Chapter 6
SIX
DEAN
Nine at night finds me at my kitchen table, surrounded by building codes, permit applications, and architectural diagrams that Rex keeps trying to sleep on.
“Move,” I tell him for the third time, sliding a blueprint out from under his head.
He groans but relocates to my feet, where he proceeds to snore loud enough to wake the dead while I try to figure out how to give Jo Lennox everything she wants without compromising every principle I’ve built my career on.
The smart thing would be to walk away. Let her find someone else to approve her festival. Remove myself from this situation before I do something stupid like fall for a woman who argues with me about occupancy limits and looks at me like I’m simultaneously her biggest obstacle and her last hope.
Too late.
I’m already doing the stupid thing.
I’ve been doing it since she opened her mouth and called my clipboard “little.” Since she bit her lip while concentrating on her notes. Since she held my hand in her boutique like she was drowning and I was her lifeline.
Since she admitted she’s been alone for seven years and I realized I want to be the one who changes that.
The codes blur in front of me. I blink, refocus, and suddenly see it. The angle I’ve been missing. Not changing the rules—following them in a way that actually expands what’s possible.
My pulse kicks up as the solution crystallizes.
Multiple venues. Rotating groups. Outdoor components with proper permits. A Valentine’s Trail that turns Jo’s single-location event into a town-wide celebration that’s not only legal but actually better than her original vision.
I reach for a fresh sheet of paper and start sketching. Traffic flow patterns. Occupancy calculations for each space. Timeline showing how groups rotate through venues. My hand moves faster as the plan takes shape, and somewhere around four a.m., I realize I’m smiling.
Actually smiling while doing paperwork.
Sarah would have laughed at that. Would have said something about how I need to loosen up, enjoy life, stop being so serious all the time. She’d been trying to get me to relax for years before—
I stop. Take a breath. Let myself think about Sarah without the crushing guilt that usually follows.
She wouldn’t want me alone. Wouldn’t want me using her memory as an excuse to keep everyone at arm’s length. She’d want me happy.
And Jo—stubborn, passionate, glitter-covered Jo—makes me want to be happy again.
The thought terrifies me almost as much as it excites me.
“Chief, you look terrible.”
I glance up from my desk to find Asher in my office doorway, two coffees in hand. He sets one in front of me—black, no sugar, the way I’ve taken it since before he was born—and settles into the chair across from me.
“Rough night,” I admit, accepting the coffee gratefully. “Working on a project.”
“The Valentine’s festival?” His tone is carefully neutral, but there’s something in his expression. Curiosity, maybe. Or hope.
My hand tightens on the coffee cup. “Among other things.”
“Mads mentioned she saw you and my mom at Twin Waves yesterday.” He takes a sip of his own coffee, watching me over the rim. “Said you two looked pretty cozy.”
Here it comes. The awkward conversation. The territorial son protecting his mother. The professional boundary I’m about to be reminded exists.
“We were discussing the festival,” I say, which is technically true even if it’s wildly incomplete.
“Uh-huh.” Asher sets down his coffee. “Chief, can I talk to you? Off the record?”
I nod, bracing myself.
“My mom deserves to be happy.” The words come out firm. Direct. “She’s been alone since my dad left. Seven years of putting everyone else first—me, the boutique, the community. Never dated. Never even seemed interested.”
“Asher—”
“But yesterday, when Mads FaceTimed me from the coffee shop?” He leans forward, and there’s something fierce in his eyes. Something protective and approving simultaneously. “My mom was smiling. Really smiling. The kind of smile I haven’t seen since before the divorce.”
My chest tightens. “Your mother is an impressive woman.”
“She is. And if someone makes her smile like that?” Asher holds my gaze. “Well, that someone would be pretty special. Would be someone I’d want in her life. In our lives.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. “Are you saying…”
“I’m saying my mom deserves happiness. And you’re a good man, Chief. One of the best I know.” He stands, heads for the door, then pauses. “If something were to develop between you two, I’d be honored to have you in our family.”
He’s gone before I can respond, leaving me staring after him with something hot and overwhelming building in my chest.
Asher’s blessing. I have Asher’s blessing.
The weight I didn’t fully realize I was carrying lifts, but it’s immediately replaced by something heavier. Because now there’s no excuse. No external barrier saying this is impossible or inappropriate.
Just me and my fears.
What if I hurt her? What if I’m too broken, too rigid, too stuck in my grief to give her what she needs? What if she deserves someone lighter, easier, someone who doesn’t wake up at three a.m. to obsess over fire codes?
What if I’m not enough?
I look down at the plans I’ve been drafting. Detailed diagrams showing traffic patterns, occupancy loads, permit requirements. Decorating suggestions I have no business including but couldn’t help adding because I kept imagining her face when she sees them.
Professional documents that are anything but professional because they’re a love letter disguised as fire safety compliance.
My phone rings. Savannah’s face fills the screen.
“Dad, I’m on break. Tell me why you’ve called me three times in two days when usually I’m lucky to hear from you once a week.”
“You’re the one who called me.”
“Yeah, I’m calling you back after you’ve bombarded my phone.”
I lean back in my chair, suddenly exhausted. “I might be doing something stupid.”
“Ooh, this is new. Tell me everything.” I can hear the smile in her voice.
“It’s Asher’s mom.”
“I knew it!” Savannah sounds delighted. “What’s her name?”
“Jo.” Even saying it feels dangerous. Intimate. “She’s forty-eight, and owns a boutique.”
“Sounds perfect for you.”
“She’s chaos personified. Gets glitter everywhere. Probably hasn’t met a regulation she hasn’t tried to bend.”
“Definitely perfect for you.” Savannah laughs. “Dad, you’ve spent five years being structured and controlled and careful. Maybe you need someone who shakes things up.”
“She shakes everything up.” I run a hand through my hair. “She makes me want things I thought were over for me.”
“Like what?”
“Like...” I stop. Swallow hard. “Like waking up next to someone. Making coffee for two. Having someone to come home to who actually wants me there.”
The line goes quiet for a moment.
“Dad.” Savannah’s voice is gentle. “You sound happy.”
Do I? I test the feeling, and realize she’s right. Despite the fear and the complications and the three hours of sleep, there’s something light in my chest that hasn’t been there in years.
“Maybe I am,” I admit.
“Then whatever you’re planning to do, do it. Take the risk. Mom would want you to.” She pauses. “Also, bring her around sometime. I want to meet the woman who got you to smile again.”
After we hang up, I sit with that for a long moment. The permission from both my daughter and my employee. The plans spread across my desk that are really just an elaborate excuse to see Jo again. The feeling in my chest that might be hope or might be terror or might be both.
Time to decide. Play it safe, keep my distance, let someone else approve her festival.
Or risk everything.
By the end of my shift, I’ve made my choice.
The plans are perfect. Professional enough to pass any inspection, creative enough to give Jo everything she wants and more. I’ve included permit applications, timeline suggestions, even a list of local vendors who could help with outdoor setup.
It’s too much. It crosses every professional boundary I’ve ever maintained.
I’m doing it anyway.
“Heading out, Chief?” Asher catches me rolling up the diagrams.
“Yeah. Need to deliver something.”
His lips curve. “To anyone I know?”
“Your mother.” I meet his eyes. “About the festival.”
“Right. The festival.” His grin widens. “Good luck, Chief.”
I’m going to need it.
Rex bounds into the truck when I open the door, tail wagging like he knows something good is about to happen. Maybe he does. Maybe dogs can sense when their humans are about to do something either brilliant or catastrophically stupid.
The drive to Driftwood and Dreams takes seven minutes. I spend six of them rehearsing what I’ll say and one of them forgetting everything I rehearsed.
The boutique glows in the late afternoon light, ocean visible through the windows. I can see Jo inside, arranging something on a display shelf. Even from here, she’s beautiful—focused and graceful and completely unaware that I’m about to walk in and offer her the world.
Or at least a code-compliant Valentine’s festival.
“Wish me luck, boy,” I tell Rex.
He barks once, sharp and approving.
I grab the rolled-up plans and head for the door before I can talk myself out of it.
The wind chimes announce my arrival. Jo turns, and I watch the progression of emotions across her face—surprise, pleasure, wariness, something that might be the same desperate hope I’m feeling.
“Dean.” My name on her lips does something dangerous to my pulse. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I know. But I have something for you.” I lift the plans. “Can we talk?”
She glances around the empty boutique, then back at me. “Now you want to talk? After ambushing me with codes and citations?”
“After you ambushed me with glitter and impossible dreams.” I step closer, drawn by gravity or insanity or both. “After you held my hand and looked at me like I was worth believing in.”
Her breath catches. “Dean—”