Page 26 of Strings Attached
Her eyes are piercing, soft but serious, but she tightens her grip. “Because you’re on the council?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, hating the half-truth. “In a way, yes.”
Some lies protect. Other destroy. I’m no longer sure which kind I’m telling.
“Then maybe,” she whispers, “this doesn’t have to be public.” She smooths the wrinkles she’s made in my shirt. “Maybe it could just be… ours. For now. If you’re interested.”
The word ‘ours’ settles in my chest like a spark looking for kindling. Dangerous. Warm. Inevitable.
“There’s a trail,” I find myself saying, “behind the old lighthouse. Nobody goes there this time of year.”
A grin slips up her face, and her eyes sparkle. “I might need to practice there sometimes. For the album.” She taps herchin and looks up at the darkening sky. “Perhaps around six tomorrow evening?”
“I might need to ensure the area is… secure… at that time.”
Her grin widens even more. She walks away with measured steps, but glances back once. Just once. It’s enough to undo every carefully constructed argument blaring in my head.
Grammie Rae’s words echo in my mind.The magic is alive, Dean. And right now, it’s trying to tell you something.
The wards pulse beneath my feet, stronger than they’ve been in years. Some part of me knows I’m standing at a crossroads—duty and desire, protocol and possibility. But maybe Grammie Rae is right. Maybe it’s time to listen to what the magic’s trying to tell me.
Even if what it’s saying breaks every rule I’ve ever practiced.
Missy
I’m halfway to the lighthouse when I realize how ridiculous this is. Giuseppe’s case bumps against my leg with each step, a steady reminder that I don’t know what I’m doing. The weight of my phone in my pocket feels heavier than my cello—filled with Jules’ increasingly frustrated messages about the album’s timeline and my radio silence.
I haven’t answered yet. I keep telling myself I’m just taking a breath, just buying time. But the longer I’m here in Magnolia Cove—surrounded by stillness and cinnamon and space to think—the harder it is to imagine going back.
Not that I’d ever admit that. Not even to myself.
“Just leaving to work on my composition,” I’d told Alex when I’d left, the lie bitter on my tongue. She’d been elbow-deep in dough, hair dusted with flour, looking so content it made my chest ache. “Quiet helps, and Rachel said I could use the studio whenever I like.”
“It’s so great you and Rachel get along.”
My stomach swooped with the deceit. I’ve never outright lied to my sister. Misleading her on the state of my happiness I practiced often enough, but this was unfamiliar territory.
“Yeah, it’s great.”
My face had to have paled. Blood tingled as it rushed away from it. Alex narrowed her eyes at me then gave her head a shake and grinned. “Sometimes I still forget you’re an adult.” She chuckled. “Want some snacks for the road? I think I’ve finally nailed this caramel apple biscotti.”
I’d accepted the paper bag, my stomach churning but not with hunger. Alex sacrificed everything to give me my perfect life, and here I am sneaking around like a teenager with a crush—avoiding the work I keep insisting I’m doing, and seriously considering quitting the very career she helped me build.
And I don’t even know how to explain why.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, grip Giuseppe’s case strap tighter, and blow out a breath.
No, it’s fine. I’m not giving up my career—I can’t—and I’m not marrying Dean just because we’re going to have a little fall fling. I’ll get it out of my system, regain my spark, and be traveling the world again by this time next year.
Because I have to.
Alex gave up everything to make this life possible for me—her savings, her dreams, years of her life. If I walk away now, it’s not just a career I’m quitting. It’s her sacrifice I’m throwing away.
And I couldn’t live with that.
The path winds through trees painted in autumn’s palette—rust and amber mixing with pine green. Summer’s breathed its last, and winter will arrive soon. One more season in Magnolia Cove. The thought sends an unexpected pang through my chest.
When I round the last bend, Dean’s already there. He’s traded his usual leather jacket for a dark sweater and jeans, and something about seeing him in more casual clothing makes my heart flutter. Maybe because it’s like seeing behind a curtain, like being trusted with something rare.
