Page 30 of Strings Attached
The setting sun paints the planetarium’s dome in amber and rose. Missy stands silhouetted against it, her dress catching the wind like music made visible. She’s wearing her hair down tonight, loose tresses dancing in the breeze.
Something inside me aches at the sight of her. How many nights have we spent in shadows, stealing moments between sunset and sunrise? As if this—as if she—were something to hide.
She turns at my approach and her smile steals my carefully rehearsed words.
“I have a question,” she says.
I kiss her softly, grateful for any excuse to delay what is coming. “Nothing new there.”
She slaps my arm playfully, then rests her fingers against my bicep in a way that makes me want to forget everything except the way her touch ignites something primal and desperate in me, how her fingers leave trails of heat through my shirt that make me forget I’m supposed to be the controlled one, the responsible one, the one who maintains order rather than shattering it withkisses that taste like midnight confessions and barely restrained magic.
“Hey.” She laughs. “You like my questions.”
“I like the one doing the questioning.”
Her scowl is adorably indignant. She props her hands on her hips. “Why would an island that runs on tourism have an observatory and not have it open for tours or shows?”
The playfulness drains from me. She’s cutting right to the heart of why I brought her here, this woman who sees too much and questions everything. I slip the key from my pocket and try to maintain my composure, but my voice is rough when I answer. “I promise I’ll answer that in a few minutes.”
She sinks down off her tiptoes, back to earth. That’s where she’s about to land—in reality. Likely one that will have her running fast and far, back to concert halls and standing ovations and a life untouched by the complications of magic. Back to a world where mysterious observatories stay locked and a man she’s interested in isn’t tied to the mercurial magic system of a small island. A world where Dean Markham was just a small town bureaucrat rather than the keeper of secrets that could shatter her reality.
I take my time shifting the key into place. I’ve unlocked this door hundreds of times, but never with stakes that felt so personal. Never with my heart hammering against my ribs like it might break free, never with magic crackling beneath my skin in response to her mere presence.
She follows me inside. Instead of pressing for answers immediately she looks up at the glass panes that showcase the sky’s transformation—twilight bleeding from lavender to indigo, the first stars piercing through in pinpricks against velvet.
She laughs again, throws her head back and arms out, and spins in a circle, her dress twirling around her legs. Joy radiates from her like its own kind of magic. That is her gift. She canscoop happiness out of sidewalk cracks and dusty corners. God knows she’s somehow excavated it from me.
I want to kiss her. I want to lock the door, peel away her clothes, and worship every inch of her skin. I want to sit and listen to her talk about music for hours. By all the wards below, I want to let my guitar’s clumsy chords twine with her cello’s expertly tuned voice again. To feel that inexplicable surge when our instruments sync and my magic feels like it’s found its missing half—raw and wild and perfect. Music has always been my singular sanctuary, my secret rebellion against the rigid constraints. But with Missy, it’s become something else entirely. Something that feels like possibility.
“You’ve wanted answers.” The words come out steadier than I feel. Missy goes still, her perceptive eyes turning toward me. She nods but doesn’t speak, like she’s holding space for me to continue. “When your sister first found out, Ethan told her I was there in case anything went wrong.” I swallow hard, shoving my trembling hands into my pockets. “That’s my actual role here, Missy. I’m the one who’s there if things go wrong and that’s still true. If this is too much, or you feel nervous, just say the word and?—”
Horror sweeps up my throat, clogging the words. I’m essentially offering to use memory magic on her—the very thing that shattered my relationship with Nell. Magic that, wielded carelessly, leaves scars deeper than physical wounds. I’ve seen it happen. I’vecausedit.
Missy’s giggle shatters my spiral of self-recrimination. “Alexispart of a cult, isn’t she?”
“A cult?”
“Magnolia Cove. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen this movie, actually. Cute town, handsome scowl-y leader, adorable shops but?—”
“We’re not a cult.” I don’t know how she does this—how she takes the weight of decades and makes it feel as insubstantial as dandelion fluff. I’m smiling. I’m about to do the most terrifying thing in my life and I’m smiling. “And if you believe I’m the leader of a cult, then you shouldn’t have followed me to an isolated observatory right before it gets dark.”
Her lips curve into a grin that never fails to undo me. “I’ve been meeting you alone at a lighthouse for weeks.”
“That would be…” I clear my throat, fighting both another grin and the memory of her skin dappled in the glow of twinkle lights. “Also ill-advised.”
“I’d like to think Alex would warn me if I were in real danger.” She steps closer, close enough that I catch some sweet smell that isn’t normally on her. Probably something Alex was baking.
“Unless our cult has brainwashed her.” The words slip out as dry as autumn leaves, surprising a laugh from her.
“All right, if you’re not a cult, then what are you?”
The moment stretches between us like a held breath. I study her face and try to memorize how she looks in this liminal space between before and after. The last seconds where she still sees me as just a man rather than a warlock. Where magic is still a metaphor rather than reality. Where everything between us exists in that perfect space of possibility, before truth reshapes it all.
My fingers flex at my sides, magic building beneath my skin like a gathering storm. One gesture and I’ll change everything. One moment of power and I could lose her forever.
I’ve done this before. And I lost, then.
But Missy deserves more than half-truths and shadows. More than stolen moments in lighthouses and careful deflections. She deserves to choose this—or not choose it—with her eyes wide open. That thought steadies my shaking hands.This isn’t about my fears anymore. It’s about giving her the truth she should have had weeks ago, before the first kiss in the rain, before the lighthouse, before blankets and pillows beneath twinkle lights, before I let myself fall.
