The drive to Driftwood and Dreams takes seven minutes. I spend six of them rehearsing what I’ll say and one of them forgetting everything I rehearsed.
The boutique glows in the late afternoon light, ocean visible through the windows. I can see Jo inside, arranging something on a display shelf. Even from here, she’s beautiful—focused and graceful and completely unaware that I’m about to walk in and offer her the world.
Or at least a code-compliant Valentine’s festival.
“Wish me luck, boy,” I tell Rex.
He barks once, sharp and approving.
I grab the rolled-up plans and head for the door before I can talk myself out of it.
The wind chimes announce my arrival. Jo turns, and I watch the progression of emotions across her face—surprise, pleasure, wariness, something that might be the same desperate hope I’m feeling.
“Dean.” My name on her lips does something dangerous to my pulse. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I know. But I have something for you.” I lift the plans. “Can we talk?”
She glances around the empty boutique, then back at me. “Now you want to talk? After ambushing me with codes and citations?”
“After you ambushed me with glitter and impossible dreams.” I step closer, drawn by gravity or insanity or both. “After you held my hand and looked at me like I was worth believing in.”
Her breath catches. “Dean?—”
“Let me show you something.” I unroll the plans on her counter, and suddenly we’re standing close enough that I can smell her perfume. Beachy and floral with vanilla underneath—the scent that’s been haunting me for days. “What if I told you I found a way to make your festival work?”
“I’d say you’re lying.” But she’s leaning in, studying the diagrams. Her shoulder brushes mine, and the contact sends heat racing through me.
“I don’t lie.” I point to the first page. “Multiple venues. Rotating groups. Your boutique hosts the centerpiece activities—the ones that matter most to you. But we partner with Michelle’s coffee shop, Jessica’s bookstore, maybe the art gallery. Create a Valentine’s Trail through downtown.”
“A trail?” She’s close enough now that I can feel her breath on my neck.
“Each location hosts a different experience. Wine tasting here, poetry reading at the bookstore, live music at Twin Waves Brewing Co. People rotate through in groups small enough to meet occupancy limits.” My hand moves across the diagram, and her hand follows, not quite touching mine but close enough to make my skin electric. “We add an outdoor component on the beach—weather permitting, with proper permits. String lights, fire pits, s’mores station.”
“Fire pits run by the fire department, I assume?” There’s amusement in her voice. And something else. Something breathless.
“Obviously.” I glance at her, find her already looking at me. Her pupils are dilated, her lips slightly parted, and every instinct I have screams at me to close the distance. “It’s bigger than your original vision, Jo. Better. And completely, totally safe.”
“You did all this?” Her voice is barely a whisper. “For me?”
“For the festival,” I say, but we both know it’s a lie.
She turns to face me fully, and suddenly we’re not looking at plans anymore. We’re just standing in her boutique at closing time, close enough to kiss, both of us breathing too fast.
“Dean.” She reaches up, and her fingers brush my jaw. The touch is feather-light and devastating. “Why are you really here?”
Because I can’t stop thinking about you. Because you make me want to break all my carefully maintained rules. Because I’m fifty-two years old and terrified and falling for a woman who argues with me and makes my heart race like I’m twenty again.
“Because you deserve to have your dream,” I say instead. Safer. Less revealing.
“That’s not an answer.” Her thumb traces along my jawline, and I have to lock my knees to keep standing. “Try again.”
“Jo—”
“Tell me why you spent hours creating these plans.” She’s close enough now that her breasts brush my chest when she breathes. “Tell me why you’re here instead of sending them by email. Tell me why you’re looking at me like—” She stops. Swallows. “Like you want to do something about it.”
Every professional boundary screams at me to step back. Every safety protocol I’ve ever followed says this is dangerous territory.
I step closer instead.
