Chapter 1
Daisy
“Okay, Peaches, this is it,” I say, downshifting as my pastel pink truck rumbles into town like a cupcake on wheels. “Pelican Point. Population: not many. According to the internet, it’s known for a charming harbor, nosy neighbors, and more seasonal festivals than the town has stoplights. There’s a Pie Palooza, a Dog Days Parade, and I kid you not, something called Flamingo Bingo. Because nothing says 'quaint coastal charm' like competitive lawn games in neon pink bird hats. I assume costumes are involved at some of these.”
Peaches, riding shotgun, yawns like I’ve personally offended her with facts.
“I also read that everyone here knowseveryone else’s business within ten minutes, which means we are already behind. So, no pressure, but try not to embarrass us right away, okay?”
Peaches lets out a bark and sticks her head farther out the window.
“Right. Got it. You’re going to do whatever you want and leave me to clean up the glittery chaos. As usual. Our new beginning. Our great adventure. Our—oh crap, is that a squirrel?”
It’s not just a squirrel. It’s the kind of chunky, overconfident squirrel that looks like it runs a tiny crime syndicate. It’s perched on the edge of a picket fence like it owns the town, twitching its tail and locking eyes with Peaches in a showdown worthy of an old western.
Peaches lets out an excited woof and nearly launches herself out the passenger window, her golden retriever ears flapping in the breeze like she’s auditioning for a dog food commercial. I roll the window up a few inches on her side. "Not today, Missy. No spontaneous squirrel homicides on my first day in town. Not like last time." I pause. "You remember the duck pond incident."
Taylor Swift’s Welcome to New York is blaring from the speakers, completely inappropriate givenour location in Florida, but spiritually? It works. I roll down my window farther, letting the salty air mix with the scent of Peaches’ breath and stale dog treats.
I spot the now familiar hand-painted sign: Waverly Blooms. It's surrounded by wildflower beds that are doing more ‘wild’ than ‘flower’ at this point. That'll need fixing pronto.
I pull into the angled parking spot out front, tires squealing a little as I brake too fast—because out of nowhere, a man with his dog steps directly into my path. One second, the coast is clear, and the next, he’s just there, like some scowling guardian summoned by my terrible parking skills. I lurch forward, heart in my throat, as Peaches erupts into barking frenzy from the passenger seat. It’s a miracle I don’t hit him. Or faint. Or both.
I slam the brakes. Peaches barks. Taylor wails a high note, and the man in question—tall, built like a forest fire could bounce off him, and glowering so hard it might crack concrete—turns slowly, jaw clenched, like he's counting to ten just to keep from spontaneously combusting. He levels me with a stare that could melt asphalt and growls, “Seriously?”
I scramble out of the truck, trying to quiet Peaches, who is losing her ever-loving mind in thepassenger seat—barking, bouncing, and wagging like we just won the lottery instead of nearly committing accidental manslaughter. My entire truck is shaking back and forth.
“Peaches,” I hiss under my breath, ducking back through the door to grab her leash. “This is not how we make friends. I Googled small-town etiquette, remember? We are supposed to be polite, unobtrusive, and bake something with rhubarb within our first seventy-two hours. Remind me later to look up what rhubarb actually is. Is it a fruit? A vegetable? A pie-specific conspiracy?”
Peaches lets out a yap like she is offended by my question. She pants harder, tongue lolling, no remorse or poise whatsoever in her fluffy golden face.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter. “You couldn’t have picked a less controversial entrance, could you?”
Peaches gives my elbow a happy nudge.
Right. I guess we’re leaning into chaos today.
“I barely tapped the brakes!” I protest as I stand next to my truck while yelling at the stranger and brushing wind-blown hair out of my face. “You stepped in front of a moving vehicle! In flip-flops! Who does that?”
“I'm not wearing flip-flops.” He lifts a booted foot slightly as if toprove it.
Okay, so not flip-flops. But still. “I just assumed you were wearing flip-flops. Everyone seems to around here. So, fine. Combat boots or whatever. Same energy.”
“Nice try at deflection,” he says. “But next time you try to distract someone, maybe don’t shout ‘flip-flops’ like it’s a legal defense.”
I narrow my eyes. “Look, I didn’t hit you, and my dog didn’t jump out the window and attack, so let’s call this a win and move on with our lives.”
“I’m trying,” he mutters, bending to check on the enormous German Shepherd sitting calmly at his side, not even remotely fazed by the chaos happening around us. “You just nearly parked on top of my dog.”
“Peaches, come say hi to... um...” I wave a hand at the dog, then the man. “Who exactly did I almost-murder?”
The man straightens. “Ashe McAllister. Firehouse Lieutenant.”
Of course he is. Of course, the glowering Adonis with shoulders like a Greek statue is a local hero. The kind of guy who probably saves kittens in trees, fixes leaking faucets for little old ladies, and grunts stoically through town council meetings. And of course, I almost ran over him and hisdog on my first day like I’m trying to collect small-town enemies before I’ve even unpacked my boxes.
“And this is Smokey,” he adds, like I should already know, like everyone already knows.
I look down at his dog, meaning to keep things simple, but Smokey locks eyes with me and cocks his head, as if he's silently evaluating my life choices. It's oddly distracting—he has that same cool, unreadable demeanor as his owner, like they're sharing a single brain cell dedicated to disapproval. I blink, momentarily thrown, and forget whatever clever apology I was about to make.
