Burning Up My Love Life (Valentine’s Midlife Meet Cute #10)

Chapter 1

ONE

JO

I’m elbow-deep in Valentine’s Day chaos when Hazel walks through the door of Driftwood and Dreams, takes one look at the explosion of heart-shaped everything covering every surface, and starts laughing.

“Jo Lennox, what have you done?”

“Created magic.” I brandish a glue gun like a wand. There’s paint in my hair and a heart sticker stuck to my cheek, but I don’t care. “Twin Waves’ first-ever Valentine’s Day festival is going to be legendary.”

“It’s going to be something.” Hazel picks her way through the obstacle course of craft supplies and vintage furniture. “And you’re hosting this...here?”

“Where else? This place is perfect!” I spin around, taking in Driftwood and Dreams—my baby, my labor of love. “We’ve got the atmosphere, the location, the vision—“

“The messy craft supplies everywhere?”

“—the passion for bringing people together. This is what I do, Hazel. I take broken things and make them beautiful again. Speaking of which, how’s my future daughter-in-law?”

Her face softens. “Mads is perfect. She and Asher are disgustingly happy.”

My heart does that swooping thing it’s been doing since Christmas, when my son finally claimed the love of his life. Watching them together makes something in my chest ache—the good kind of ache. The kind that whispers maybe, possibly, what if.

I’m forty-eight. I raised Asher alone after a divorce that nearly broke me. Seven years I’ve been convinced that chapter was closed.

But lately, watching my son fall in love—

“You’re thinking too hard,” Hazel observes.

“I’m thinking about the festival,” I lie, returning to my heart garland. “Jessica and Michelle are coming by later, and Amber’s bringing samples—“

The door chimes.

Suddenly my boutique is full of women. Not just our book club crew. Thirty women. Maybe more. They keep streaming through the door like I’m giving away free wine and Ryan Gosling’s phone number.

“Jo! We’re here for the Valentine’s planning meeting!”

“Everyone wants to help!”

Women are sitting on counters, perched on display cases, and one brave soul has climbed into my decorative canoe. Every chair is taken. The exits are blocked by people and Valentine’s decorations and a life-sized cardboard cutout of Fabio that someone brought as a joke.

“This is amazing,” I breathe.

This is what I dreamed about. Not just opening a business, but creating connections. Making magic happen.

Two hours later, we’ve made serious progress. The “Love Stories and Lattes” festival has a schedule, volunteers, and enough creative ideas to fill a month.

“So we’re agreed,” I summarize. “February fourteenth. Coffee tasting, romance novel speed dating, couples’ painting workshop, vintage photo booth, author meet-and-greet, and sunset beach bonfire with s’mores.”

“It’s perfect,” Grandma Hensley announces.

“There’s just one small problem,” Michelle ventures. “Jo, have you considered the logistics? The actual physical space issue?”

I look around. Thirty women crammed into my shop. Someone’s elbow is in a candle display. The decorative canoe now holds three people.

“We’ll make it work. More people means more love, more community, more—“

“More fire hazards,” a deep, decidedly male voice cuts through the chatter.

The room goes silent.

Every head turns toward the door.

Dean Beckett stands in my entrance like he stepped out of a recruitment poster for Grumpy Authority Figures Who Mean Business.

My son’s boss. Twin Waves’ fire chief.

I haven’t seen him since Michelle’s coffee shop where we had an awkward conversation about occupancy limits I didn’t understand.

I understand now.

He’s wearing his official uniform, steel-blue eyes scanning the room, taking in every blocked exit, every violation. His jaw is set in a hard line that somehow makes him look intimidating and—

No. Stop that, Jo.

Behind him sits the most beautiful German Shepherd I’ve ever seen.

“Chief Beckett.” My voice comes out bright despite my pulse picking up speed. “What a lovely surprise—“

“I know what you’re having.” His voice is calm, measured, terrifying. Deeper than I remember. Rougher. The kind of voice that probably sounds even better first thing in the morning—

Stop. It.

“I received three separate complaints about overcrowding. Three. In twenty minutes.” Those impossibly blue eyes fix on me with an intensity that makes my skin warm.

“Your exit is blocked by a cardboard cutout of a shirtless man, and you have approximately thirty people in a space rated for a maximum occupancy of”—he consults a notebook, and I notice his hands. Strong. Capable—“fifteen.”

The number lands like a bomb.

“Now wait just a minute—“ I start toward him, glue gun still in hand.

I don’t see the ribbon on the floor.

The pink satin ribbon I flung across the room earlier with such dramatic flair.

My foot slips. I’m falling forward, arms windmilling, and I’m about to face-plant into my son’s boss when—

Dean catches me.

His hands close around my upper arms, steadying me with reflexes born from running into burning buildings. The grip is firm. Sure. His fingers span almost the entire width of my biceps, and even through my t-shirt, I can feel the heat of his palms.

He’s solid. Warm. Smells like smoke and pine and something that makes my brain short-circuit.

We’re standing too close. Close enough to see his pupils dilate slightly. Close enough to count the silver threads in his dark hair. Close enough to notice the faint scar above his left eyebrow.

His breath is warm against my forehead.

My hands are pressed flat against his chest where I grabbed his shirt, and oh dear, that’s his heartbeat. Strong and steady and just a little bit fast.

Our gazes collide.

For one suspended, breathless moment, the boutique falls away. There’s just his hands on my arms—tight enough to steady me, gentle enough not to hurt—and my hands on his chest, and the way we’re both suddenly very still.

His eyes aren’t just blue. They’re storm-cloud blue. Tempest blue. The kind that makes you think about what it might feel like to run my finger through his hair and—

His gaze drops to my mouth.

Just for a second. Just long enough for my breath to catch and my lips to part and something hot and electric to arc between us like lightning.

Then he’s looking at the glue gun, and the moment shatters.

“Mrs. Lennox—“

“It’s just Jo.” My voice comes out breathier than I’d like. Huskier. “We’ve been through this. I’m not a ‘Mrs.’ anymore.”

Something flickers in his expression. His fingers tighten fractionally on my arms—just enough that I feel it, just enough that heat floods through me—before he releases me and steps back.

The loss of contact feels like cold water.

“Jo, then.” He clears his throat. Is his voice rougher? “Could you please put down the glue gun before someone gets hurt?”

I’m still holding it. Pointing it vaguely in his direction like a craft-store weapon.

“Right. Yes. Sorry.” I step back, but the air between us still feels charged. Heated. “It’s not loaded. I mean, it’s hot, but not—“

His mouth twitches. Just barely.

“I need everyone to evacuate this building immediately.” His voice carries authority, but his eyes stay on me a beat too long. “This is an official fire safety inspection, and you are in violation of multiple occupancy codes.”

The room empties. Grandma Hensley pats his arm and tells him to loosen up. Michelle squeezes my hand. “We can meet at my coffee shop.”

“But it won’t be the same,” I protest. “The festival needs to be here. This is where the magic happens.”

“Magic doesn’t help when you’re evacuating a building in an emergency,” Dean says, a hardness in his voice. Something that sounds like experience.

“I’m trying to create something beautiful for this community. You’re trying to ruin Valentine’s Day.”

His eyes flash. “I’m trying to keep people safe.”

“By shutting down joy?”

“By enforcing regulations that exist because people die in overcrowded buildings.”

The words land like a slap. Something raw in them makes me think this isn’t theoretical for him.

Then it’s just us and his dog in my empty boutique.

The silence feels dangerous.

“Look.” I force my voice softer, trying to ignore how my skin still feels warm where he touched me.

“I moved to Twin Waves after my divorce. Built this business from nothing. The book club, this town, it saved me. The Valentine’s festival isn’t just about romance novels.

It’s about showing people it’s never too late for magic. That love and community matter.”

His expression shifts. Just barely.

“I understand what you’re trying to do,” he says, gentler now.

“But good intentions don’t change facts.

You had thirty people in a space built for fifteen.

Blocked exits. You created a dangerous situation.

“I’m citing you for multiple violations,” Dean says, his tone softening even as authority stays firm.

“You can’t keep holding volunteer meetings, craft prep sessions, and festival setup operations in this space until it meets safety standards. ”

That lands like a punch.

“You have one week to fix the violations, submit a compliant event plan, and pass a safety review—or I cannot authorize the Valentine’s Day festival.”

“You can’t—“

“I can, and I will.” But there’s regret in his expression. “I’m not trying to be the villain. I’m trying to do my job.”

“Your job is to crush dreams?”

“My job is to keep people alive.” His eyes lock on mine with intensity that makes my breath catch. “Even when they’re too stubborn to see the danger.”

We’re standing close again. When did that happen? Maybe two feet between us, and the air feels thick. Charged. Like before a storm breaks.

His chest rises and falls with a breath that seems harder than it should be.

My pulse is racing.

The German Shepherd abandons Dean and trots to me, sitting at my feet with huge brown eyes. When I reach down to pet him—grateful for an excuse to break eye contact—he leans into my hand with a sigh.

“Rex.” Real frustration breaks through Dean’s controlled facade. “Heel.”

Rex ignores him, tail thumping.

I smile. “At least someone appreciates me.”

“He’s supposed to be intimidating.”

“Maybe he knows I’m not the enemy.” I scratch behind Rex’s ears. “Maybe he understands that sometimes rules need to bend for magic.”

Dean stares at us, and something crosses his face. Frustration, definitely. But also an emotion like longing before he locks it down.

He turns to leave, then pauses. Looks back.

Our eyes meet across the boutique.

For just a second, I see it again—that flicker of something hot and electric and completely inappropriate.

“And Jo?” His voice is rough. “Lose the cardboard cutout. Fabio is a fire hazard.”

Then he’s gone, Rex following reluctantly.

I stand in my empty boutique, surrounded by Valentine’s decorations and ruins of my plan.

My arms still feel warm where he touched them.

I can still smell pine and smoke and see the way he looked at my mouth.

This is very bad.

I pull out my phone.

Me: Emergency meeting. Michelle’s coffee shop. Tomorrow morning. Operation Save Valentine’s Day is officially underway.

Grandma Hensley: That man needs a woman in his life. Also, did you SEE the way he looked at you?

I stare at that text.

No. Absolutely not.

Dean Beckett is my son’s boss, a professional obstacle, and the grumpiest man I’ve ever met.

The fact that he caught me—that his hands were warm and strong—that for one electric second I felt something I haven’t felt in seven years—

That’s completely irrelevant.

This is about the festival. About proving magic is worth fighting for.

I grab my glue gun, trying very hard not to think about storm-blue eyes and the way Dean Beckett’s voice gets rougher when he’s frustrated.

Valentine’s Day is in three weeks, and I have a grumpy fire chief to outsmart.

Game on, Dean Beckett.

Game on.