Chapter 4
FOUR
DEAN
I’m still thinking about her when I pull into the station parking lot.
This is a problem.
Jo Lennox—with her glitter-covered defiance and her notebook full of capital-letter accusations—should not be occupying this much space in my head. She’s Asher’s mother. She’s a fire code violator. She’s exactly the kind of chaos I’ve spent the last decade of my life trying to prevent.
And yet.
The way her eyes flashed. The breathlessness in her voice. That flush creeping up her neck like a visual representation of every unprofessional thought running through my mind.
I slam my truck door harder than necessary. Rex, my German Shepherd mix who rides shotgun on my days off, gives me a reproachful look.
“Don’t start,” I tell him. “She’s off-limits for approximately seventeen different reasons.”
Rex’s expression suggests he doesn’t believe me.
Smart dog.
Inside, the station is quiet—the morning crew running drills in the bay. I head straight for my office, determined to bury myself in paperwork until I stop remembering how Jo’s perfume smelled. Something beachy and floral with vanilla underneath, like summer afternoons and bad decisions.
My phone buzzes before I can sit down. Savannah’s face fills the screen, video call request flashing.
I answer, propping the phone against my coffee mug. “Hey, sweetheart. Isn’t it the middle of your shift?”
“Lunch break.” My daughter’s face is tired but happy, her scrubs the same navy blue she’s worn since finishing nursing school last year. “Wanted to check in. You sounded weird when we talked yesterday.”
“I didn’t sound weird.”
“Dad. I know you better than you think.”
I scrub a hand over my face. Twenty-six years old and she can still read me like a book. “Just dealing with a difficult situation. Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Uh-huh.” Savannah leans closer to her phone, eyes narrowing.
“And why do you look like you’re having a moral crisis about it?
” She takes a bite of what looks like cafeteria pizza.
“You’ve dealt with code violators a thousand times.
You usually just cite them and move on. But you’ve mentioned this one like four times this week. ”
Have I? I run back through our conversations. The soft launch disaster. The occupancy issues. The upcoming Valentine’s event that can’t legally happen. And yes, okay, maybe I’ve brought up “Asher’s mom” more than strictly necessary.
“It’s complicated,” I say finally.
“You clearly like her.”
“I don’t—” I stop. Because lying to my daughter has never worked and isn’t about to start now. “It doesn’t matter if I like her. She’s Asher’s mother.”
“So? Asher’s an adult.”
“She’s breaking fire codes.”
“So cite her. That’s your job.” Savannah sets down her pizza, giving me her full attention. The same focused look she probably gives her patients. “What’s the real problem here?”
The real problem is that I can’t stop thinking about the way Jo’s jaw set when she refused to back down.
The passion in her voice when she talked about her boutique, her community, her dreams. The way her whole face lit up despite the glitter disaster, despite my intervention, despite everything going wrong.
The real problem is that I haven’t felt this kind of pull toward someone since Sarah died five years ago, and I have no idea what to do about it.
“The real problem,” I say carefully, “is that she wants to hold an event that’s genuinely unsafe. And I can’t compromise on that, no matter how much I might—” I catch myself. “No matter the circumstances.”
“But you want to compromise.” Savannah’s voice is gentle. Understanding. “Dad, you’ve been following rules to the letter since Mom died. Which I get. I do. Structure helps with grief. But maybe it’s okay to be a little flexible sometimes?”
“Not with safety. You work in healthcare. You understand regulations exist for a reason.”
“I do. But I also understand that sometimes the spirit of the rule matters as much as the letter of it.” She pauses. “What’s she trying to do? This woman. What’s the event?”
“Valentine’s Day festival. She wants to bring people together, create community connections, support local businesses.” I hear the warmth creeping into my own voice and hate it. “It’s... it’s actually a nice idea. Just not feasible in her current space.”
“Have you told her that? Explained the actual dangers instead of just citing codes?”
I think about yesterday. The capacity numbers. My professional distance that felt more like a wall. “Not exactly.”
“Dad.” Savannah sighs. “You can’t expect people to comply with rules they don’t understand. Maybe she’s not being reckless. Maybe she just doesn’t know better.”
The words hit harder than they should. Because she’s right. Jo didn’t seem like someone deliberately flouting safety—she seemed like someone so focused on her vision that she hadn’t considered the risks.
“I’m going back this afternoon,” I say. “Official follow-up inspection.”
“Then talk to her. Actually talk to her. Explain why it matters.” Savannah grins suddenly. “And Dad? If you like Asher’s mom, that’s allowed. You’re not betraying Mom by moving on. She’d want you to be happy.”
My throat tightens. “I know.”
“Do you?” Her eyes are Sarah’s eyes—the same green-gold that used to undo me. “Because from here, it looks like you’re using your job as an excuse to keep everyone at arm’s length. Which is safe, sure. But it’s also lonely.”
We say goodbye shortly after, but her words stick with me as I review the morning reports. As I discuss equipment maintenance with the crew. As Asher himself walks past my office, coffee in hand, completely oblivious to the fact that I can’t stop thinking about his mother.
“Hey Chief,” he says, backtracking when he spots me. “Got a minute?”
“Sure.” I wave him in, grateful for the distraction. “What’s up?”
“Nothing major. Just...” He settles into the chair across from my desk, looking uncharacteristically uncertain.
“My mom’s really stressed about this Valentine’s thing.
I know you had to shut down her soft launch, and I get it—rules are rules.
But she’s been working on this for months. It really matters to her.”
Guilt twists in my chest. Sharp and uncomfortable. “I understand it’s important to her, Asher. But I can’t approve an unsafe gathering.”
“I know. And she knows too, logically. But bringing people together is kind of her thing, you know? After my dad left, she rebuilt her whole life around creating community. The boutique, book club, all these events. It’s how she healed.
” He runs a hand through his hair—a gesture so like Jo it makes my chest tight. “I just hate seeing her disappointed.”
I process this. Jo’s divorce, her rebuild, her need to create connection. Suddenly her passion makes more sense. This isn’t just about a business event. It’s about proving something to herself.
“She’s not trying to be difficult,” I say quietly. More to myself than to Asher.
“She’s really not. She just...once she sets her mind on something, she’s all in.” Asher grins. “Stubborn as can be, actually. But in a good way. Usually.”
Stubborn. Passionate. All in.
Heaven help me.
After Asher leaves, I sit with the realization that I’ve been approaching this all wrong. I’ve been seeing Jo as an adversary when she’s really just someone who needs education. Guidance. Someone who cares deeply about something and doesn’t understand why it can’t work.
I can help with that. That’s literally my job—community education, safety awareness, fire prevention.
The fact that I’ll get to see her again has nothing to do with it.
Nothing at all.
Driftwood and Dreams looks different in afternoon light. Softer somehow, the ocean beyond the windows turning the whole space into something almost magical. Wind chimes sing near the entrance, and through the glass, Jo moves inside, shifting furniture with determined energy.
I watch for a moment before knocking. Taking in the way her body moves—economical, purposeful, entirely unconscious of how attractive that fierce concentration is. She’s wearing fitted jeans and a loose white blouse that slips off one shoulder when she leans down to grab a chair.
I shouldn’t be noticing her shoulder.
I definitely shouldn’t be wondering if her skin is as soft as it looks.
I knock harder than intended.
Jo jumps, then turns. Even through the glass, I see her expression shift. Surprise, then wariness, then something that might be the same unwanted awareness I’m feeling.
She opens the door. “Chief Beckett. Here to crush more dreams?”
“Here for the follow-up inspection.” I keep my voice professional even as her perfume hits me. Beachy. Floral. Vanilla. All the things that are about to make this conversation very difficult. “You said you’d make corrections.”
“I have.” She steps back, gesturing me inside with exaggerated courtesy. “Welcome to my compliant boutique. Try not to find anything else wrong with it.”
The space is beautiful—all whitewashed wood and ocean colors, carefully curated displays of jewelry and art. But it’s also small. Very small. No amount of furniture rearranging will change the fundamental square footage problem.
“Walk me through what you’ve changed,” I say.
Jo leads me deeper into the boutique, and I become acutely aware of how close we are. The space forces proximity—her arm brushing mine as she gestures to the cleared areas, the warmth of her body palpable in the narrow aisles.
“I moved all the display cases against the walls,” she explains. “Created more open floor space. See? Easy traffic flow.”
I survey the layout. She’s actually done a decent job—better sightlines, clearer pathways. But. “The square footage is still the same. You haven’t addressed the fundamental capacity issue.”
“I removed twelve chairs from the seating area.”
“Which helps. But you’re still talking about wanting to host thirty people in a space rated for fifteen.”