Chapter 4
Marcus
T he next morning, I’m standing outside Seaside Sweets, bad station coffee in one hand, and a knot in my gut that has nothing to do with too much caffeine. The shop looks the same from the outside—charming pastel paint, flower boxes beneath the windows, a little hand-painted sign that reads "Open for Sweet Business"—but something feels different now. Heavier. Quieter. Like even the bricks know something’s off.
I don’t need to be here.
The official report is done. Witness statements filed. Mrs. Waverly’s death was determined to be natural causes—a sudden cardiac arrest. Nothing suspicious, nothing criminal. I did my job.
But I’m still here, drawn like a moth to the flame.
The sky is overcast, the kind of heavy gray that settles in and makes the universe feel a little heavier. I’ve been staring at the open sign in the bakery window for five minutes, debating whether or not to go in. Most mornings, I wouldn’t hesitate. I’d grab my coffee, my pastry, nod at Julie, and get back to patrol. Routine.
Yesterday wrecked that routine.
Seeing her on her knees beside Mrs. Waverly’s body, panic and grief etched into every line of her face, something in me shifted. I’ve seen a lot of things—combat zones, bodies, loss. But watching her try to save someone she loved, knowing she couldn’t, did something to me I wasn’t prepared for.
I hate emotions. They’re messy, unpredictable, and uncomfortable. I spent years learning how to shut them down, how to compartmentalize. But Julie Harper doesn’t compartmentalize anything. She lives out loud. She cries in public and wears every damn emotion on her sleeve. And yesterday, it hit me like a sledgehammer.
So yeah, maybe I’m here because I didn’t sleep. Because I kept seeing her on that sidewalk, eyes wide, voice shaking, completely gutted.
And I just want to see her again. Make sure she’s okay. Even if I don’t know what the hell I’d say.
I toss the terrible coffee in the bin and finally push the door open. The bell jingles overhead, quieter than usual, like even it knows the mood in here is off.
Julie is standing behind the counter. Her gaze lifts, and for a moment, her whole face softens. Then the smile fades, replaced by something more guarded.
“Hey,” she says quietly.
“Hey,” I echo, stepping inside, letting the door close behind me. The place is empty, save for a woman sitting in the corner with a laptop and a latte.
Julie wipes her hands on a towel and nods toward the register. “The usual?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
She moves automatically, pulling a danish from the case and pouring a cup of black coffee. Her hands are steady, but there’s something tight in her shoulders, a tension she’s trying to hide.
I take the coffee and pastry, then linger instead of leaving. “Got a minute?”
She hesitates. “For?”
“Follow-up questions,” I lie.
Her lips twist like she doesn’t quite buy it, but she nods and motions toward one of the corner booths. I slide in across from her, watching her tuck a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. She’s still in her flour-dusted apron, her cheeks pink from the kitchen heat. And her green eyes—they’re tired. Sad.
“I’m sorry about Mrs. Waverly,” I say.
She exhales slowly, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her apron. “Thanks. It still doesn’t feel real.” Her voice is soft, raw around the edges like sandpaper against skin. "I keep thinking she’s going to walk in with a bouquet and her ridiculous hat, complaining that I overbaked the lemon tarts again." Her lips twitch like she wants to smile, but it falters, too weighed down by grief. "Every morning, she stopped in to tell me something—gossip, advice, a flower fact... the place feels weird without her."
“You two were close?”
She nods, looking down at her hands. “She was the first person in town to believe in me. When I moved here, everyone treated me like the girl with a dream and no plan. She gave me advice. Support. Five hundred bucks when my oven died the week before opening, calling it an investment.” She huffs a laugh, but it doesn’t quite land. “She told me not to tell anyone or she’d lose her reputation as a ruthless businesswoman.”
I smile faintly. “Sounds like a good one.”
“She was the best.”
The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s thick, weighty, the kind of quiet that presses against your chest and makes your breath catch. I’m not good at comforting people. Hell, I’m not good with people in general. But sitting here across from her—seeing her trying so damn hard to hold herself together, seeing that tremble in her fingers as she folds the edge of a napkin over and over—I want to say something that helps. Anything that takes the edge off that grief clinging to her like smoke. And that need… that pull to make it better for her? That scares me more than I want to admit.
“If there’s anything you need…” I trail off, feeling stupid.
Julie glances up, her expression softening again. “That’s sweet. Thanks. But honestly, I just need to get through the day without crying in the muffins.”
I snort. “Fair goal.”
She tilts her head. “Why are you here, Officer King? Because I get the feeling you don’t do small talk.”
I glance at my coffee, then back at her. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion, and still—she stares at me like she's bracing for impact. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” I say, and it's the truth. Not some canned line, not a cop checking a box. It's personal, and it lands somewhere deep because for the first time in a long time, I actually care if someone is okay.
Her eyes search mine, like she’s trying to decide if she believes me. “I will be. Eventually. Thank you.”
Before I can say anything else, my radio crackles to life on my hip.
“Unit Three-One, report of a disturbance at the boardwalk. Possible fight in progress.”
I sigh and rise to my feet, setting the coffee cup down, but my feet drag a little. “Duty calls,” I say, even though every part of me wants to sit back down, linger just a little longer in her orbit. The thought of walking away, of leaving her in that quiet, grief-tinged bakery, knots something tight in my chest. It's not part of the job—but it feels like it should be.
Julie stands too, wiping her hands again, and for some reason, I don’t want to walk out the door just yet.
“Lock the door if you need a break,” I tell her. “Don’t let anyone pressure you into staying open if you’re not ready.”
She gives me a small smile. “Are you worried about me, Officer King?”
“Maybe, and please call me Marcus.”
“Okay, Marcus. Are you worried about me?”
I nod once, linger for half a second like I might say something else—something real—and then I head out the door.
But as I get in the cruiser and drive toward the boardwalk, I keep thinking about her. The way she clutched that napkin like it was the only thing holding her together. The way her voice cracked when she talked about Mrs. Waverly. The way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. It’s something that is tearing me up inside to see.
I shouldn’t care but I do.
And that’s a problem I don’t have the tools—or the distance—to even start unraveling yet. Not when every time I blink, I see her face. Not when something about her feels like it’s already working its way under my skin, whether I want it to or not.
* * *
The boardwalk call turns out to be a false alarm. Two tourists arguing about who saw the damn seagull first. I separate them, write my report, then slide back into the cruiser with more time on my hands than I want. It’s slow today and before I even realize it, the day is over and it’s time to clock out.
Delgado texts me before I’ve even pulled away from the station.
Delgado: Beer? First round’s on me.
Me: Make it whiskey.
Delgado: Deal.
When I walk into The Rusty Anchor, Delgado’s already seated at our usual booth in the back. He raises his glass like a toast and waves me over.
“You look like you were kicked in the gut,” he comments as I slide into the seat.
“I look like I dealt with birdwatching idiots on the boardwalk all day.”
He smirks. “And before that, stopped by a certain bakery to check on a certain woman who got under your skin.”
I grunt. “She’s not under my skin.”
“Uh-huh.” He sips. “So, why’d you go back? Case is closed.”
I don’t answer right away. Delgado’s the kind of friend who’ll wait me out, no matter how long it takes.
“She looked… broken yesterday,” I finally say. “Like someone took the wind out of her. I’ve seen people lose it before. I’ve been the guy they look to for strength. But this? This felt different.”
Delgado nods slowly. “Yeah. Grief hits different when it’s someone who matters.”
“She wears her heart on her sleeve,” I say. “And I don’t know what to do with that.”
“You don’t have to do anything. Just be there for her. You can do that.”
Before I can answer, someone else approaches our booth. Ryan Murphy, clean-cut and polished, nods at us.
“Mind if I join?” he asks.
Delgado waves him in. “Pull up a seat. Cop corner’s open.”
“So, what’s happening around town, boys?” Ryan slides into the seat beside me and sips his whiskey. I find it ironic that he owns a hugely successful winery in town, but he’s drinking whiskey.
“King’s been fighting seagulls all day.” Delgado teases.
“Let me guess… tourists, again?” Ryan laughs as I nod in agreement.
“Gotta love the tourists.” I ask, “I mean, who the fuck cares who saw the damn sky chicken first?” I argue.
Delgado and Ryan both laugh, then the table grows quiet. “I heard about Mrs. Waverly. That’s a damn shame.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“She meant a lot to Pelican Point,” Ryan continues. “My brother and I were just talking about her the other day. Candace, too. Now I guess Julie’s bakery’s the heart of that whole street.”
I glance at him surprised by his sentence. “You know her? Julie, I mean” My hackles are up, and I don’t even know why… well, that’s not true. I do know why; I just don’t know what to do with that. Jealousy isn’t something I’m used to.
“Well enough to know she’s stubborn, hard-working, and exactly the kind of person we need in Pelican Point. Candace is thinking about helping her expand the bakery when she’s ready.”
I nod slowly, not sure what to say to that. If he’s engaged to Candace, why the fuck is he noticing so much about Julie?
Ryan studies me for a moment. “People like Julie… they burn bright. If you’re lucky, you get to stand close enough to warm your hands. If you’re smart, you don’t let them burn out alone.”
I nod to him, he’s not wrong, which is another reason why I should just get my head on straight.
Ryan gets a text and reads it then downs the rest of his drink. “Gotta go. The ball and chain is hailing me.”
“Don’t let her hear you call her that.” I tease.
“Fuck no and if either of you tell Candace I said that I will have you eliminated.” He smiles as he gets up, tossing a tip on the table. “Stay safe. Don’t let the seagulls take over.”
After he’s gone, Delgado stares at me. “So now you’ve got relationship advice from the nicest billionaire in town. You gonna pretend you didn’t hear that too?”
I finish my drink in one long swallow. “I’m not built for sunshine.”
“Then stand next to it for a while. Might surprise you.”
I drive home that night thinking of Julie. Of flour-dusted aprons and tired smiles. I sit in my garage, staring at the half-finished table I worked on days ago. I can’t bring myself to pick up a tool so late.
Instead, I pull out my phone and open her contact info from the report the other day.
I don’t call. Don’t text. I just stare at her name and think I’m not the guy who gets sunshine.
But maybe I could be the guy who doesn’t run from it.