Chapter 5
FIVE
JO
It’s two in the morning, and I’m reading about egress requirements like they’re the most riveting thriller ever written.
There has to be a loophole. Some exception, some variance, some way to make this work that doesn’t involve admitting defeat to Dean Beckett and his stupidly accurate clipboard.
Dean Beckett, who held my hand yesterday.
Dean Beckett, whose voice went rough when he said my name.
Dean Beckett, who I absolutely cannot think about right now because I’m supposed to be problem-solving, not replaying the way his thumb brushed across my knuckles like he couldn’t help himself.
I grab for another almond. The bag is empty.
My phone buzzes.
Asher: Mom, it’s 2 AM. Go to sleep. The fire codes will still be impossible in the morning.
I send back a thumbs-up emoji, which he’ll correctly interpret as “absolutely not.”
The thing is, I can’t give up. Everyone in town is excited about this festival.
Just today, three customers asked for updates.
Mrs. Patterson wants to know if she should bring her famous petit fours.
The art collective is planning a special installation.
Even Mr. Sanders from the hardware store asked if he could donate gift certificates for the raffle.
This isn’t just about me anymore. It’s about the whole community.
Michelle offered to host part of the festival at Twin Waves. Jessica suggested her bookstore. Both generous, both sweet, both completely missing the point.
I need this festival at Driftwood and Dreams. My space. My contribution. My way of proving that I’ve built something meaningful here after everything fell apart in Seattle.
After Brad decided I was too much work and not enough fun.
After the divorce that took two years and most of my savings.
After moving to Twin Waves with nothing but a dream and a son who believed in me when I barely believed in myself.
I flip to a new page of regulations, and the words blur together. Maybe because it’s 2 AM. Maybe because I’m exhausted. Or maybe because I keep seeing Dean’s face when I told him he was crushing my dreams—the flash of hurt before his professional mask slammed back into place.
I don’t want him to be the villain. But I also can’t let him win.
My phone buzzes again. The book club group chat, which apparently never sleeps.
Hazel: Emergency coffee meeting. 9 AM. Everyone better be there.
Amber: Ooh, mysterious. I’m in.
Jessica: Should I bring my romance novels?
Michelle: Always bring the romance novels. Also, Jo, I saw you’re still awake. GO TO BED.
I turn off my phone and stare at the regulations for another hour before finally admitting defeat and crawling into bed, where I dream about fire codes and dark eyes and hands that held mine like they wanted to keep holding on.
Iarrive at Twin Waves Brewing Co. the next morning with three hours of sleep and a desperate need for caffeine strong enough to strip paint.
“Double shot,” I tell Michelle, collapsing at my usual corner table. “Actually, make it a triple. Is that a thing? Make it a thing.”
“Rough night?” She’s already pulling espresso, bless her, but there’s a gleam in her eye that makes me suspicious.
“I spent six hours reading building codes. I know more about means of egress than any human should.” I drop my bag—now full of highlighted printouts instead of boutique inventory. The coffee shop is unusually crowded for a Thursday morning. “Is there an event I forgot about?”
“Nope. Just a busy day.” Michelle’s smile is too innocent. Too bright. “Oh look, the girls are here!”
Hazel, Amber, and Jessica sweep in, claiming seats around my table with suspiciously synchronized timing.
“Morning!” Hazel says too cheerfully, settling in with a scone the size of my head. “Fancy meeting you all here.”
“We literally planned this in the group chat,” I point out.
“Did we? I don’t recall.” Amber pulls out her phone, types something, grins. “Funny how these things work out.”
I’m about to ask what they’re plotting when the door chimes again.
And Dean Beckett walks in.
My heart does something acrobatic and completely unauthorized in my chest. He’s in uniform today—navy blue that fits him like a personal insult to my self-control, radio on his shoulder, badge catching the morning light.
His hair is slightly damp, like he just showered, and I have exactly zero business wondering about his morning routine.
Our gazes collide across the room.
His widen slightly—surprise, then something darker that makes my stomach flip. I watch him take in the scene: me, surrounded by my friends, no empty tables except—
“Dean!” Michelle calls out, bright as a Broadway spotlight. “Only seat left is by Jo. Funny how that worked out!”
No. No no no.
Dean’s expression shifts to something between panic and resignation. The same expression probably on my face right now.
“I can come back—” he starts.
“Nonsense!” Hazel pats the chair next to me. “Plenty of room. We’re all friends here.”
We are absolutely setting him up, and he knows it, and I know it, and the whole coffee shop knows it based on the way everyone has suddenly stopped talking to watch this unfold.
Dean walks over like a man approaching his execution. Sits down in the chair next to mine—close enough that I can smell his cologne, that woodsy clean scent that’s been haunting my dreams. Close enough that our knees almost touch under the table.
Almost.
The air between us crackles.
“Morning,” he says, voice carefully neutral.
“Morning,” I manage, trying not to notice the way his shoulders fill out that uniform. Trying not to remember how his hand felt in mine yesterday. Trying not to think about the fact that we’re now sitting so close I could count his eyelashes if I wanted to.
Which I don’t.
Except I do.
“Coffee, Dean?” Michelle appears with a pot, filling his cup before he can answer. “Oh, you’ve got a full cup now. Can’t leave with a full cup—that’s wasteful.”
Dean and I exchange a look. His lips twitch, almost a smile.
“Your friends are subtle,” he murmurs.
“About as subtle as a house fire,” I murmur back, and immediately regret the metaphor.
But he laughs. Just a brief huff of air that feels like victory.
From a nearby table, Grandma Hensley’s voice rings out. “Look at them! The tension! The chemistry!”
I close my eyes. Maybe if I can’t see them, they can’t see me.
“In my day, we just kissed and got it over with!” Grandma Hensley continues, apparently operating a running commentary service no one requested.
Dean’s ears are turning red. Actual red, visible even in the coffee shop lighting, and it’s so endearing I almost forget to be mortified.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t be.” His voice is low, meant only for me. “This is...actually, this is kind of nice. In a horrifying way.”
I risk a glance at him. He’s looking at me with those dark eyes, something soft in his expression that makes my breath catch.
“Dean.” Hazel leans forward. “What do you think makes a good romantic partner?”
He coughs. “I don’t think—”
“Jo, do you prefer men in uniform?” Amber asks with theatrical innocence.
My face flames. “I prefer men who don’t ambush me in coffee shops.”
“Isn’t it interesting how opposites attract?” Jessica chimes in. “Like how some people follow rules and some people...bend them?”
Dean shifts beside me. Our knees brush. The contact sends electricity racing up my thigh, and based on the way his breath hitches, he felt it too.
“Fire chiefs are known for being passionate, right Dean?” Michelle appears again with the coffee pot. “More coffee?”
“We both still have full cups,” Dean points out.
“Better keep drinking then!” She fills them higher. “Can’t leave until they’re empty.”
“That’s not actually a rule,” I say.
“It is in my coffee shop.” Michelle winks and disappears.
I should be angry. Should tell my friends to back off, to stop this coordinated campaign to force Dean and me together. Should maintain some dignity.
But then Amber “accidentally” knocks over the sugar dispenser, and both Dean and I reach to catch it at the same time, and our hands collide in a shower of white crystals.
His hand is warm. Strong. His fingers curl around mine for just a second—barely a heartbeat—before we both jerk back like we’ve been burned.
The book club erupts in theatrical gasps.
“Oh my!” someone actually says.
Jessica pulls out a romance novel from seemingly nowhere. “Speaking of passionate fire chiefs,” she says, opening to a marked page. “Listen to this love scene. For book club discussion purposes only, of course.”
“Jessica—” I start.
“And then the fire chief pulled her close, his strong arms like steel bands around her waist, his voice rough with barely restrained desire—”
“Jessica!” I bury my face in my hands.
Dean makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be a choke. Possibly both.
The coffee shop music changes. Something slow and romantic that I recognize as Michelle’s doing. The lights dim slightly. “For ambiance,” Michelle calls out helpfully.
Amber lights a candle and sets it on our table like we’re on a date in an Italian restaurant instead of being held hostage in a coffee shop by well-meaning friends.
“This is a nightmare,” I mutter.
“This is definitely something,” Dean agrees. But he’s smiling now, a real smile that transforms his entire face and makes my heart stutter.
Every time he tries to leave, someone asks a question about fire safety.
“Dean, is it true that body heat is the best way to prevent hypothermia?” Hazel asks, looking pointedly between us. “Asking for a friend.”
His ears go redder. “That’s...not actually my department.”
“What about testing smoke alarms?” Amber asks. “Should we test them together? For safety?”
“Smoke alarms should be tested monthly,” Dean says, and I can hear the laughter he’s suppressing. “But you don’t need a partner for that.”
“Don’t you though?” Jessica exchanges looks with the others.