Page 9 of Scorched in Pelican Point (Pelican Point #5)

Daisy

I t’s been three weeks.

Three long weeks since Ashe and I weathered Tropical Storm Flossie together in my tiny loft.

Three weeks since I made cold ravioli for dinner and he devoured a Pop Tart like it was a gourmet cheesecake.

Three long, long weeks since we woke up tangled together and kissed like the world was ending—only for him to pull away like he’d touched fire.

And since then? Radio silence. Not a call. Not a text. Nothing.

Not that I’m keeping track or anything. I’m way too busy running a thriving flower shop to pine over a grumpy firefighter with a tragic backstory and eyes that make me forget my own name.

Except I am. Kinda. Peaches is moping too, which is just great. She spends most mornings staring at the front door like she expects Smokey to burst in and whisk her off to the dog park. Her tail hasn’t wagged properly in days. I get it, girl. I really do.

The weird thing is, Waverly Blooms is busier than ever.

Everyone in Pelican Point wants to clean up their yards and replant after the storm.

I’ve had more people come in asking for mulch, compost, flowers, cactus, and advice than I ever expected.

And I’m good at advice—especially when it comes to hydrangeas. Less so with men.

So when Emma from the winery tells me she’s setting me up on a blind date, I do what any self-respecting woman would do: I say yes. Because it’s time to move on. Forget the kiss that left me breathless. Forget the man who held me like I meant something—then walked away like I didn’t.

Enter: Dr. Landon Reyes, the town vet. He’s supposedly tall and lean with immaculately combed dark hair and glasses that give him a scholarly, slightly distracted air. At least according to Julie .

She told me the last time she saw him at the winery, he was dressed in business-casual slacks and a collared shirt that looks like it’s never seen a wrinkle, and he greeted her with a polite smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

I’m meeting him for dinner at Tide & Thyme, and I’m determined to enjoy myself. I put on my best floral dress, swipe on some lip gloss, and chase Peaches around the loft for five full minutes trying to retrieve my keys, which she’s somehow snagged and turned into a game of Keep Away.

She skitters across the hardwood, tail wagging and tongue lolling, as I dodge furniture and curse under my breath.

Finally, I corner her near the window, trading one of her favorite peanut butter treats for the key ring.

"You win this round," I mutter, breathless and slightly disheveled as I stuff the keys into my purse. "But next time, I’m hiding the treats."

When I walk into Tide & Thyme, the hostess greets me with a practiced smile and leads me toward the table. But before I even spot my date, my eyes scan the bar—and freeze.

Ashe.

Of course.

He’s perched on a stool, surrounded by a few of his firefighter buddies, laughing like someone just told the best joke ever invented.

He’s got a navy t-shirt on that fits entirely too well—highlighting every muscle in his arms like a personal attack—and a grin that makes my knees go wobbly.

His head tips back in unrestrained laughter.

Then his eyes meet mine across the dimly lit restaurant.

The smile slips from his lips, fading like a candle snuffed out by wind.

His shoulders stiffen just slightly, his laughter cut short, and for one suspended breath, we just stare.

It’s not casual or polite. It’s charged—like a fuse waiting to blow.

My stomach does a full somersault, but I lift my chin anyway, determined not to blink first.

And then?—

He looks away.

No nod. No smile. Nothing. He just turns back to his friends like I’m a stranger. And I guess I am.

It’s like that morning never happened. One minute we were tangled together, trading secrets and kisses, and the next…

silence. Deafening, infuriating, heart-splitting silence.

Maybe it meant more to me than it did to him.

Maybe he used that heartbreaking story about the mother and the boy just to pull away, to make me feel something while he planned his exit.

Th e thought makes me feel foolish—like I fell for a ghost story in the dark.

He’s clearly moved on. Laughing at a bar while I sit here wondering if he ever meant a word of it.

And now I’m left kicking myself for letting him in. Even a little.

For one painfully long second, I forget why I’m here, then I remember. Right—blind date. Vet. Professional cat wrangler.

Dr. Landon Reyes appears just behind the hostess, glancing at his watch like he’s got better things to do than be here.

He’s tall, like Julie said, with lean features and an air of mild inconvenience.

His dark hair is styled to perfection, not a strand out of place, and his wire-rimmed glasses sit neatly on his nose like he’s ready to conduct a board meeting or give a scholarly lecture.

The expression he gives me is polite, vaguely amused, and 100% unenthusiastic.

"Daisy Waverly?" he asks, extending a hand with the enthusiasm of a man offering a tax audit instead of a hug, like this is a job interview.

"That’s me," I say, shaking his hand.

"I’m Dr. Landon Reyes. It’s nice to meet you.

" His slacks are crisp, his shirt starched within an inch of its life, and he looks like the kind of guy who alphabetizes his spice rack and sets calendar reminders for flossing.

He then compliments my dress with all the enthusiasm of a man who would rather be dissecting a frog.

"Nice to meet you, too," I say, giving him a smile that feels about seventy-five percent real.

He sits down across from me. "Emma said you run the flower shop in town. I admire that. Small businesses are the backbone of the community."

I blink. "Thanks… I think."

He nods solemnly like I just gave a TED Talk and starts telling me about the one-eyed cat he’s currently fostering, a senior rescue named Captain Jack who hates everyone but his houseplant.

I try, really try, to stay engaged. But then I hear it—that low, familiar laugh from the bar.

Ashe. And just like that, my focus scatters like petals in the wind.

I nod along as Landon talks about feline dental hygiene, but I’m not really hearing him. Not when Ashe is just across the room, looking so effortlessly good it should be illegal. Not when his voice echoes in my ears like a song I forgot was still stuck in my head.

Halfway through our appetizers, Landon gets a call. He checks the screen, his lips pressing into a tight line. "Emergency at the animal hospital," he says. "A golden retriever got into a box of chocolate truffles and needs his stomach pumped."

But something about the way he says it—too rehearsed, too convenient—makes my stomach twist. It’s probably his friend calling with a fake excuse, and if he answers, it means he wants out. If he were having a good time, he’d ignore it. Clearly, he’s not having a good time.

I smile politely anyway. "Of course. Go save that sweet doggie."

He nods, already standing. "I’ll call you."

Sure you will. I'll hold my breath.

But as soon as he leaves, I deflate. The waitress appears beside me like a harbinger of reality, holding a notepad and forcing a tight smile. "Would you like a to-go box for this?" she asks, glancing at the untouched appetizers.

I nod, trying to salvage the last shreds of dignity. "Sure." Peaches will love a midnight snack.

She jots something down, then pauses. "Will you be settling the bill tonight as well or would you like to order a main entree?"

Of course. Of course I will. Because even my fake emergency date managed to leave me with the check. The one that is a doctor while I'm a small business and the backbone of the community. Jerk .

"Yeah," I say, forcing a bright smile. "I’ve got it."

Instead of heading home, I walk down to Seaside Sweets and grab a coffee and a box of pastries. The sugar helps. Slightly.

I take my goodies to the boardwalk and sit on a bench, watching the tide roll in.

The ocean is peaceful. My brain is not. In fact, it's a crowded, chaotic carnival ride spinning with the realization that maybe I'm just not cut out for dating.

Maybe it's time to swear off men entirely.

Become a lesbian. Or a monk. Or one of those women who marries her career and lives happily ever after with a greenhouse full of succulents. Honestly, that sounds kind of nice.

"Mind if I sit?" a deep, familiar voice says, startling me enough that I nearly drop my coffee.

I turn, heart leaping into my throat. It’s Ashe. Of course it is.

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just sits beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, but not touching.

The movement startles me as my heart leaps into my throat.

For a beat, I can't breathe. My pulse thrums in my ears and there's a strange twist in my stomach, part dread, part…

something else. Nerves maybe. Or hope. I can't tell.

My fingers tighten around the paper cu p, and I force myself to stay still, like maybe if I don't move, this won't spin wildly out of control.

We sit in silence for a beat. Then he says, "Smokey’s been depressed."

I raise an eyebrow, though my heart does a little stutter-step.

"Is that so?" I think bitterly, how can I believe him?

He disappeared without a trace, left me wondering if I imagined everything, and completely ignored me at the restaurant.

And now he's here, acting like all that tension never happened? Like it didn’t wreck me a little every day?

"He misses Peaches. Doesn’t even wag when I say ‘park’ anymore.

That’s serious." He lets out a quiet, almost sheepish laugh and rubs the back of his neck. "I even tried saying it in a high-pitched voice like you do—felt ridiculous. He just stared at me like I’d lost my mind. So yeah… I think he’s got it bad. ""

My heart twists. "Peaches misses him too. She’s been sighing dramatically like an old woman in a romance novel.

" And the worst part? It’s not her fault.

It’s not Smokey’s either. Just because Ashe apparently decided to ghost me doesn’t mean the dogs should suffer.

They’d be thrilled to see each other. But that means I’ll have to see Ashe again too.

And I’m not sure if my heart—or my pride—can handle that .

He chuckles. It’s soft. Brief. The kind of laugh that dances on the edge of awkward and endearing.

And for some traitorous reason, my heart flips like it's auditioning for a rom-com blooper reel.

I grit my teeth and take a sip of my coffee, wishing I had something to block out the stupid, residual heat of his smile.

"Maybe we should set up a doggy date," he says, his voice hopeful and soft, like he's testing the waters and doesn’t quite know if he’ll sink or swim. "The park reopened. We could meet up. For the dogs, of course."

"I feel like I should let you know that I'm a lesbian now," I say, deadpan, hoping to knock him off his cool fireman pedestal.

He blinks. "I just saw you on a dinner date... with a man, and now you're a lesbian?"

"Yep," I say. "It's a relatively recent development."

He chuckles, the corner of his mouth lifting like he knows exactly what I’m doing—and is kind of charmed by it anyway.

His gaze lingers, like he's trying to figure me out, and I swear if he grins any wider, I’ll need an umbrella to handle the heat he’s giving off.

Seriously, this man should come with a warning label: Danger—may cause spontaneous blushing and inconvenient daydreams. But then I remember that he's not interested in me.

If he was, I would have heard from him by now.

"I see. Duly noted," he says, his lips twitching with the ghost of a smile. "Should I be expecting a rainbow flag in the window of Waverly Blooms now, or..."

"Hey. I support love in all its forms." I say trying to hold onto my last shred of dignity as I rise and gather my coffee and pastries. "Alright, then. Text me the day and time for the playdate."

He watches me, eyes unreadable. "Daisy…"

But I don’t let him finish. I walk away before he can say anything else. Before I can do something stupid like turn around and ask him why. Or worse, ask him to go home with me.

The wind carries the scent of salt and sugar from the pastries nestled in the box in my hands, and I smile at the thought of Peaches.

She's going to be thrilled when I bring these home—probably lose her mind over the maple bacon cruller.

It's the little things, you know? That tail-wagging, eyes-wide joy she gets over doggie bags makes everything feel a little less like a romantic train wreck.

But me? I’m not sure what I feel anymore, except that I’m definitely not over him. I don't know how I'm still under him. Hell, we only had one morning and it was barely that.

Nope, definitely not over him. Not when a single look from him across a crowded room can still knock the wind out of me like a rogue wave on the boardwalk. Not when his voice still echoes in my head like a favorite song I can’t stop humming.

Not even a little over him.