"Holy—what was that?" he sputters, clutching the sheets to his chest like a scandalized Victorian woman. I double over, tears streaming down my cheeks. "It’s just Peaches! She’s very... curious."
Her wet nose is pressed right where no nose should ever be. His eyes are wide, horrified,scanning the room like he's under attack, while one hand fumbles to cover himself. I’m laughing so hard I can’t breathe, clutching my stomach as I roll to the side, nearly falling off the bed in hysterics.
Peaches wags her tail, clearly proud of herself. She gives Ashe one last triumphant sniff, then turns and with all the grace of a four-legged battering ram, launches herself onto the bed. Ashe yelps and scrambles backward, trying to avoid another unsolicited nose encounter, but it’s too late—she’s already wedged herself right between us like a smug furry referee.
She circles once, twice, then flops down with a dramatic huff, curling into a satisfied doggie donut and letting out a snore so loud it startles the both of us into another fit of laughter.
It’s ridiculous. It’s perfect. It’s us.
Epilogue
Six Months Later
Ashe
Smokey looks ridiculous. Absolutely, undeniably ridiculous.
He’s wearing a bowtie—a red one with little white tulips on it—and he’s got a sign hanging around his neck that reads in bold, slightly crooked letters: WILL YOU MARRY ME?
It took me three hours, a lot of hot glue, and a deeply humiliating trip to Coastal Couture where Desirae insisted on helping me “color match for maximum impact.” I let her, mostly because I was afraid of her scissors and unflinching opinions.
Now Smokey and I are standing in the middle of Pelican Point’s Saturday morning farmer’s market, surrounded by stalls overflowing with sunflowers, tomatoes, and the smell of fresh bread, and I’m about to have a stroke. My palms are sweating, my heart is thundering in my ears, and I’m ninety percent sure my left eye is twitching. Smokey, meanwhile, looks like he’s about to win Best in Show.
I spot Daisy almost instantly—floral dress swirling around her knees, a big sunhat tipped just enough to cast her in golden light, and that bright smile as she chats animatedly with the honey guy in the booth next to hers. Her laugh carries over the crowd and hits me right in the chest, sending my already-shaky confidence into a tailspin. She's pure sunshine—effervescent, glowing, impossible to look away from. I am, at best, a patch of moody weather with a fifty percent chance of making a fool of myself in public.
But this is it. No more waiting, no more second-guessing. No more running from how I feel. This is the moment I stop being afraid of love and start believing I’m worthy of it.
Smokey trots beside me proudly, bowtie flouncing, sign swinging. We cut through the booths—past organic candles, homemade dog treats, and threeseparate people who whisper, "Oh my God, that’s Ashe!"
I clear my throat. "Daisy!"
She turns. Her eyes go wide. She blinks rapidly, like she’s not sure what she’s seeing. Her mouth opens, then shuts again. One hand flies to her chest, the other fumbles with the edge of her table. Her gaze drops to Smokey’s sign, and her lips part in a stunned gasp.
Then she looks back at me—completely floored, a mix of shock and joy blooming across her face like she’s trying to reconcile a dream with real life.
And for a moment, I forget my speech. The one I practiced in the mirror for two days straight.
Then I remember.
I pull the slightly wilted tulips from behind my back. “They were supposed to be fresh,” I say. “But Smokey sat on them in the truck.”
A laugh bubbles from her lips. That’s a good sign. I hope.
I kneel. Right there in front of the honey booth guy, between jars of clover blend and a basket of cinnamon sticks.
“Daisy Waverly,” I say, heart in my throat. “You crashed into my life like a cactus tornado and made everything smell sweeter. Theway you make me laugh. The way you make me feel like I’m more than just a guy in turnout gear. I tried to fight it, you know? But I can’t fight it anymore. I don't want to.”
She covers her mouth. Her eyes shimmer.
I keep going, voice thick. “You’ve seen me at my worst. I think you saw through me before I even figured out I was hiding. And yet you still let me in. Let me love you. So... here I am. Sign, tulips, bad handwriting and all.”
I gesture to Smokey, who barks at perfect comedic timing. “We’re kind of a package deal.”
Daisy
The sun is out, the breeze is sweet, and I smell like eucalyptus and beeswax. Which, all things considered, is not a bad way to spend a Saturday morning. The Farmer’s Market is in full swing, and I’ve been buzzing with customers since just after sunrise.
I’m chatting with Frank—the honey guy in the booth next to mine—about whether his wildflower batch tastes fruitier than the clover one, when I hear it.
