“You want to go to this thing?” I ask, skeptical.
Tail wag.
“It’s atherplace.”
Tail wags faster. Of course it does. That's also where Peaches lives—his floofy, slobbery soulmate and enabler of chaos. Because naturally, fate wouldn’t just toss me into the cactus-infested orbit of a glitter-drenched florist; it had to make sure my dog fell head over paws for her canine counterpart, too.
I groan and drop my head back against the fridge. “You know this is how it starts. One innocent cupcake party and suddenly you’ve got matching dog costumes and a joint Instagram account. I’m not doing that.”
He stares at me, and I cave.
“Fine,” I mutter, reaching for his leash. “You win. But I’m only going becauseyouneed socialization. Not because I’m thinking about her laugh or her obnoxious T-shirts or the way she looked at me when she offered me a tulip-shaped Band-Aid.”
Smokey barks once, triumphantly.
I clip the leash to his collar and try to ignore the flutter in my chest. It’snot nerves. Just caffeine. Or indigestion. Or maybe residual humiliation from being taken out by a potted succulent.
Either way, it’s not her.
It’s not.
I open the door, and Smokey trots out like he’s heading to prom, and I follow straight toward the pastel disaster I’ve been pretending I don’t want to see again.
Chapter 3
Daisy
It’s ten a.m. on a Saturday, and my backyard looks like a unicorn exploded.
Streamers dangle from the garden trellis in every pastel color known to humanity—mint, lemon, baby blue, lilac, and at least three shades of pink that might be trademarked by a toy company.
Julie, from Seaside Sweets next door, hooked me up with dog-safe cupcakes shaped like bones, which are currently cooling on a picnic table covered in a gingham cloth and flanked by squeaky toy centerpieces. A bubble machine whirs nearby, spitting out little orbs of joy for chasing, while Peaches trots around wearing a pink bandana that says “Hostess with the Mostest” in glitter letters so sparkly they could signal aircraft overhead.
I told myself I wasn’t going to go overboard withthe Pup Playdate—just a few treats, a water bowl, maybe a chew toy or two. But then the dog park flooded after a week of relentless afternoon rain showers, and I panicked. One emergency craft bin raid and five online orders later, my backyard now resembles a canine birthday party thrown by Pinterest on a sugar high. And honestly? I have no regrets—although my wallet might.
Peaches trots around the yard, tail wagging like a metronome set to hyperdrive, sniffing each decoration like she's the official Pup Playdate Quality Control Inspector. She pauses at the photo booth backdrop made of pastel streamers, sniffs the edges of the sprinkler mat like it's suspect, and gives a thorough inspection of the cupcake station—which, to my horror, includes a generous amount of drool. She's already licked the inflatable ‘Welcome Woofers!’ sign three times like she's claiming it, and I'm pretty sure she peed near the table leg closest to the biscuit bin, but honestly? Spirits are high, even if the grass in that corner might not be green by tomorrow.
“Peaches, you’ve got approximately two seconds before I take that as a yes on sabotage,” I mutter, adjusting a sparkly sign that says ‘Pawty Zone’ and side-eyeing the suspiciously damp patch of grass bythe treat table. “Can’t have the hostess marking her territory. It's bad optics—even if you're just trying to establish dominance. This isn’t ‘Survivor: Backyard Edition.’”
Peaches barks once—a short, sharp sound that I swear carries attitude—then takes off toward the fence gate like she’s on a one-dog reconnaissance mission to reclaim territory from the squirrels. Her ears flap like little golden flags as she zooms across the lawn, clearly on a mission. Probably to greet the next unsuspecting guest with her usual blend of unfiltered joy and mild chaos. Not like last time, when she nearly tackled poor Mrs. Gladstone into a hedge during the bake sale earlier this week. Baby steps.
The guests begin to arrive one by one—Mrs. Honeywell with her schnauzer twins dressed in sailor hats, strutting like they’re on a cruise runway. A teenager from down the street shows up with a very interested basset hound in a cowboy hat that keeps slipping over his droopy eyes. A woman I don’t recognize brings a corgi in a bowtie who looks like he’s here for a formal gala and deeply offended there’s no red carpet.
It’s a parade of canine absurdity, paws and costumes everywhere, and I absolutely love it. Thewhole yard feels like a Wes Anderson movie collided with a dog treat factory, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I flit around greeting everyone, crouching to give each pup a peanut-butter-and-banana biscuit and carefully sticking on handmade name tags with glitter paw prints. One dog is named Sir Barksalot, another is just called Meatball, and there’s a Pomeranian in a crown responding only to "Queen Barketh." I coo, giggle, and snap a dozen photos with my phone, fully committing to my role as canine cruise director. This is peak happiness—the kind that lives in wagging tails, soft fur, and the giggles of owners trying to wrangle dogs into themed hats. I’m floating on a pastel cloud of joy, sugar, and squeaky-toy symphonies.
That is, until I hear the sound of crunching boots—sharp and deliberate, cutting through the bubble-popping symphony like a record scratch. My heart skips a beat. For a split second, I worry it’s someone from the city come to shut down my overenthusiastic backyard extravaganza. Or worse—Mrs. Gladstone with a clipboard and a noise complaint.
I wipe my hands on my pastel apron, suddenly hyperaware of the drooping streamers and the way my voice sounds too high as I laugh with someoneabout bowtie etiquette for dogs. I scan the crowd nervously, tugging my curls behind one ear in a futile attempt to look more pulled together. There’s no real reason to be nervous. And yet... my stomach tightens anyway.
I turn, and there he is. Ashe McAllister. Firefighter, local grump, and recipient of one cactus to the butt with zero apologies.
He stands on the edge of the yard like he’s debating whether to turn around and go home or march directly into the chaos that is the pawty. His jaw tightens, and his eyes scan the glitter-strewn yard like it’s a battlefield he didn’t agree to deploy into. Smokey sits calmly beside him, tongue lolling in a goofy contrast, looking like the only reason they showed up at all—and maybe the only thing keeping Ashe from bolting.
Ashe is in jeans and a T-shirt that reads "Pelican Point FD" in faded letters, and unfortunately for my pulse, he wears both like they were custom tailored to drive women—specifically me—to the brink of distraction. The soft cotton clings to the breadth of his chest and those infuriatingly perfect shoulders, stretched just enough to hint at muscle without looking like he’s trying. His jeans hug his hips with casual precision, and the way he moves—easy,unbothered, like he owns every square inch of ground he walks on—makes my mouth go dry and my brain short-circuit. Even his scowl has range.
It should be illegal to look that good while looking that annoyed. I feel like I need sunglasses just to survive the heat radiating off him. Just the sight of him sends my nervous system into absolute chaos. My skin erupts in goosebumps, my breath hitches, and my brain? Gone. Just a tumbleweed rolling through empty space while every nerve in my body buzzes like I’ve stuck a finger in a socket. It’s deeply and wildly inconvenient.
