Page 9 of Scorched in Pelican Point
We’re out the door in minutes, wind already kicking up as we cut across town. Pelican Point looks like it’s hit the pause button on life—storefronts are shuttered, umbrellas flipped inside out, and not a single golf cart or beach cruiser in sight. Even the usually packed boardwalk is empty, the carnival lights dimmed, the snack stands closed, and the only movement coming from palm fronds whipping like they’re in a mosh pit. Most folks are holed up behind plywood-covered windows, sandbags stacked like we’re expecting pirates—or at the very least, a storm with commitment issues.
I pull up in front of Waverly Blooms just as the first drops of rain hit the windshield. The streets of Pelican Point are eerily quiet, like the whole towntook one last breath and decided to hunker down. Most of the shops are boarded up, the Welcome Center sign flapping half-heartedly in the gusting wind. Flags snap. Palms bend. And that weird pre-storm glow settles over everything like the world’s been tinted sepia.
Smokey’s out of the truck before I even kill the engine, tail high, eyes alert. He bolts for the door like he's got a mission, ears pricked and nose to the wind, already keyed in to something I can’t see yet—but feel just the same.
The lights inside the shop flicker as we approach, and before I can knock, the door yanks open. Daisy stands there in a T-shirt that saysFlorals Before Moralsand pajama pants with avocados doing yoga. She’s got a battery lantern in one hand, glitter on her cheek, and a Peaches-shaped shadow bounding at her feet.
“You came,” she says, surprised.
I shrug, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “Smokey made me.”
I can feel the heat crawl up the back of my neck as the words leave my mouth, and I instantly hate how stupid it sounds. Like I didn’t just drive through a damn tropical storm because I was worried she might’ve tripped over a mop bucket again or litherself on fire with one of her mountain-scented candles. I shift on my feet, avoiding her eyes as I add, "He was... really insistent."
“He’s a sucker for romance.”
“You should be inside,” she adds, her voice rising slightly to be heard over the growing howl of the wind. “Seriously, Ashe. You’re soaked, and you look like you wrestled the storm on the way here. Come in before you catch pneumonia or blow away.”
Her eyes sweep over me with a mix of worry and exasperation that lands like a sucker punch to the chest. It’s not teasing anymore. It’s concern—real and unfiltered—and I feel it settle under my skin like heat.
I nod once, stepping fully into the flower shop and out of the storm.
“Good thing this isn’t romance,” I mutter, just as Smokey and Peaches trot past us, tails wagging and noses bumping like a canine version of a rom-com first kiss. I point after them. “Because those two are already halfway to planning their honeymoon.”
“Mmm.” She smirks and steps aside. “The party’s just getting started. Hope you like pretzels and scented candles named after emotions.”
As the wind howls and the rain picks up, I realize this is probably the worst possible place to ride out astorm. The windows rattle, the ceiling creaks, and the smell of damp earth and overripe peonies lingers in the air. But none of that matters. Because she’s here—barefoot and flushed, cheeks pink from the adrenaline or the weather or maybe just from me showing up. She’s a mess of glitter and nerves and pajama pants, and all I can think about is how badly I want to keep her safe.
And the worst part? I didn’t come for the dog.
I came because I couldn’tnotcome.
Chapter 5
Daisy
The first feeder bands of Tropical Storm Flossie roll in like an angry ex looking to pick a fight. The sky outside Waverly Blooms has turned that strange greenish-gray, like nature can’t decide whether to thunderstorm or throw a rave. Rain pelts the windows sideways, and the wind howls like it has something to prove. I don’t know much about storms beyond the basic “don’t lick electrical outlets” level of awareness, but my anxiety? Oh, she’s thriving.
Peaches paces the flower shop like she’s prepping for a job interview she didn’t study for, occasionally hopping up on her hind legs to peek out the window with a soft whine. Ashe is near the front, squinting through the glass like he can will the wind and rain to calm down. His soaked T-shirt clings to his chestin a way that should be outlawed during natural disasters. It is, frankly, an unfair distraction.
“You okay?” he asks without looking at me.
My brain wants to say,define okay,but I settle for a shaky, “Sure. If you count elevated heart rate and intrusive thoughts about brownies as normal.”
He turns, giving me a long, assessing look. The kind that makes me feel both seen and exposed—like he's peeling back the layers of glitter and jokes and dog-themed chaos to see the woman underneath. And the craziest part? Ilikeit. Like, Ireallylike it. My stomach flips, my skin tingles, and I suddenly forget how to stand casually like a normal human. If I had a mirror, I’m pretty sure I’d be glowing like a highlighter dipped in flustered energy.
“We should pack up and head back to my place,” he says. “I’ve got a generator, proper supplies, and my house is more inland. Not on the coast.”
“Oh, thank God,” I breathe, more relieved than I want to admit. “I didn’t want to be the one to ask, but I was about five minutes away from fortifying the register counter with leftover dog biscuits and floral wire.”
He smirks. “We’ll grab what you’ve got, but we need to move fast.”
Peaches wags her tail in a blur, like she alreadyknows we’re going on an adventure. I rush to grab a few things—my emergency box (mostly filled with candles named after emotions), my travel bag, Peaches’ leash and food, and the leftover pupcakes because... priorities.
Smokey starts barking—loud, sharp, and insistent. It’s not a usual excited woof or even the grumpy huff he gives Peaches when she steals his toy. This is different. Urgent. His ears are pinned back, body stiff as he plants himself in front of the door like a furry security detail. Each bark ricochets off the flower shop walls, a piercing warning that slices through the tension in the air and makes my stomach clench with instinctive dread.
Ashe freezes, eyes flicking to the door. He crouches slightly, palm resting on Smokey’s head. “What is it, boy?” he murmurs, voice low but tense. Smokey doesn’t stop barking, his tail stiff and ears pinned. Ashe straightens, jaw clenched. “Let's wait a minute. Something's not right.”
Smokey presses against Ashe’s leg, low growl building in his throat. Ashe tries to step forward, but Smokey won’t let him pass.
