“Let’s just... get dressed,” I say hoarsely, dragging my gaze away from her lips like it physically hurts. "Storm’s over and I probably should check in at the station." The words taste like regret, bitter and unconvincing, but it’s the only lifeline I can throw myself before I do something I can’t undo.
But my internal storm? Still raging.
Chapter 7
Daisy
It’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 pineover 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 ofhis 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. The 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.
