Page 27 of Strings Attached
“You showed up.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
His lips quirk. “Said I would, didn’t I?”
“You said maybe.”
“Maybe means yes when it’s you asking.”
The honesty in his voice draws me forward until I’m close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. When I kiss him, it’s hesitant initially—still unsure if this is allowed. His hands slide down to my waist, splaying gently at first, like he’s giving me the chance to pull away. But I don’t. Instead, I lean in, letting the kiss deepen as his touch becomes firmer, more certain. The rhythmic breathing of the ocean and the wind rattling pine needles fades—everything does except for the press of his lips and the quiet heat building between us.
Dean pulls back first. He drags his knuckles down my jaw and my core turns into molten lava. His gaze flicks to Giuseppe’s case. “Brought company?”
“Didn’t know if I’d end up spending the hour playing alone.” It comes out more vulnerable than I intend and I fight a cringe.
He catches my hand, though, his fingers warm and rough. “Come with me? I’d like to show you something.”
I nod, not trusting my voice. He leads me to the lighthouse door, producing a key from his pocket. Inside, the space opens up like a music box someone’s just wound. A spiral staircase curves toward the light above and aging posters of whales and mermaids cover pale-blue walls. When Dean clicks on strings of lights, the whole room transforms. They cast star-like patterns across the walls, making impressions like raindrops or galaxies.
“Twinkle lights? Really?” I can’t help but tease, but my heart squeezes at this glimpse behind his carefully constructed walls. The space feels lived in, personal in a way his stark office doesn’t. I try to picture him here alone, maybe reading or watching the waves. How many other people know this side of him? How many others has he invited here? Something tells me the answer is very few, which makes this moment feel precious.
He raises an eyebrow, but there’s a softness to his expression. “String lights take batteries which is practical in a place without electricity. But that’s not what I wanted to show you.”
He releases a shaky breath then cranks open a window. Salt air mingles with the sound of waves, allowing in nature’s rhythm. But he’s still moving with nervous energy, adjusting things on an old desk like he’s working up to something.
I’ve never seen Dean in any way less than completely composed—even during our heated kiss in the storm, he maintained that careful control. But now his fingers tap against his leg, and there’s something almost fragile in the way he won’t quite meet my eyes.
I want to reach for him, to ease whatever’s making him nervous, but I stay still. This feels like watching a wild animal slowly venture closer—one wrong move and he might retreat behind those walls again. So I wait, letting the sound of the ocean breathing fill the silence between us. Whatever he wants to show me clearly matters, and I realize I want to be worthy of the trust he’s placing in me.
Finally, he sighs and pulls a guitar case from behind a cabinet.
I can’t help myself. My hands actually clap together of their own accord. “You’re going to play for me?”
His jaw works, his eyes tightening and growing dark, and his voice is gruff when he speaks. “I said I might one day.” His tone softens as he raises his face. “And as I told you earlier, ‘maybe’ tends to mean ‘yes’ when it’s you asking.”
There’s something so vulnerably honest about his words, about the way he’s looking at me now—like I’m something precious and terrifying all at once. It reminds me of how I feel before stepping onto a stage, that moment of standing on the edge of something transformative. But this isn’t a performance.This is Dean, letting his guard down note by note, and somehow that feels more momentous than any concert I’ve ever given.
“Do you have a second chair?” I nod toward the desk’s lonely seat. “I’d love to join you, I mean, if you wanted that.”
He produces a folded chair from a closet, and we set up our instruments like we’re preparing for a private concert. When I tell him to play whatever he wants, that I’ll follow, something vulnerable flashes across his face.
The song he starts is raw—all minor chords and emotional wounds turned into music. I close my eyes and let Giuseppe’s voice join, not thinking about proper finger positions or Jules’ careful notations or what anyone else would expect. For once, I’m just playing.
Our instruments seem to know each other, like they’ve waited for this duet. The lighthouse’s acoustics turn every sound into something magical, better than any concert hall I’ve ever played.
Playing with Jules is like walking a tightrope—every note precisely balanced, each melody a complex dance where one misstep could send us tumbling. He’s brilliant, of course. A virtuoso. But sometimes it feels like we’re two separate performers sharing a stage rather than actually making music together.
This is different. Dean might not have Jules’ technical perfection, but his playing has something more vital—a raw honesty that makes my breath catch. His simple melodies speak straight to the heart. For the first time in years, I’m not worried about perfection. I’m just letting music flow through me, letting Giuseppe’s voice twine with Dean’s guitar in ways that feel natural and free. There’s no pressure to impress, no need to prove anything. Just two people sharing pieces of themselves through music.
When we finish, I realize my cheeks are wet. I blink lingering tears away and lift my face. Dean notices too. His smile is soft, private—a kind that I can’t imagine he shares very often.
“Another?” I ask, already knowing his answer in my bones.
This, I realize as we start our next piece,this is the magic I’ve been searching for.Not in perfect performances or critical acclaim, but in the space between notes where two people choose to be real together.
The biscotti sits forgotten in its paper bag, and my phone stays untouched in my pocket. I’m grateful that the island’s terrible service means Jules’ messages can’t reach me here. For now, there’s just music and Dean and the way the twinkle lights glisten across his eyes and reflect on his guitar’s polished surface, turning ordinary wood into something almost magical in the dim light.
Once the sun has painted the lighthouse walls gold, and our instruments are safely packed away, Dean pulls me close for one more kiss. It’s softer than our earlier ones, like he’s memorizing the moment.
“What are the chances you’re free at the same time tomorrow?” he asks against my hair.
