“Do you?” Her eyes are Sarah’s eyes—the same green-gold that used to undo me. “Because from here, it looks like you’re using your job as an excuse to keep everyone at arm’s length. Which is safe, sure. But it’s also lonely.”
We say goodbye shortly after, but her words stick with me as I review the morning reports. As I discuss equipment maintenance with the crew. As Asher himself walks past my office, coffee in hand, completely oblivious to the fact that I can’t stop thinking about his mother.
“Hey Chief,” he says, backtracking when he spots me. “Got a minute?”
“Sure.” I wave him in, grateful for the distraction. “What’s up?”
“Nothing major. Just...” He settles into the chair across from my desk, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. “My mom’s really stressed about this Valentine’s thing. I know you had to shut down her soft launch, and I get it—rules are rules. But she’s been working on this for months. It really matters to her.”
Guilt twists in my chest. Sharp and uncomfortable. “I understand it’s important to her, Asher. But I can’t approve an unsafe gathering.”
“I know. And she knows too, logically. But bringing people together is kind of her thing, you know? After my dad left, she rebuilt her whole life around creating community. The boutique, book club, all these events. It’s how she healed.” He runs a hand through his hair—a gesture so like Jo it makes my chest tight. “I just hate seeing her disappointed.”
I process this. Jo’s divorce, her rebuild, her need to create connection. Suddenly her passion makes more sense. This isn’t just about a business event. It’s about proving something to herself.
“She’s not trying to be difficult,” I say quietly. More to myself than to Asher.
“She’s really not. She just...once she sets her mind on something, she’s all in.” Asher grins. “Stubborn as can be, actually. But in a good way. Usually.”
Stubborn. Passionate. All in.
Heaven help me.
After Asher leaves, I sit with the realization that I’ve been approaching this all wrong. I’ve been seeing Jo as an adversary when she’s really just someone who needs education. Guidance. Someone who cares deeply about something and doesn’t understand why it can’t work.
I can help with that. That’s literally my job—community education, safety awareness, fire prevention.
The fact that I’ll get to see her again has nothing to do with it.
Nothing at all.
Driftwood and Dreams looks different in afternoon light. Softer somehow, the ocean beyond the windows turning the whole space into something almost magical. Wind chimes sing near the entrance, and through the glass, Jo moves inside, shifting furniture with determined energy.
I watch for a moment before knocking. Taking in the way her body moves—economical, purposeful, entirely unconscious of how attractive that fierce concentration is. She’s wearing fitted jeans and a loose white blouse that slips off one shoulder when she leans down to grab a chair.
I shouldn’t be noticing her shoulder.
I definitely shouldn’t be wondering if her skin is as soft as it looks.
I knock harder than intended.
Jo jumps, then turns. Even through the glass, I see her expression shift. Surprise, then wariness, then something that might be the same unwanted awareness I’m feeling.
She opens the door. “Chief Beckett. Here to crush more dreams?”
“Here for the follow-up inspection.” I keep my voice professional even as her perfume hits me. Beachy. Floral. Vanilla. All the things that are about to make this conversation very difficult. “You said you’d make corrections.”
“I have.” She steps back, gesturing me inside with exaggerated courtesy. “Welcome to my compliant boutique. Try not to find anything else wrong with it.”
The space is beautiful—all whitewashed wood and ocean colors, carefully curated displays of jewelry and art. But it’salso small. Very small. No amount of furniture rearranging will change the fundamental square footage problem.
“Walk me through what you’ve changed,” I say.
Jo leads me deeper into the boutique, and I become acutely aware of how close we are. The space forces proximity—her arm brushing mine as she gestures to the cleared areas, the warmth of her body palpable in the narrow aisles.
“I moved all the display cases against the walls,” she explains. “Created more open floor space. See? Easy traffic flow.”
I survey the layout. She’s actually done a decent job—better sightlines, clearer pathways. But. “The square footage is still the same. You haven’t addressed the fundamental capacity issue.”
