Chapter 3
THREE
JO
“Ineed wine,” I announce, bursting through the door of Twin Waves Brewing Co. at eight-fifty the next morning. “Or coffee. Or possibly both mixed together because apparently that’s where my life is now.”
Michelle looks up from behind the espresso machine, eyebrows climbing toward her hairline. “Jo, it’s not even nine a.m.”
“Your point?” I dump my bag on the nearest table—the corner one we’ve claimed as unofficial book club territory—and collapse into a chair.
“I’ve been up since five trying to figure out how to make my boutique simultaneously hold thirty people and comply with fire codes that were apparently written by someone who hates joy. ”
“That’s called physics,” Amber says, sliding into the seat across from me with a knowing look. “Also, you have glitter in your eyebrows.”
I swipe at my face. More glitter comes away on my palm.
Pink, sparkly, mocking evidence of yesterday’s disaster.
“It’s everywhere. I found it in my coffee this morning.
My car looks like a fairy exploded. I’m pretty sure I’m going to be finding glitter in weird places for the rest of my natural life. ”
“At least you’ll be festive,” Jessica offers, joining us with her usual stack of romance novels. She sets them down with a significant thud. “I brought reinforcements. Research materials.”
“Unless those books contain secret fire marshal seduction techniques, I’m not sure how they’ll help.”
“Oh, honey,” Hazel says, arriving with a tray of pastries that she sets down with maternal care. “Every romance novel contains seduction techniques. That’s literally the point.”
Michelle delivers my coffee—a double shot of everything, bless her—and settles in with her own cup. “Okay, so walk us through exactly what happened. The group chat last night was...dramatic.”
I pull out my phone and scroll back through the messages.
Fire Marshall tyrant ruins everything.
Valentine’s Day is dead and Dean Beckett killed it.
I was perfectly reasonable.
“You used the laughing-crying emoji fourteen times,” Amber interrupts, reading over my shoulder. “In one text.”
“I was upset.”
“You compared him to Voldemort.”
“He Who Must Not Be Reasonable About Occupancy Limits.”
Jessica snorts into her latte. “What exactly did he say that set you off?”
I take a long drink of coffee, fortifying myself.
“He showed up during the party—which was going perfectly, by the way—and shut the whole thing down. Said I was over capacity. Which, fine, technically true, but it was a soft launch. An event. Everyone was having an amazing time until Captain Safety showed up with his clipboard and his”—I wave my hand vaguely—“his face.”
“His face?” Michelle leans forward, suddenly very interested. “What about his face?”
“You know. A face.” The kind of face that looks unfairly good when it’s scowling at you.
Sharp jaw, dark eyes that probably see through walls and definitely saw through my attempt to claim twenty-eight people was “basically fifteen-ish.” The kind of face that made me forget why I was arguing for a dangerous second before fury came rushing back. “A tyrannical, joy-killing face.”
“Uh-huh.” Hazel exchanges a look with the others that I don’t appreciate. “And did this tyrannical face happen to be attached to a body?”
“All faces are attached to bodies, Hazel. That’s how anatomy works.”
“A tall body?” Jessica asks, too innocently. “Broad shoulders? The kind of build that suggests he could probably carry you out of a burning building without breaking a sweat?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I didn’t notice.”
“You absolutely noticed,” Amber says. “You just described his clipboard with more detail than you’ve ever described anything.”
“Because the clipboard was a weapon! He wielded it like—like—”
“Like a man doing his job?” Michelle suggests.
I glare at her. Traitor. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“We are on your side,” Hazel says, patting my hand. “We’re just also pointing out that you’ve talked more about this fire marshal in five minutes than you talked about Brad in the last six months of your relationship.”
The table goes quiet. Even I wince at that one.
Brad. My ex-fiancé, who left me six months ago for his hot yoga instructor named Sage. Brad, who said I was “too focused on work” and “not present enough emotionally.”
“That’s different,” I say finally. “Brad never threatened my business.”
“No, he just threatened your sense of self-worth,” Jessica says dryly. “Much better.”
“Can we focus?” I pull out my notebook and flip to my increasingly desperate notes.
“I have a Valentine’s event in twelve days.
I need to figure out how to make this work, or I’m going to lose a massive deposit, disappoint everyone who bought tickets, and prove Brad right about my life being a disaster. ”
“Brad is a sentient protein shake who ghosted his own engagement party,” Michelle says firmly. “His opinions are invalid.”
“Still.” I tap my pen against the page. “I need a plan. The venue won’t hold thirty people legally. I can’t change locations this close to the event. And Dean Beckett made it extremely clear that if I try anything, he’ll shut me down so fast my head will spin.”
“Dean,” Amber repeats, grinning. “First name basis already?”
“That’s literally his name. It was on his—”
“His clipboard, yes, we’ve established your fixation.”
I open my mouth to protest, then catch sight of my notes. Where I’ve written “DEAN BECKETT - FIRE MARSHAL - DESTROYER OF DREAMS” in aggressive capitals. And underlined it. Twice.
“Okay,” I say, flipping the page. “New topic. Solutions. I’m thinking I could—”
The brewery door chimes.
I glance up automatically.
Then promptly choke on my coffee.
Because walking through the door, looking somehow even more devastating in civilian clothes than he did in uniform yesterday, is Dean Beckett himself.
Our eyes meet across the room.
His widen slightly—surprise, recognition—then something darker flickers through them. Something that makes my stomach drop and my pulse kick into overdrive.
His gaze drops to the table, to my notebook, and I realize with hot, creeping horror that from his angle, he can probably read the “DESTROYER OF DREAMS” note.
His eyebrow lifts. Just slightly. Then his mouth curves—not quite a smile, but close enough to make my breath catch.
“Oh,” Hazel breathes beside me, “this just got interesting.”
For a moment, Dean just stands there in the doorway, backlit by morning sun.
He’s wearing dark jeans that fit him like a sin I’d confess to, and a grey henley that does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that yes, Jessica was right, he could definitely carry someone out of a burning building without breaking a sweat.
Not that I’m thinking about him carrying me anywhere.
He recovers first, which is infuriating. His expression shifts from surprised to something I can’t quite read—amusement dancing with heat—before he heads toward the counter.
But not before his lips quirk in what is definitely, absolutely a smile.
“Destroyer of dreams?” Amber whispers, barely containing her laughter. “Really?”
“Shut up,” I hiss, flipping my notebook closed so violently I nearly give myself a paper cut. My heart is doing something erratic in my chest, something that feels suspiciously like anticipation. “This is a nightmare.”
“Morning, Dean! The usual?” Michelle calls out, standing to greet him.
“Morning, Michelle.” His voice is deep and smooth with just enough gravel to make me think of rumpled sheets and lazy Sunday mornings. “Yeah, thanks.”
He knows Michelle. Of course he knows Michelle. This is Twin Waves—everyone knows everyone.
“You two know each other?” I ask, trying to sound casual and probably failing.
“Dean’s been coming here since we opened,” Michelle says. “He’s one of our regulars. Dean, this is—”
“We’ve met,” Dean says, and now he’s definitely smiling as he turns to face our table fully. His gaze lands on me with laser precision. “Ms. Lennox, right? The boutique owner with the flexible relationship with occupancy limits?”
My spine straightens automatically. “It’s Jo. And I prefer to think of it as optimistic capacity management.”
“I’m sure you do.” He crosses his arms, and the movement makes the henley stretch across his chest in a way that should be illegal. “How’s the glitter situation working out for you?”
I become acutely aware that I probably still have glitter everywhere. “It’s under control.”
“Is it?” His eyes—darker than I remembered, more dangerous—crinkle slightly at the corners. “Because from here, it looks like you lost a fight with a craft store.”
Something hot flashes through me. Anger, yes. But also something else, something that makes my skin feel too tight. “At least I’m festive.”
“Very festive,” he agrees, and there’s something in his tone—warm, teasing, almost intimate—that makes my stomach flip. “I’m sure the fire code violations really complete the look.”
“I didn’t violate anything,” I snap, very aware that my cheeks are flushing. “I had an event. A perfectly safe event that you—”
“—that exceeded the legal occupancy of your space by forty percent,” Dean finishes. He hasn’t moved closer, but somehow the air between us feels charged. “But who’s counting?”
“Apparently you are. Very carefully. With your little clipboard.”
Something flashes in his eyes. Heat. Challenge. “It’s a standard clipboard. There’s nothing little about it.”
The words hang in the air for a beat too long. I watch color creep up his neck—just barely visible above his collar—and something molten coils low in my stomach.
“The clipboard,” he clarifies, his voice dropping half an octave. “I meant the clipboard is standard-sized.”
“Obviously,” I say, but my voice comes out breathier than intended. “What else would you be talking about?”
His eyes lock with mine. Dark. Intense. For a moment I forget how to breathe. There’s a challenge there, something that makes me want to push back and lean in simultaneously.
“Your coffee’s ready, Dean,” Michelle announces, her voice bright with barely concealed amusement.
The spell breaks. Dean blinks, then turns to collect his cup. I can finally breathe again—except breathing isn’t helping because now I can smell his cologne. Something woodsy and clean that makes me think of capable hands and knowing touches.
“Well,” Dean says, collecting his coffee and a bakery bag. “Enjoy your morning. Try to stay under capacity.”
“Try to stay off your high horse,” I shoot back.
He pauses mid-step, glances back over his shoulder. The look he gives me could melt steel. “My high horse is exactly the appropriate height, thanks. It’s called having standards.”
“It’s called being inflexible.”
“It’s called keeping people safe.” His expression softens just enough to make my chest tight. “Even when they’re too stubborn to appreciate it.”
Then he’s gone, the door chiming behind him, leaving me staring after him with my pulse racing.
“Oh my god,” Amber says.
“That was intense,” Hazel finishes.
“That was nothing,” I insist, taking a long drink of my now-cold coffee. “That was just... arguing.”
“That,” Michelle says, returning to the table with a knowing look, “was foreplay.”
My face flames. “This isn’t a romance novel. This is my actual life, and that man is an actual problem I need to solve.”
“Oh, he’s a problem all right,” Amber grins. “The kind that involves a lot of tension that could be resolved through—”
“Don’t,” I warn.
Hazel closes my notebook, where I’ve been unconsciously doodling. Small, angry loops that spell out D.B. over and over. “Honey, I don’t think your problem is the occupancy limits.”
“My problem is definitely the occupancy limits.”
“Your problem,” Michelle says gently, “is that you’re attracted to the fire marshal and you don’t know what to do about it.”
I open my mouth to deny it. But my pulse is still racing and I can still smell his cologne and I’m definitely thinking about his hands.
“Okay,” I admit finally. “Fine. Maybe he’s...aesthetically pleasing. In an objective, doesn’t-matter-at-all kind of way. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s making my life impossible.”
“Or,” Jessica says, tapping her romance novels, “it makes everything more interesting.”
I look down at my notebook. At Destroyer of Dreams underlined twice. Then I think about Dean’s face. The heat in his eyes.
Maybe this just got very, very interesting.
And maybe I’m not entirely upset about it.