"Daisy!"
I turn, and everything stops.
Ashe is standing in the middle of the market looking like a walking Hallmark movie. Only better. Because he’s real. And beside him is Smokey, looking unbearably proud in a red bowtie with little white tulips on it. Hanging around his neck is a hand-painted sign in lopsided letters:WILL YOU MARRY ME?
I blink.
Nope, still there.
My hand flies to my chest. I feel my mouth drop open like a cartoon character, and Frank the honey guy is suddenly nowhere in my periphery. It’s just Ashe and Smokey, and me trying to remember how to breathe.
Then Ashe pulls out a bouquet of slightly squashed tulips from behind his back. "They were supposed to be fresh," he says sheepishly. "But Smokey sat on them in the truck."
A laugh bursts out of me, tangled in a sob. Because oh my God, this is happening. This isreallyhappening.
Ashe kneels. Right there in front of the honey jars and the tomato lady.
“Daisy Waverly,” he says, voicethick. “You crashed into my life like a cactus tornado and made everything smell sweeter. The way 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."
The crowd quiets, holding their breath. People lean in. Phones are out. Someone whispers, "Is this real?" And I don’t even care.
He keeps going, his 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.”
Smokey barks as if to remind Ashe about him. He glances at Smokey. “We’re kind of a package deal.”
I step forward, kneel down, and throw my arms around his neck immediately.
"Of course, I’ll marry you, Ashe McAllister," I say, my words wobbling. "Even if your tulips are squished and your sign looks like it was made by a sugared-up preschooler."
He kisses me, and it’s magic. Not fireworks and orchestras kind of magic—real magic. The kind that tastes like strawberry pop tarts and hope.
Smokey barks again and immediately licks my cheek.
“Hey! That was my job!” Ashe grins.
Before I can wipe my face, Peaches bolts around the front of my booth like a golden bullet of excitement and tackles Smokey. The two of them tumble in a blur of wagging tails and floppy ears.
“Peaches!” I shout.
“Smokey, heel!” Ashe yells at the same time.
They do not heel.
Instead, they chase each other through the market, weaving between booths like deranged parade floats. Peaches barrels straight through a pyramid of cucumbers, sending them flying like veggie confetti. Smokey, not to be outdone, skids into a candle display, knocking over wax towers with a series of dramatic clunks and splats. A small child claps like this is better than cartoons. Someone tries to record the madness but trips over a potted basil, lands in a crate of zucchinis, and yells, "I'm fine!" while holding up their phone like it's a press pass.
“I guess that’s a yes from them too,” Ashe mutters, already jogging after the chaos.
I sprint after him, apron flapping around my legs, laughing so hard my stomach aches because this is my life now—glorious, messy, heart-full chaos.
And I wouldn’t change a single thing.
Not even the glitter on that bowtie.
Love, it turns out, is best served with dirt, dog slobber, and a wildly inappropriate amount of glitter.
Ready for the next book in Pelican Point? Click here to read Plot Twist in Pelican Point
Two broken hearts. One dangerously seductive rewrite.
