Page 39 of Just Desserts in Pelican Point
We’ve had a lot of those moments lately—quiet, steady ones that feel like breathing after holding it for too long. Real talk, hard truths, and late-night whispers in my bed that make me feel like maybe, just maybe, I’ve found something permanent.
He told me everything. About his last deployment. The parts he’d kept buried so long they were practically fossilized. And in return, I told him about losing my mom when I was just a kid. About how my dad did the best he could, and how much I still miss him—even now.
That was the moment we really stitched ourselves together. Not just sex or late-night cravings or grumpy flirtation.
Just… us. Two people with rough edges and soft centers who somehow fit.
“I think I’m nervous,” I admit, glancing at the florist shop again.
“About the new girl?” Marcus asks.
“About all of it. What if she hates this town? What if she sells the shop to someone who turns it into a vape lounge or a cat yoga studio?”
He grunts. “If someone tries to install a vape bar in Mrs. Waverly’s old place, I will personally throw them into the ocean.”
I laugh. “You’re very romantic.”
“I try.”
We fall into a comfortable silence, sipping our coffee and watching the construction chaos unfold next door.
“Whatever happens,” he says quietly, “we’ll figure it out. Together.”
“Together,” I echo, sliding my fingers into his free hand. I believe him with everything I’ve got. Even if the mysterious, overachieving florist next door turns out to be the nightmare everyone says she is—we’ll weather it.
Preferably with muffins and a backup hard hat.
* * *
It’s a slow Tuesday morning, the kind I used to dread but now kind of love. The sky over Pelican Point is the softest shade of cotton-candy blue, and the warm scent of cinnamon and butter hangs thick in the air like a hug.
The bakery is bustling—not chaotic, but full. Happy chatter. Tinkling mugs. Someone’s baby is laughing in the corner, and I swear if I bottle that sound, I could retire tomorrow.
Behind the counter is Marcus… in an apron.
I wish I had the foresight to take a picture because this man, who once looked like he’d rather face down a bank robber than a cupcake tray, is currently wearing a black apron with the Seaside Sweets logo on it—and a smudge of flour on his cheek.
“You’re doing it wrong,” I tease as I lean over to swipe the smudge from his face.
“I’m literally just handing a customer their coffee,” he grumbles, but his lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile.
“You’re supposed to wink when you hand it off. Adds flair.”
He narrows his eyes. “I don’t wink.”
“Well, you do now.”
“Is that in the employee manual?”
“No. It’s in the boyfriend handbook.”
That earns me a low chuckle that vibrates straight down to my toes. God, I love that sound.
“Remind me why I agreed to help out again?” he asks, wiping his hands on a towel.
“Because you love me,” I say without hesitation.
He pauses. “Damn right I do.”
