Chapter 8
EIGHT
DEAN
Valentine’s Day arrives with the kind of perfect weather that makes me suspicious.
Clear skies. Gentle breeze. Temperature hovering at exactly seventy-two degrees—ideal for outdoor gatherings without requiring additional heating permits. The ocean is calm, the town is buzzing with excitement, and every single thing on my checklist is complete.
Nothing ever goes this smoothly.
I arrive at Driftwood and Dreams at dawn, Rex trotting beside me, both of us doing a final walkthrough before the crowds arrive.
The boutique glows in the early light, transformed into something magical.
String lights wrap around every surface, vintage valentines cascade down one wall, and the careful layout we designed together creates perfect flow patterns that would make any fire marshal weep with joy.
Or maybe that’s just me.
The door is unlocked. I find Jo inside, arranging the last of her displays with the kind of focused intensity that makes my chest tight.
She’s wearing a red dress that skims her curves and makes me forget every regulation I’ve ever memorized, her hair swept up to reveal the elegant line of her neck.
She turns, sees me, and her entire face lights up. That smile—the one that makes me feel like I’m twenty years old and invincible—hits me square in the chest.
“You’re early,” she says, moving toward me with fluid grace.
“Had to make sure everything was perfect.” I close the distance between us, unable to help myself. “This is your day. Your dream.”
“Our dream.” She reaches up, straightening my collar even though it doesn’t need straightening. Her fingers brush my throat, and the contact sends heat racing through my bloodstream. “We built this together.”
The words settle between us, loaded with meaning that has nothing to do with festivals. I catch her hand, press my lips to her palm. Watch her pupils dilate, her breath catch.
“Dean—” My name on her lips is part warning, part invitation.
“I know. People arriving soon. Need to maintain professional boundaries.” I don’t let go of her hand. “But for the record, that dress is going to make it very difficult to focus on occupancy compliance.”
“That’s the idea.” Her smile turns wicked. “Consider it payback for making me wait four days to see you again.”
“We had permits to finalize—”
“Excuses.” She steps closer, and now I can smell her perfume. That beachy vanilla scent that’s been haunting my dreams. “Admit it, Chief Beckett. You were nervous.”
“Terrified,” I correct, pulling her flush against me because I’m weak and she’s perfect. “Terrified I’d mess this up, that you’d realize you could do better than a grumpy fire marshal with a neurotic dog.”
“Rex isn’t neurotic.” She slides her arms around my neck. “And you’re not grumpy. You’re...particular.”
“That’s a diplomatic way of saying inflexible.”
“That’s a nice way of saying you care deeply about keeping people safe.” Her fingers thread through the hair at my nape, and I have to lock my knees. “It’s one of the things I—”
The door chimes.
We spring apart like guilty teenagers as Grandma Hensley sweeps in, carrying what appears to be an entire garden’s worth of mistletoe.
“Don’t mind me!” she calls cheerfully, proceeding to hang mistletoe in strategic locations throughout the boutique. “Just adding some finishing touches.”
“But it’s not Christmas…” I watch in growing horror as she positions a particularly large bunch directly over the counter where Jo and I will be spending most of the day.
“Mrs. Hensley,” I start in my most authoritative voice. “That mistletoe creates an unauthorized kissing booth, which violates—”
“Romance code section 143,” she interrupts, securing another bunch above the doorway. “Grumpy men need kisses. It’s very clear.”
“That’s not a real code.”
“Should be.” She stands back, admiring her work with satisfaction. “Besides, it’s for charity, Dean. You can’t shut down charity.”
Jo is trying very hard not to laugh. Failing completely, if the way her shoulders are shaking is any indication.
“The mistletoe stays,” Grandma Hensley declares, heading for the door. “Consider it a fire hazard if you must—the fire hazard of two people spontaneously combusting from unresolved tension.”
The door closes behind her.
Silence.
Then Jo dissolves into laughter, and the sound is so uninhibited, so joyful, that I can’t help joining her.
“Our town is insane,” I tell her when I can breathe again.
She steps back into my space like she belongs there. Like we haven’t just been interrupted by a senior citizen with a matchmaking agenda. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”
Something fierce and possessive surge through me. I frame her face with my hands, tilt her chin up so she has to meet my eyes.
“I’m yours,” I say, and watch her breath catch. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it? Not just one of the town. Yours.”
“Dean—” Her voice has gone rough. Needy.
“Say it.” I brush my thumb across her lower lip, feeling it tremble. “Say you want me to be yours.”
“I want—” She breaks off as voices approach outside. Multiple voices. The book club, from the sound of it, arriving early with their usual impeccable timing.
I step back, adjusting my uniform, trying to look professional instead of like a man who was seconds away from backing her against the wall and finding out if she tastes as good as she smells.
“This is going to be a very long day,” I mutter.
“The longest.” But she’s smiling, and there’s a promise in her eyes that makes the wait almost unbearable.
By ten a.m., I’ve discovered that the entire town has conspired against my sanity.
Michelle’s coffee shop is serving drinks with couple names. “The Grumpy Chief” and “The Sunny Jo” that everyone keeps ordering as a set while waggling their eyebrows suggestively.
The book club has set up a “romance novel matchmaking” booth where every personality quiz—I’ve seen three people take them—results in the suggestion to “date the fire chief” or “date the boutique owner.”
Asher is running “couples fire safety demonstrations” that are so transparently about Jo and me that I’ve stopped making eye contact with him.
And Mads. Heaven help me, Mads has a loudspeaker and keeps making announcements about “matters of the heart” while staring directly at me.
“Your future daughter-in-law is a menace,” I tell Jo during a rare moment when we’re both at the boutique counter, reviewing the rotation schedule.
“She learned from the best.” Jo’s hand brushes mine as she reaches for a folder—my folder, which she’s commandeered and decorated with heart stickers. “Besides, you love it.”
“I absolutely do not love being the subject of town-wide speculation about my personal life.”
“Liar.” She leans in close enough that I can feel her breath on my neck. “You love that everyone knows you’re mine.”
The possessiveness in her tone sends heat straight to my groin. “Jo…”
“Chief Beckett!” Someone calls from across the room. “We need your expertise!”
I turn to find half the fire station has arrived, all of them wearing matching grins that spell trouble. Rex, who I’d left in the truck with the windows down, has somehow escaped and is now wearing a tuxedo.
A tuxedo.
“Did you put a tuxedo on my dog?” I demand.
“Mads did,” Asher supplies helpfully. “He’s the ring bearer. For the wedding. Your wedding. To my mom.”
“We’re not getting married.” Yet. The word hangs unspoken between us.
“Not with that attitude.” Mads appears with her loudspeaker. “Attention festival attendees! The fire chief says he’s not getting married! Someone change his mind!”
The crowd erupts in laughter and cheers. Someone starts chanting “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” and within seconds, the entire boutique has taken up the refrain.
Jo and I look at each other. She’s biting her lip to keep from laughing, her eyes dancing with mischief and heat.
“They’re not going to stop,” she says.
“They’re really not.” I can feel every eye in the room on us. Can see phones raised, ready to capture this moment for posterity and probably the town Facebook page.
“We could give them what they want,” she suggests, and there’s challenge in her voice. Challenge and want and the same desperate edge I’m feeling.
“Is that what you want?” I step closer, backing her against the counter. Vaguely aware that we’re creating a spectacle and completely unable to care. “For me to kiss you in front of everyone?”
“I want you to kiss me every day.” The words are barely a whisper, meant only for me. “But I’ll settle for starting right now.”
That snaps the last thread of my control.
I cup her face, angle her mouth up to mine, and kiss her like I’ve been dying to for four endless days. She makes a sound of pure surrender, her hands fisting in my uniform, pulling me closer as she opens for me.
When we finally break apart—only because we need oxygen—the entire boutique erupts in applause.
“Well,” Jo says, breathless and flushed and beautiful. “That’s one way to make the festival memorable.”
“Just following community standards.” I rest my forehead against hers, both of us grinning like idiots. “Section 143. Grumpy men need kisses.”
“That’s still not a real code.”
“Should be.”
The rest of the festival passes in a blur of perfectly executed rotations, happy crowds, and stolen moments with Jo. The Valentine’s Trail is a massive success. Every business in town is packed, the outdoor bonfire is drawing hundreds, and not a single fire code has been violated.
I should be proud. I am proud.
But mostly, I’m just impatient for everyone to leave so I can have Jo to myself.
By the time the sun sets and the crowds thin to just family and close friends, I’m wound so tight I might actually combust. Jo has been driving me insane all day.
Brushing past me with deliberate intent, shooting me looks that promise everything, whispering suggestions about what she wants to do when we’re alone that make my blood run hot.
“Dad.” Savannah appears at my elbow, grinning. “You look like you’re about to crawl out of your skin.”
“Your observation skills are noted.”
“She’s good for you.” My daughter nods toward where Jo is laughing with the book club ladies. “I haven’t seen you this alive in years.”
“She’s chaos personified.”
“You need chaos. You’ve been too controlled since Mom died.” Savannah squeezes my arm. “Let yourself be happy, Dad. You deserve it.”
After she walks away, I stand there watching Jo charm everyone around her, and realize my daughter is right. I do deserve happiness. And more importantly, Jo deserves someone who will cherish her dreams while keeping her safe.
Someone who will push back when she’s reckless and celebrate when she’s brilliant.
Someone who will kiss her until she forgets about occupancy limits and love her until she knows she’s worth everything.
I can be that someone.
I want to be that someone.
As the last of the festival-goers drift away, I catch Jo’s hand. “Come with me.”
“Where?” But she’s already following, trust implicit in the way her fingers thread through mine.
“It’s a surprise.” I lead her down to the beach where I’ve set up a blanket, wine, and Rex wearing his ridiculous tuxedo because Mads refused to take it off him. “Wanted to do this right.”
Jo’s eyes shine in the moonlight. “Dean—”
“Let me.” I pull her down onto the blanket, arrange her in my arms so her back is against my chest, both of us facing the ocean. “I never thought I’d find this again. Love. Partnership. Someone who makes me want to be better while accepting me exactly as I am.”
“Dean.” Her voice cracks.
“I’m all in, Jo. Completely. Terrifyingly. I want this—you—more than I’ve wanted anything in years.” I press a kiss to her temple. “Tell me you want it too.”
She turns in my arms, frames my face with her hands. “I’m all in. I’m so far in I can’t even see the shore anymore.”
I kiss her as the waves crash, as Rex howls his approval, as somewhere in the distance, our children celebrate.
This is happiness. This is home.
This is everything.