And maybe she is.
Maybe this is the moment I lose her—for good.
I sit down hard in the sand, watching the trail of her footprints slowly fading behind her, like a fuse burning out on something explosive. The tide thrums in and out, loud in my ears, syncing with the beat of regret in my chest. The wind stings my face, whipping past like it’s in a hurry to leave me behind, too. I barely feel it.
All I can think about is everything I didn’t say—everything I should’ve done differently. The words I swallowed, the chances I dodged, the walls I built and reinforced with silence. And now they’re thevery things keeping her away. My own damn blueprint for loneliness.
That morning after the storm, I felt something shift. In her—softness behind the sass, trust just beginning to bloom. In me—a spark of something terrifyingly real. But instead of facing it, I panicked. I pulled away. I ran. Just like I did back then, when the grief was too sharp, when I convinced myself that distance was the only safety. And now? That same fear is threatening to steal something that might’ve been everything.
I close my eyes, and the memory crashes back—years ago, that call that changed everything. The teen boy, the pills, the noose, the mother’s wails when I had to tell her we didn’t make it in time. That moment carved something out of me. Something I’ve never filled back in.
I told myself if I never let anyone get close, I’d never feel that hollow again—that gut-wrenching, soul-crushing emptiness that carves you open and leaves nothing but echo behind. And now? Here I am, sitting in the wreckage of my own damn fear, like some idiot who barricaded himself in a fortress only to realize the best thing that ever happened to him is on the outside, walking away. And I built the damn walls myself.
My captain’s words echo in my head.“Whatever happens in life, McAllister, it's what you do in life that matters.”
What am I doing? Letting fear call the shots again? That’s not the man I want to be. That’s the man I promised myself I’d never become after that kid’s funeral—the one who lets silence and guilt drive every damn decision. I’m tired of hiding behind my own trauma like it’s armor. It’s not strength. It’s just loneliness in a fancy costume.
I look out over the water, watching Peaches bounce beside Daisy in the distance, her golden fur catching the late afternoon light like a sunbeam with legs. Daisy bends to scoop up a stick, her laugh drifting back to me on the breeze—carefree and beautiful and everything I’ve managed to screw up.
I’ve got to fix this. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Now. Because every second I wait, she gets farther away—not just in distance, but also in heart. And if I don’t do something soon, I’ll be nothing more than the man who watched the best thing that ever happened to him walk away, one paw print and heartbeat at a time.
Because she’s worth it and I won’t lose her without a fight.
Chapter 9
Daisy
I’m elbow-deep in a tub of peonies, floral foam clinging to my forearms, when the front bell jingles—a bright sound that cuts through the hum of my workspace. I glance up, half-expecting Julie with one of her chaotic stories or Emma dropping by to steal a croissant from my stash in the mini fridge.
Nope. It’s Ashe.
And he’s carrying what can only be described as the most tragic planter box in the history of woodworking. It’s crooked. One side is taller than the other. There are at least three visible nails sticking out like they got tired halfway through. To make matters worse—or maybe better—it’s painted bubblegum pink and sprinkled with so much glitter it looks like a unicorn exploded on it.
But his eyes? They’re all in. Hopeful. Nervous. He's a little sweaty. Maybe he ran here. Maybe he just knew I’d need more than words. Or maybe I need to go grab sunglasses because he’s radiating enough emotional intensity and glittery pink desperation to blind an entire bridal party.
He sets the hideous, glitter-coated pink box down on the counter between us like it’s a peace offering carved from guilt, determination, and possibly a fever dream involving a glue gun. "I made this for you," he says, completely serious, as if the lopsided, sparkly eyesore was forged in a sacred rite of redemption.
I blink, arching a brow and unable to hide my surprise. "All by yourself? That’s... kind of impressive. Or concerning. Possibly both."
He nods with a proud smile.
I eye the planter. Then him. "Was it a hostage situation? Did someone force you into glittery craft hour at nail gun point? Or was this part of a misguided bachelor party dare involving sequins and broken dreams?"
His mouth curves into a sheepish grin, then he winces like he's bracing for impact. "Okay, I know. It's hideous. I was going for rustic charm and somehow landed on cursed glitter gremlin."
I fold my arms, wary but weirdly touched. "It’s awful. Truly. Like... aggressively awful." I pause, then grin despite myself. "But I love it. It looks like a glitter bomb had an identity crisis, and I adore it anyway."
"It's definitely memorable," he says staring at the box.
I sigh, fighting a laugh, and glance away before he sees the smile tugging at my mouth. "Why are you here, Ashe?"
He draws in a breath like he’s about to dive underwater. "Because I owe you everything. An explanation. An apology. A thousand apologies. And probably a new planter that won’t give someone tetanus. Or at least one that doesn’t look like Barbie’s glittery nightmare project gone rogue."
I stare at him. At this tall, ridiculously handsome man with his fireman arms, his messy heart, and a face so unfairly attractive I briefly wonder if I need sunglasses to deal with the heat he's throwing off. The man who ran away from me—and then ran straight back. "You’re really here."
"I am. I’m done hiding. Done pretending like what happened between us didn’t matter. It did. It does. I think about you every damn day, Daisy. And not just in passing—I mean in the middle of calls,when I’m walking Smokey, when I’m trying to sleep. You’ve taken up residence in my brain, in my heart, and I can’t seem to evict you no matter how hard I try. I miss your laugh. I miss the way you make everything feel lighter. And yeah, I miss Peaches too, but it’s you, Daisy. It’s always been you."
My breath catches. I want to stay mad. I really do. But then he adds, soft and raw, "I’m sorry I shut you out. I thought I was protecting myself. Turns out, I was just hurting both of us."
