Page 50 of Unlocking Melodies

“Right. Because nothing says 'routine business review' like looking at papers like they might bite you.” I settled onto the bench beside him, more amused than I probably should have been by his obvious discomfort. “You know, for a billionaire, you're surprisingly bad at casual deception.”

That startled a laugh out of him – quick and genuine, nothing like his usual careful responses. “I've been told my poker face needs work.”

“By who? The ducks? Because I hate to break it to you, but they're terrible at keeping secrets. Just look at that one – totally gossiping about your shoes to his friends.”

The duck in question was indeed engaged in what looked like a very judgmental examination of his footwear. “These are Italian leather,” he told it with dignity that was somewhat undermined by having to tuck his feet under the bench.

“I'm sure that's very impressive in corporate circles, but I don't think water birds care much about designer labels.”

He was fighting a smile now, his mysterious papers temporarily forgotten. “I'll remember that for my next pond-side business meeting.”

“Please do. Also, maybe consider less fancy shoes for your future encounters with judgmental waterfowl.”

The duck's dramatic exit was followed by an equally dramatic attempt at casual bench-sharing. We did this awkward dance of trying to maintain proper distance while not looking like we were trying to maintain proper distance. The result probably looked like two people participating in some bizarre sitting-down version of musical chairs.

A group of ducks waddled past, eyeing us expectantly. “Oh right,” I said, remembering one of the many Jimmy Facts™ (yes it is trademarked because I wanted to) I'd collected. “Apparently I feed them regularly. Another thrilling detail about myself I learned from the town gossip network.”

“You do?”

“According to Mrs. Henderson, I have a whole feeding schedule. That one,” I pointed to a particularly demanding duck who was giving us the stink-eye, “is Mr. Quackers. He only eats organic feed.”

The laugh that burst out of Ethan was nothing like his usual controlled responses – it was startled and real and somehow familiar. “You named a duck Mr. Quackers?”

“Hey, Past Jimmy named a duck Mr. Quackers. Current Jimmy just has to live with the consequences.” The judgment in his tone should have felt weird, but instead it was almost... comfortable? “Besides, have you seen him? He's clearly a Mr. Quackers. Look at that waddle. That's a duck with an MBA in bread-based economics.”

The spring breeze carried the scent of blooming things, making everything feel softer somehow. Our conversation drifted to safe topics – the unseasonably warm weather, the upcoming town festival (which apparently required seventeen different planning committees, because small towns take their celebrations very seriously).

But something about the peaceful setting and the way Ethan's perfect polish had crumbled made me brave. Or maybe just reckless.

“Your father's visit caused quite a stir,” I said, watching his reaction carefully.

His expression did something complicated – like several emotions were competing for control of his face and none of them were winning. “I spent years casting my father as thevillain in our story,” he said finally. “Turns out I might have been wrong about that. Among other things.”

His eyes flickered to my laptop, then back to his mysterious folder. Something passed between us – an understanding or recognition that felt bigger than the moment.

“Can I tell you something weird?” I found myself saying. “I keep finding these pieces of my past life – emails, plans, projects. Things that show who I used to be. And everyone keeps telling me about Past Jimmy – what he liked, how he felt, what he was building here.”

“But?” Ethan's voice was soft, encouraging.

“But it's like reading someone else's diary. Like watching a movie about my life where everyone knows the plot except me.” I gestured helplessly at my laptop. “I know these things happened. I can see the evidence. But I can't...”

“Feel it,” he finished quietly. “You only know it happened because people tell you it did.”

The perfect understanding in his voice made me look at him sharply. For a moment, he wasn't the polished CEO or the careful stranger – he was just someone who somehow knew exactly what I meant.

Mr. Quackers chose that moment to make another pass, clearly offended by our lack of proper duck-feeding etiquette.

“He's very demanding for someone who wears the same outfit every day,” I observed, grateful for the break in tension.

“Says the man who apparently has a color-coded feeding schedule for water fowl.”

“At least I'm not the one wearing Italian leather to a duck pond.”

His smile was different now – softer, more real. Like maybe he was tired of maintaining careful distances too. “You used to do this at Rosewood too,” he said, so quietly I almost missed it. “Find ways to make serious moments lighter.”

The casual mention of our shared past should have felt heavy, loaded with all the things I couldn't remember. Instead, it felt like someone pointing out a habit I didn't know I had – like when Nina mentioned my coffee preferences or Liam commented on my music techniques.

“Did it work?” I asked, surprising myself. “Making things lighter?”

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