Page 8 of Just Desserts in Pelican Point
Emma grins. "That’s Officer King all right. I’ve only had limited interactions with him at the courthouse, so all I know of him is based on rumors. Former Army Ranger. Transferred to Pelican Point PD about a year ago. Keeps to himself. Doesn’t talk much. But he shows up when it counts."
Candace hums. "Grumpy but hot. Love it."
I shake my head, not ready to go down that road. Not today.
"All I know," I whisper, "is that today sucked. And tomorrow might be worse when I look at that empty flower shop."
Emma pulls me into a hug. "Then we’ll be here. For all of it."
And I believe her. Because in this town, in this bakery, I’ve found more than a business. I found a family.
Even if it just lost one of its best.
Chapter4
Marcus
The next morning, I’m standing outside Seaside Sweets, bad station coffee in one hand, and a knot in my gut that has nothing to do with too much caffeine. The shop looks the same from the outside—charming pastel paint, flower boxes beneath the windows, a little hand-painted sign that reads "Open for Sweet Business"—but something feels different now. Heavier. Quieter. Like even the bricks know something’s off.
I don’t need to be here.
The official report is done. Witness statements filed. Mrs. Waverly’s death was determined to be natural causes—a sudden cardiac arrest. Nothing suspicious, nothing criminal. I did my job.
But I’m still here, drawn like a moth to the flame.
The sky is overcast, the kind of heavy gray that settles in and makes the universe feel a little heavier. I’ve been staring at the open sign in the bakery window for five minutes, debating whether or not to go in. Most mornings, I wouldn’t hesitate. I’d grab my coffee, my pastry, nod at Julie, and get back to patrol. Routine.
Yesterday wrecked that routine.
Seeing her on her knees beside Mrs. Waverly’s body, panic and grief etched into every line of her face, something in me shifted. I’ve seen a lot of things—combat zones, bodies, loss. But watching her try to save someone she loved, knowing she couldn’t, did something to me I wasn’t prepared for.
I hate emotions. They’re messy, unpredictable, and uncomfortable. I spent years learning how to shut them down, how to compartmentalize. But Julie Harper doesn’t compartmentalize anything. She lives out loud. She cries in public and wears every damn emotion on her sleeve. And yesterday, it hit me like a sledgehammer.
So yeah, maybe I’m here because I didn’t sleep. Because I kept seeing her on that sidewalk, eyes wide, voice shaking, completely gutted.
And I just want to see her again. Make sure she’s okay. Even if I don’t know what the hell I’d say.
I toss the terrible coffee in the bin and finally push the door open. The bell jingles overhead, quieter than usual, like even it knows the mood in here is off.
Julie is standing behind the counter. Her gaze lifts, and for a moment, her whole face softens. Then the smile fades, replaced by something more guarded.
“Hey,” she says quietly.
“Hey,” I echo, stepping inside, letting the door close behind me. The place is empty, save for a woman sitting in the corner with a laptop and a latte.
Julie wipes her hands on a towel and nods toward the register. “The usual?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
She moves automatically, pulling a danish from the case and pouring a cup of black coffee. Her hands are steady, but there’s something tight in her shoulders, a tension she’s trying to hide.
I take the coffee and pastry, then linger instead of leaving. “Got a minute?”
She hesitates. “For?”
“Follow-up questions,” I lie.
Her lips twist like she doesn’t quite buy it, but she nods and motions toward one of the corner booths. I slide in across from her, watching her tuck a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. She’s still in her flour-dusted apron, her cheeks pink from the kitchen heat. And her green eyes—they’re tired. Sad.
