Page 6 of Scorched in Pelican Point (Pelican Point #5)

Daisy

T he first feeder bands of Tropical Storm Flossie roll in like an angry ex looking to pick a fight.

The sky outside Waverly Blooms has turned that strange greenish-gray, like nature can’t decide whether to thunderstorm or throw a rave.

Rain pelts the windows sideways, and the wind howls like it has something to prove.

I don’t know much about storms beyond the basic “don’t lick electrical outlets” level of awareness, but my anxiety? Oh, she’s thriving.

Peaches paces the flower shop like she’s prepping for a job interview she didn’t study for, occasionally hopping up on her hind legs to peek out the window with a soft whine.

Ashe is near the front, squinting through the glass like he can will the wind and rain to calm down.

His soaked T-shirt clings to his chest in a way that should be outlawed during natural disasters. It is, frankly, an unfair distraction.

“You okay?” he asks without looking at me.

My brain wants to say, define okay, but I settle for a shaky, “Sure. If you count elevated heart rate and intrusive thoughts about brownies as normal.”

He turns, giving me a long, assessing look.

The kind that makes me feel both seen and exposed—like he's peeling back the layers of glitter and jokes and dog-themed chaos to see the woman underneath. And the craziest part? I like it. Like, I really like it. My stomach flips, my skin tingles, and I suddenly forget how to stand casually like a normal human. If I had a mirror, I’m pretty sure I’d be glowing like a highlighter dipped in flustered energy.

“We should pack up and head back to my place,” he says. “I’ve got a generator, proper supplies, and my house is more inland. Not on the coast.”

“Oh, thank God,” I breathe, more relieved than I want to admit. “I didn’t want to be the one to ask, but I was about five minutes away from fortifying the register counter with leftover dog biscuits and floral wire.”

He smirks. “We’ll grab what you’ve got, but we need to move fast.”

Peaches wags her tail in a blur, like she already knows we’re going on an adventure. I rush to grab a few things—my emergency box (mostly filled with candles named after emotions), my travel bag, Peaches’ leash and food, and the leftover pupcakes because... priorities.

Smokey starts barking—loud, sharp, and insistent.

It’s not a usual excited woof or even the grumpy huff he gives Peaches when she steals his toy.

This is different. Urgent. His ears are pinned back, body stiff as he plants himself in front of the door like a furry security detail.

Each bark ricochets off the flower shop walls, a piercing warning that slices through the tension in the air and makes my stomach clench with instinctive dread.

Ashe freezes, eyes flicking to the door. He crouches slightly, palm resting on Smokey’s head. “What is it, boy?” he murmurs, voice low but tense. Smokey doesn’t stop barking, his tail stiff and ears pinned. Ashe straightens, jaw clenched. “Let's wait a minute. Something's not right.”

Smokey presses against Ashe’s leg, low growl building in his throat. Ashe tries to step forward, but Smokey won’t let him pass.

That’s when the wind howls, louder than before, and the power lines right outside the shop start to groan .

CRACK.

A pole goes down next to Seaside Sweets.

CRACK. CRACK. SNAP.

Like dominos, the poles topple—one jerking the next with a shriek of metal and a gut-deep groan.

Each impact sends a jolt through the pavement, followed by a shower of sparks as the wires tear free and slap against the wet road, hissing like angry serpents.

It's a terrifying chain reaction of snapping cables and firecracker bursts of light, and the sound alone makes my blood run cold.

“Move!” Ashe yells. He grabs Peaches by the collar with one hand and wraps the other arm around my waist, yanking us both backward away from the window just as a live wire smacks the sidewalk outside with a hiss and a spray of sparks narrowly missing his truck parked out front.

The smell of ozone fills the air, and I swear I can feel the electricity buzzing in my teeth.

My heart is in my throat, pounding so hard it drowns out everything else.

My knees go weak, wobbling like cooked spaghetti.

Peaches lets out a sharp, confused bark that echoes off the walls, then promptly sits down—right on top of my foot—as if her tiny weight will anchor me in place.

Her tail thumps twice, unsure, and she looks up at me with wide, searching eyes.

The air crackles with tension, and even her bark sounds more like a question than a warning.

As the last pole crashes to the ground with a thunderous crack and the final spray of sparks fizzles out on the slick pavement, Ashe turns to me, chest heaving, eyes sharp with adrenaline.

"We’re not going anywhere," he says, voice rough from the shouting and fear. "It’s not safe. Not with live wires out there. We stay put until this storm’s done throwing its tantrum. "

We lock eyes. And I nod.

Just then, the lights above us flicker violently—once, twice—before blinking out completely, plunging the shop into darkness. I gasp. Ashe doesn’t move, just turns his head toward the now-blackened ceiling. The storm moans louder outside, like it's celebrating the power outage with a victory howl.

“Well, there goes the ambiance,” I mutter, trying to ignore the sudden lump in my throat. I’ve never liked storms much, and Tropical Storm Flossie is already high on my personal list of enemies—somewhere between mosquitoes and low-rise jeans.

Ashe shifts closer. “Are you okay?”

I nod again, even though he can’t really see it this time. But he’s still close, solid and steady beside me .

And for now, that’s enough.

“You okay?” he asks again, and I try to smile, brushing curls off my face like it’s no big deal.

“I’m fine,” I say quickly, too quickly. “Just a little nervous. Like a floral-themed sponge that lives in a pineapple under the sea.”

He doesn’t laugh. He just watches me, eyes steady, voice low. “You sure? Because you don’t have to act like you’re not scared. It’s okay to be freaked out. This isn’t exactly a walk in the dog park.”

I swallow hard, the humor faltering on my lips. “I guess I thought… I don’t know. It’s just a tropical storm. A little wind and a little rain. So, why does it feel like the apocalypse?”

He sighs, looking toward the front of the shop watching the storm raging just beyond the windows. “Because even tropical storms can turn dangerous fast. Especially when power lines are down. Trees fall. Streets flood. And you’re here alone.”

That last part makes my chest tighten. I’ve been on my own for a long time—navigating every move, every mess, every minor hiccup without backup.

It’s been years since someone looked out for me without strings attached.

And hearing him say that—hearing it like a promise—makes something stir in me that I’m not sure how to name yet .

“But you’re not alone anymore,” he adds, gentler now. “Let’s head upstairs. Safer up there—and drier. We can ride it out together.”

Upstairs, in the loft, the air is close and warm, thick with the scent of dried lavender and old wood.

It’s a cozy, compact space—one room with slanted ceilings, a small kitchenette against the far wall, and a mismatched collection of furniture that looks like it was thrifted with love.

A worn-in armchair sits beside a bookshelf stuffed with gardening books and romance novels.

The bed takes up most of the room, tucked under the eave with a quilt that looks handmade.

There’s a skylight overhead, rain pelting it with a steady rhythm, and string lights looped along the beams, now dark without power.

The wind and rain slam against the building like fists on a door, a constant reminder that Mother Nature is still throwing a tantrum, and we’re not out of her crosshairs yet.

Ashe glances around the loft, his eyes scanning the cozy space with quiet appreciation. "This is nice," he says, his voice warm. "Small, but it feels like you. Comfortable."

I smile, a little bashfully. "Thanks. It's growing on me. Most of this was left by my Aunt Violet—guess she had an eye for cozy. Or at least an eye for not scaring people away with sterile furniture."

He steps over to the corner where my cleaning supplies are stacked and asks, "Where do you keep your emergency stuff?"

I point to a closet near the back. "If there's anything, it’s probably in there. Maybe behind the vases and crates of old ribbon spools."

Ashe crouches and starts moving things aside until he finds a large plastic tote labeled Supplies in black marker. He tugs it out, setting it on the floor with a grunt. "This it?"

I squint at it, puzzled. "I think it’s just florist junk. Leftover foam blocks and weird glitter sprays Aunt Violet bought on clearance."

He opens it—and we both freeze.

Inside is a survivalist’s dream. Pop-Tarts. Cans of ravioli. Bottled water. A mountain of batteries, three flashlights, two ponchos, a hand crank radio, manual can opener, and what looks like a flare gun.

I blink, then let out a short laugh, the sound bouncing nervously around the small loft. "Well. That’s... definitely not floral foam," I say, stating the obvious with a grin that’s equal parts amused and bewildered. "Unless Aunt Violet had a secret side hustle as a doomsday prepper. "

Ashe lets out a low whistle as he pulls out another can of ravioli and what must be the fifth pack of Twinkies.

"Nope," he says, eyes wide, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Looks like your aunt wasn’t just ready for a hurricane—she was prepped for a full-blown nuclear apocalypse.

I mean, Twinkies? Those things will outlast the human race. "

I shake my head. "I swear I’ve never even opened that box before. But this? This is hurricane prep on a whole new level."