Asher:Mom, it’s 2 AM. Go to sleep. The fire codes will still be impossible in the morning.
I send back a thumbs-up emoji, which he’ll correctly interpret as “absolutely not.”
The thing is, I can’t give up. Everyone in town is excited about this festival. Just today, three customers asked for updates. Mrs. Patterson wants to know if she should bring her famous petit fours. The art collective is planning a special installation. Even Mr. Sanders from the hardware store asked if he could donate gift certificates for the raffle.
This isn’t just about me anymore. It’s about the whole community.
Michelle offered to host part of the festival at Twin Waves. Jessica suggested her bookstore. Both generous, both sweet, both completely missing the point.
I need this festival at Driftwood and Dreams. My space. My contribution. My way of proving that I’ve built something meaningful here after everything fell apart in Seattle.
After Brad decided I was too much work and not enough fun.
After the divorce that took two years and most of my savings.
After moving to Twin Waves with nothing but a dream and a son who believed in me when I barely believed in myself.
I flip to a new page of regulations, and the words blur together. Maybe because it’s 2 AM. Maybe because I’m exhausted. Or maybe because I keep seeing Dean’s face when I told him he was crushing my dreams—the flash of hurt before his professional mask slammed back into place.
I don’t want him to be the villain. But I also can’t let him win.
My phone buzzes again. The book club group chat, which apparently never sleeps.
Hazel: Emergency coffee meeting. 9 AM. Everyone better be there.
Amber: Ooh, mysterious. I’m in.
Jessica: Should I bring my romance novels?
Michelle: Always bring the romance novels. Also, Jo, I saw you’re still awake. GO TO BED.
I turn off my phone and stare at the regulations for another hour before finally admitting defeat and crawling into bed, where I dream about fire codes and dark eyes and hands that held mine like they wanted to keep holding on.
Iarrive at Twin Waves Brewing Co. the next morning with three hours of sleep and a desperate need for caffeine strong enough to strip paint.
“Double shot,” I tell Michelle, collapsing at my usual corner table. “Actually, make it a triple. Is that a thing? Make it a thing.”
“Rough night?” She’s already pulling espresso, bless her, but there’s a gleam in her eye that makes me suspicious.
“I spent six hours reading building codes. I know more about means of egress than any human should.” I drop my bag—now full of highlighted printouts instead of boutique inventory. The coffee shop is unusually crowded for a Thursday morning. “Is there an event I forgot about?”
“Nope. Just a busy day.” Michelle’s smile is too innocent. Too bright. “Oh look, the girls are here!”
Hazel, Amber, and Jessica sweep in, claiming seats around my table with suspiciously synchronized timing.
“Morning!” Hazel says too cheerfully, settling in with a scone the size of my head. “Fancy meeting you all here.”
“We literally planned this in the group chat,” I point out.
“Did we? I don’t recall.” Amber pulls out her phone, types something, grins. “Funny how these things work out.”
I’m about to ask what they’re plotting when the door chimes again.
And Dean Beckett walks in.
My heart does something acrobatic and completely unauthorized in my chest. He’s in uniform today—navy blue that fits him like a personal insult to my self-control, radio on his shoulder, badge catching the morning light. His hair is slightly damp, like he just showered, and I have exactly zero business wondering about his morning routine.
Our gazes collide across the room.
