“Noted,” she says, then glances down at the dogs. Peaches has her head resting on Smokey’s paw like they’ve been dating for months. “They’re...really into each other. They look so cute together.” She whips out her phone and snaps some pictures of the pups.
I blow out a breath and scrub my hand down my face, already regretting every life choice that led me to this moment. “Can I just get the flowers now?”
“I’m just saying. I’ve seen less commitment in actual weddings.” She laughs again—bright and unapologetic—like she’s having the best time watching me suffer. Which, honestly, she probably is.
Smokey gives me a pointed look, and I swear to God, even he’s rooting for this disaster.
I look around the shop again. It really is nice. Clean except for the cactus disaster in the corner. Thoughtful. Like someone took a broken thing and built something new from the pieces. I get that. “Give me two of those—” I point to the eucalyptus bundle. “And whatever doesn’t smell like it wants to hug me.”
“No hugging flowers coming right up,” she says, grabbing a pair of floral scissors. “Also, if you ever want to book Peaches and Smokey for engagementphotos, I know a guy. Very reasonable rates. Discount if you promise to scowl in every shot.”
I groan under my breath, pinching the bridge of my nose like that might somehow block out her voice. “You never stop, do you?” I mutter, already knowing the answer and hating how much I don't hate it.
“Not when I’m on a roll,” she says with a wink.
I shake my head, but the corner of my mouth twitches before I can stop it. Damn it. I think I like it. I open my mouth to retort, but nothing comes out, so I close it deciding silence is the safer choice.
Ten minutes later, I leave with a modest bouquet, a mild cactus injury, and the creeping suspicion that I’ve just walked into something far bigger than I meant to. The bell above the door jingles behind me with a chipper farewell, like even the building is laughing at me. I glance down at Smokey, who looks entirely too pleased with himself.
Peaches watches us from the shop window, barking like she’s cheering us on—or taunting me. Her tail thumps against the glass with zero shame. Smokey turns to look back, ears perked like he’s already planning their next playdate.
“Don’t get any ideas,” I tell him, but my voice lacks the usual bite. Smokey just wags his tail, all smug satisfactionand floppy optimism, like he already knows I’m a goner. I narrow my eyes. “You traitor. You meet one pretty golden retriever and suddenly you’re writing your vows.”
He wags his tail, and I realize I am so screwed.
The leash hangs limply from the hanger on the wall like it’s mourning the loss of better days, and Smokey flops down on the floor near the front door with the dramatic weight of a dog who’s just lost his will to live—or at least the will to fetch. His sigh is the kind that belongs in a Shakespearean tragedy.
“You’re being ridiculous,” I mutter, crossing my arms as I lean against the doorframe. "I take you to the fire station every shift. You’ve got the whole crew wrapped around your pinky-paw, you get leftover breakfast sandwiches, and you nap in a recliner like a retiree with a pension. Don’t you want a day to relax for once?"
He lets out a sigh that’s half huff, half theatrical performance, then turns his head to look at me—full of betrayal and longing, like I personally canceled the sun on him all week.
I rub the back of my neck and glance out the window. It rained again this morning. The fifth dayin a row. The dog park is under a foot of water, sealed off with a laminated sign by the City of Pelican Point, and a coil of soggy caution tape. I’d taken Smokey by this morning just in case it had dried up, but he’d only stared through the fence like he was paying respects at a grave.
“You don’t evenlikethe dog park that much,” I argue, grabbing my keys and tossing them from one hand to the other. “You hate that yappy spaniel and the weird poodle that humps everything with a pulse.”
Smokey sighs again. Loudly.
You've got to be kidding me. I’m arguing with a dog. A very smug, judgmental dog who clearly thinks he’s the brains of this operation—and honestly, he might be right. What’s next, am I going to start texting him updates? Ask for his opinion on wine pairings? This is how it starts. One sarcastic stare from a German Shepherd and suddenly I’m the sidekick in my own life.
I blow out a breath and glance at the flyer that’s somehow ended up on my kitchen counter. Again.
Humans welcome.
Location: Backyard of Waverly Blooms.
Time: Saturday, 10AM.
Hosted by: Daisy Waverly and Peaches the Party Pup
It’s the same obnoxiously cheerful flyer that’s been chasing me around Pelican Point all week. I’ve seen it posted at the Celtic Knot when I picked up a bottle of wine for Mom. Saw it again at Seaside Sweets when I grabbed cinnamon rolls for the station—Julie shoved it at me and said “tell Smokey he’s invited” like he had his own social calendar. Even spotted one taped to the glass at Coastal Couture when we responded to a call about a fire alarm malfunction. The damn party is following me.
Or she is. Daisy Waverly.
With sunshine eyes, glitter bomb dog, and the flower shop that smells like eucalyptus and emotional vulnerability. She’s been running laps in my head ever since the cactus incident.
Rodriguez left a miniature cactus on my locker last shift. Labeled it “Ashe’s Secret Admirer.” Taped a glittery heart to it too. Said it needed emotional support. Real mature. I caught Hastings trying to water it while quoting Taylor Swift lyrics. I’m never living this down.
Smokey stands and pads over to thecounter, nose bumping the flyer like he's making the decision for the both of us.
