Ashe, for his part, stands tall and unbothered, his soaked shirt clinging to every delicious muscle in a way that looks vaguely illegal. With a pug tucked under one arm and an expression that teeters between exasperated and bemused, he looks like this is just another day at the office—if the office were a rom-com gone rogue.
I stand in front of him, drenched and wheezing. “I can’t believe you just?—”
He shrugs, “Hero complex. Occupational hazard.”
I laugh. Like really laugh. Head back, full-bodied, can’t hold it in joy. And when I look back at him, he’s… not scowling. He’s not exactly smiling either. But there’s a softness. A shift. A quiet moment hanging in the air between us that neither of us moves to break.
“Thanks,” I wheeze, legs wobbling, lungs protesting as I silently vow to reacquaint myself with a cardio machine before my next pug chase through sprinklers.
“Don’t mention it,” he says, his voice a low rumble as he nods toward the sprinkler still spinning behind us, casting little arcs of mist across the lawn. “You’re soaked.” His eyes flick over me—wet curls, plastered sundress, bare feet squishing in the grass and for once, there’s no trace of sarcasm in his tone. Just quiet amusement. Maybe even appreciation. Which should not make my heart flip the way it does.
I glance at him—t-shirt stuck to his ribs, hair plastered to his cheeks, grass clinging to his jeans like confetti after a parade—and a grin “So are you.” My gaze travels slowly up from his soggy boots to his drenched shirt, no, practically painted on to his chest shirt. “Completely soaked, Lieutenant. That sprinkler doesn’t mess around.”
He exhales a small laugh, and for the briefestsecond, we’re just two soaked ridiculous adults in a yard full of barking dogs and soggy treats, standing in the aftermath of cupcake carnage and tutu rebellion like it’s the most natural place in the world. The chaos, the wet grass, the glitter—none of it matters. It’s all part of the moment. And somehow, the mess feels less like a disaster and more like a beginning.
Maybe it’s perfect, but then Smokey noses his leg. Peaches bumps her head against mine, and just like that, the moment passes.
But it happened, and I don’t think either of us is going to forget it.
Chapter 4
Ashe
Ialmost kissed her yesterday at the Pawty, as she kept calling it. The moment snuck up on me, right between the flying pupcakes and the sprinkler-induced chaos. One second, I was trying not to trip over a pug in a tutu, and the next, she was standing there—soaked to the bone, cheeks flushed, curls dripping down her neck like some kind of chaotic sunbeam disguised as a woman. It hit me like a lightning bolt, sharp and sudden. That pull. That wild, reckless urge to close the gap, tilt her chin up, and see if her lips tasted like lemon frosting or something entirely more dangerous.
Like I said... I almost kissed her.
Thankfully, Smokey bumped my leg just in time—probably to save me from myself. Or possibly to keep Peaches from witnessing her mom's completeemotional hijacking by a man who once called her a menace in glitter.
“Thanks, partner,” I mutter, reaching down to scratch Smokey behind the ears. He huffs, paces to the front door, and whines low in his throat. Again.
He's been at it for the last hour. Ever since the storm warnings went out and the air got thick with that weird, heavy quiet that only means one thing: trouble’s brewing.
“Tropical Storm Flossie,” I say out loud, like announcing its name will make it less dangerous. “Why do they always sound like grandmothers who knit aggressively and smell like licorice?” I shake my head, pacing a little. The name doesn't match the unease crawling under my skin. A storm with a name like Flossie shouldn’t make my gut twist like this. But it does. Because she’s out there—Daisy—with her glitter and her optimism and her tenacity like it’s part of her quirky charm. And Peaches, who’d probably try to wrestle lightning if it looked at her funny. I scrub a hand over my face. Damn it. I hate this feeling.
Smokey doesn’t answer. He’s too busy standing at the window like he’s the official welcoming committee for any incoming atmospheric doom—ears perked, tail twitching, and nose practically pressed tothe glass as if sheer canine vigilance can hold back the storm. His whole body is tense, muscles coiled like he’s preparing for action, eyes darting every time a tree branch outside sways too dramatically. It’s not just weather he’s watching—it’s worry. And I know exactly how he feels.
I rub a hand over my jaw. I’ve been through my fair share of storms—growing up in Florida, you have no choice but to deal with these types of storms. But something about this one has me on edge.
Maybe it’s the look in Smokey’s eyes. Maybe it’s how the wind’s already picking up.
Maybe it’s the way Daisy’s laugh hasn’t stopped echoing in my damn head since the sprinkler ambush.
I fold my arms and stare at my phone lying on the kitchen counter. I shouldn’t call. Idon’tneed to call. She’s fine. That building was built like a fortress... a glitter fortress, but still solid. She’s probably MacGyvered a hurricane-proof flower arch by now using duct tape and a hot glue gun.
Still… Peaches. She probably has no clue what’s coming but can sense it in the air. Dogs are good like that.
That’s the excuse I land on. I’m not checking onDaisy, nope. I’m being responsible. Cautious. Heroiceven. I'm checking on herdog.The one who thinks sprinklers are edible and nearly took out a table full of pupcakes like a furry bowling ball.
I pick up the phone and dial Waverly Blooms before I talk myself out of it. It rings three times. Then?—
“Waverly Blooms!” Daisy says in a voice about two octaves too high. There’s a crash in the background. Peaches barks twice. Something thuds.
"Are you okay?" I ask, sharper than I mean it to come out. I hear the crash in the background and my spine locks up like I'm already halfway to the door. It's not just a polite check-in. It's a reflex. The kind that comes from too many emergency calls and not enough happy endings. My brain’s already running triage—imagining her tripping over Peaches, slipping off a stepstool, getting walloped by a flying cactus named something ridiculous.
“Everything’s fine!” she says, the words tumbling out with the kind of speed that screams the exact opposite. Her voice is too chipper, too forced, and I can hear the wobbly edge of nerves beneath it. It’s the verbal equivalent of slapping a Band-Aid on a broken pipe and hoping no one notices the leak.
"So, everything’snotfine,” I reply, already heading for my boots, heartthudding a little too hard against my ribs. I grab my boots like they're gear for a rescue mission, because hell, maybe they are. Daisy’s voice might be cheerful on the surface, but I’ve heard enough false bravado to recognize it when I hear it. She’s trying to play it cool, but something’s off. And that little voice in my head—the one trained to spot trouble—is screaming that I need to get over there. Fast.
