Page 127 of Taken By the Pack

JAKE

Driftwood Cove has never seen so many of my damn posters.

They’re everywhere—on shop windows, pinned to telephone poles, tacked onto bulletin boards at the general store and the docks. Grace even managed to get them hung in Haven Nook, right next to her floral arrangements.

And if that wasn’t enough, she’s been selling buttons with my grinning face on them at the farmer’s market.

I told her no one would wear my face on their chest, but she proved me wrong when I saw old man Harvey strutting around town with one pinned to his overalls, tipping his cap at everyone like he was part of some secret political movement.

Rowan’s been the one making the posters, sketching out my best features—though he claims I don’t have many—and making sure they don’t look too ridiculous.

He’s even got Ash handling my speeches, which means I sound a hell of a lot smarter than I actually am.

But none of it changes the fact that I’m running against a man who’s had this town in his pocket for years.

Mayor Wallace is as slick as an oil spill, shaking hands and kissing babies like he’s the goddamn Pope.

He keeps feeding people the same line—that selling to Westbrook Real Estate will be “The best thing for Driftwood Cove’s future.”

Bullshit.

Selling means destroying everything that makes this place home. It means luxury resorts replacing the harbor, pushing out the fishermen, turning my town into something unrecognizable.

So yeah, I’m fighting like hell.

And I’m exhausted.

Election day is in a week, and my nerves are fried. I’m pacing in Rowan’s living room, running my hands through my hair as Grace watches me from the couch.

“You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor,” she says, amused.

Ash snorts from the kitchen. He’s nursing a beer. “You should’ve seen him earlier, staring at his posters like they were gonna come to life and vote for him.”

“Shut up,” I mutter, rubbing my jaw. “What if it’s not enough?”

Rowan looks up from his sketchpad, where he’s doodling something obscene in the corner of one of my speech drafts. “Then you lose. But at least you tried.”

“Real fucking motivational, man.”

He smirks. “Just saying.”

Grace tilts her head, studying me. Then she pushes up from the couch, walking over like she’s got an idea forming behind those bright eyes.

“You’re too tense,” she murmurs.

“No shit,” I grumble. “My entire future’s riding on this.”

“Well, not your entire—” Grace presses a hand to my chest, her palm warm even through my shirt. “Let me help.”

I glance down at her, brow furrowing. “Yeah? How?—”

And then she’s sinking to her knees, right there in Rowan’s living room, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Rowan, who had been half-distracted with his sketchpad, freezes mid-line. His pencil snaps. “Jesus Christ, I’m leaving.”

Ash just laughs. “No, you’re not. You’re just gonna pretend you don’t hear anything, like the rest of us.”

Rowan shoots him a glare before standing abruptly, muttering, “Fuck off,” as he stomps toward the kitchen. I hear the fridge door swing open, the distinct hiss of another beer being cracked open, and the muffled sound of him probably questioning all his life choices.

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