sounds a breath away from falling apart.

“I’m fine,” she insists, the words light and wobbly. “I mean, wet socks and cactus homicide aren’t ideal, but I’ve got snacks, I’ve got candles, and Peaches hasn’t eaten any of the couch yet. We’re doing great.”

I don’t believe her. Not entirely. But I don’t push—because sometimes letting someone hold on to their version of okay is the kindest thing you can do.

There’s a dramatic pause. I think she might be mourning the loss of the plant.

“Daisy,” I say slowly, “do you have hurricane supplies?”

“Yes! I made a list from the emergency preparedness guide on the Pelican Point town website, and then I immediately panicked and bought twenty-seven tealight candles, a family-size bag of pretzels, and a floaty shaped like a flamingo. I don’t even know why—I mean, it’s just a tropical storm, right?

Do I really need all this stuff, or am I preparing for the apocalypse? ”

I exhale slowly, shifting my weight. "You prep for a tropical storm like you prep for a hurricane because sometimes they change their minds halfway through.

Tropical Storm Flossie might just dump a bunch of rain, or she might take a sharp left and decide she wants to uproot every damn hibiscus bush in Pelican Point.

It's better to be over-prepared than caught with nothing but pretzels and candles. "

There’s a pause on her end. "Right. Makes sense. Over-prepared it is for next time."

Her voice is lighter, but I can still hear the way her nerves rattle around beneath the humor, like pebbles in a tin can she’s desperately trying to muffle with a smile.

I can practically picture her pacing the flower shop, hands fidgeting with a roll of floral tape, trying to pretend everything's okay while her mind spirals. It’s in the way she overexplains, the way she lingers too long on a joke, the way she laughs just a little too hard at her own cactus funeral.

And it only makes me more sure—I need to get over there.

“Oh! I also have C-sized batteries, seven bags of dog food, a mini flashlight, and a gallon of water,” she adds brightly, her voice lifting in that hopeful, overly cheerful way that makes me picture her standing in the middle of the shop with her hands on her hips, trying to look proud instead of panicked. “See? I’m not completely useless.”

“You’re not even partially useless,” I mutter before I can stop myself.

There’s a beat of silence.

“Was that… a compliment, Lieutenant Ashe?” she asks, suspicious.

“No. It was a factual correction.”

“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t believe me. “Well, anyway, Peaches and I are staying in. We’re building a pillow fort upstairs, and I’m putting on a face mask because if we’re going down, we’re going down glowing.”

I rub the back of my neck. I don't even know what that means. “Just make sure the windows are sealed. Don’t go outside. And if the power goes, call me. The cell towers will probably stay up. You got a generator?”

“Nope. But I have, like, a thousand scented candles. Does that count?” she says with a nervous laugh that doesn’t quite hit the mark. “Mostly ones with names like ‘Mountain Renewal’ and ‘Pumpkin Serenity,’ which feels ironic considering the chaos.”

“That all counts as fire hazards.”

“Oh, relax, Lieutenant Wet Blanket.”

“Daisy.” My voice drops, firm but quiet. “I’m serious. This isn’t just a rain shower or a gust of wind. I know you want to make it a joke, to keep things light—but this storm’s real, and I need you to be safe. You can laugh later. Right now, I need you to listen.”

That stops her. “Okay,” she says softly. “I will. I promise.”

We hang up, but I don’t feel better. If anything, I feel worse. That knot in my chest— that restless, uneasy twist I’ve been pretending is about Peaches —tightens.

And then it hits me. I never even asked about her. Not Daisy—Peaches. I asked if she had hurricane supplies, if she was hurt, if she had candles and batteries and enough snacks to last until the end of time—but I didn’t ask how she was really doing.

And that realization? It twists the knot tighter than ever. Smokey whines again, scratching at the door. “Yeah,” I mutter, reaching for my rain jacket, “me too. Let's go.”

We’re out the door in minutes, wind already kicking up as we cut across town.

Pelican Point looks like it’s hit the pause button on life—storefronts are shuttered, umbrellas flipped inside out, and not a single golf cart or beach cruiser in sight.

Even the usually packed boardwalk is empty, the carnival lights dimmed, the snack stands closed, and the only movement coming from palm fronds whipping like they’re in a mosh pit.

Most folks are holed up behind plywood-covered windows, sandbags stacked like we’re expecting pirates—or at the very least, a storm with commitment issues.

I pull up in front of Waverly Blooms just as the first drops of rain hit the windshield.

The streets of Pelican Point are eerily quiet, like the whole town took one last breath and decided to hunker down.

Most of the shops are boarded up, the Welcome Center sign flapping half-heartedly in the gusting wind.

Flags snap. Palms bend. And that weird pre-storm glow settles over everything like the world’s been tinted sepia.

Smokey’s out of the truck before I even kill the engine, tail high, eyes alert. He bolts for the door like he's got a mission, ears pricked and nose to the wind, already keyed in to something I can’t see yet—but feel just the same.

The lights inside the shop flicker as we approach, and before I can knock, the door yanks open.

Daisy stands there in a T-shirt that says Florals Before Morals and pajama pants with avocados doing yoga.

She’s got a battery lantern in one hand, glitter on her cheek, and a Peaches-shaped shadow bounding at her feet.

“You came,” she says, surprised.

I shrug, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “Smokey made me.”

I can feel the heat crawl up the back of my neck as the words leave my mouth, and I instantly hate how stupid it sounds.

Like I didn’t just drive through a damn tropical storm because I was worried she might’ve tripped over a mop bucket again or lit herself on fire with one of her mountain-scented candles.

I shift on my feet, avoiding her eyes as I add, "He was. .. really insistent."

“He’s a sucker for romance.”

“You should be inside,” she adds, her voice rising slightly to be heard over the growing howl of the wind. “Seriously, Ashe. You’re soaked, and you look like you wrestled the storm on the way here. Come in before you catch pneumonia or blow away.”

Her eyes sweep over me with a mix of worry and exasperation that lands like a sucker punch to the chest. It’s not teasing anymore. It’s concern—real and unfiltered—and I feel it settle under my skin like heat.

I nod once, stepping fully into the flower shop and out of the storm.

“Good thing this isn’t romance,” I mutter, just as Smokey and Peaches trot past us, tails wagging and noses bumping like a canine version of a rom-com first kiss. I point after them. “Because those two are already halfway to planning their honeymoon.”

“Mmm.” She smirks and steps aside. “The party’s just getting started. Hope you like pretzels and scented candles named after emotions.”

As the wind howls and the rain picks up, I realize this is probably the worst possible place to ride out a storm.

The windows rattle, the ceiling creaks, and the smell of damp earth and overripe peonies lingers in the air.

But none of that matters. Because she’s here—barefoot and flushed, cheeks pink from the adrenaline or the weather or maybe just from me showing up.

She’s a mess of glitter and nerves and pajama pants, and all I can think about is how badly I want to keep her safe.

And the worst part? I didn’t come for the dog.

I came because I couldn’t not come.