Valentine’s Day arrives with the kind of perfect weather that makes me suspicious.
Clear skies. Gentle breeze. Temperature hovering at exactly seventy-two degrees—ideal for outdoor gatherings without requiring additional heating permits. The ocean is calm, the town is buzzing with excitement, and every single thing on my checklist is complete.
Nothing ever goes this smoothly.
I arrive at Driftwood and Dreams at dawn, Rex trotting beside me, both of us doing a final walkthrough before the crowds arrive. The boutique glows in the early light, transformed into something magical. String lights wrap around every surface, vintage valentines cascade down one wall, and the careful layout we designed together creates perfect flow patterns that would make any fire marshal weep with joy.
Or maybe that’s just me.
The door is unlocked. I find Jo inside, arranging the last of her displays with the kind of focused intensity that makes my chest tight. She’s wearing a red dress that skims her curves andmakes me forget every regulation I’ve ever memorized, her hair swept up to reveal the elegant line of her neck.
She turns, sees me, and her entire face lights up. That smile—the one that makes me feel like I’m twenty years old and invincible—hits me square in the chest.
“You’re early,” she says, moving toward me with fluid grace.
“Had to make sure everything was perfect.” I close the distance between us, unable to help myself. “This is your day. Your dream.”
“Our dream.” She reaches up, straightening my collar even though it doesn’t need straightening. Her fingers brush my throat, and the contact sends heat racing through my bloodstream. “We built this together.”
The words settle between us, loaded with meaning that has nothing to do with festivals. I catch her hand, press my lips to her palm. Watch her pupils dilate, her breath catch.
“Dean—” My name on her lips is part warning, part invitation.
“I know. People arriving soon. Need to maintain professional boundaries.” I don’t let go of her hand. “But for the record, that dress is going to make it very difficult to focus on occupancy compliance.”
“That’s the idea.” Her smile turns wicked. “Consider it payback for making me wait four days to see you again.”
“We had permits to finalize?—”
“Excuses.” She steps closer, and now I can smell her perfume. That beachy vanilla scent that’s been haunting my dreams. “Admit it, Chief Beckett. You were nervous.”
“Terrified,” I correct, pulling her flush against me because I’m weak and she’s perfect. “Terrified I’d mess this up, that you’d realize you could do better than a grumpy fire marshal with a neurotic dog.”
“Rex isn’t neurotic.” She slides her arms around my neck. “And you’re not grumpy. You’re...particular.”
“That’s a diplomatic way of saying inflexible.”
“That’s a nice way of saying you care deeply about keeping people safe.” Her fingers thread through the hair at my nape, and I have to lock my knees. “It’s one of the things I?—”
The door chimes.
We spring apart like guilty teenagers as Grandma Hensley sweeps in, carrying what appears to be an entire garden’s worth of mistletoe.
“Don’t mind me!” she calls cheerfully, proceeding to hang mistletoe in strategic locations throughout the boutique. “Just adding some finishing touches.”
“But it’s not Christmas…” I watch in growing horror as she positions a particularly large bunch directly over the counter where Jo and I will be spending most of the day.
“Mrs. Hensley,” I start in my most authoritative voice. “That mistletoe creates an unauthorized kissing booth, which violates?—”
“Romance code section 143,” she interrupts, securing another bunch above the doorway. “Grumpy men need kisses. It’s very clear.”
“That’s not a real code.”
“Should be.” She stands back, admiring her work with satisfaction. “Besides, it’s for charity, Dean. You can’t shut down charity.”
Jo is trying very hard not to laugh. Failing completely, if the way her shoulders are shaking is any indication.
“The mistletoe stays,” Grandma Hensley declares, heading for the door. “Consider it a fire hazard if you must—the fire hazard of two people spontaneously combusting from unresolved tension.”
