Page 34 of Strings Attached
But something in my chest pulled tight and hasn’t let go since.
I pop a mint into my mouth as Eleanor and Gerald approach. Gerald licks his lips—a nervous tic he has whenever he must share information someone doesn’t want to hear. Judging by the way his gaze darts to me, I’m the unlucky recipient this time.
“About the evening entertainment schedule,” Eleanor begins, her voice kind but firm. If there’s anyone who isn’t afraid to lock horns with me on the council, it’s Eleanor Blackwood. “We’ve had an exciting development.”
Gerald nods and licks those lips again. If the world was full of people like him, I’d invest heavily in Chapstick.
“Jules Bouchard has offered to perform,” he blurts. “With Margaret Sinclair, of course. Quite a coup for the festival.”
He pumps his fist and grins. As if this is a wonderful idea. As if it doesn’t risk entirely too much. I gnaw down hard on the mint. “Absolutely not.”
“Dean.” Eleanor’s tone carries decades of handling difficult warlocks. “They’re world-class musicians.”
“Who happen to be non-magical humans,” I bite out. “Or did we forget about maintaining magical security during events? Margaret’s effect on magic is unpredictable enough when she plays alone. Add another performer and?—”
“Mr. Bouchard was quite insistent.” Gerald interrupts, then withers slightly under my glare.
“We are the council that governs this island.” My voice carries the edge of steel I’ve spent years perfecting. “We don’t bow to the insistence of visiting musicians.”
There’s a beat of silence filled with the chatter of vendors setting up their booths, the clatter of decorations being hung, and the hum of last-minute festival preparations.
Eleanor clears her throat and her voice goes soft. “Are you certain that your judgment isn’t clouded on this matter?”
The question hits like a physical blow. Behind me, Zoe’s laughter carries from the Whimsical Whisk’s booth where she’s arranging a stand for cupcakes she’s labeled ‘Autumn Uprising.’ The sound grates against my nerves.
Eleanor is right, of course. My judgment is thoroughly, devastatingly clouded. Because I went and fell for someone. Something I’d vowed never to do. And not just anyone—a normal human. A normal human who jumped into another man’s arms yesterday without hesitation. Who smiled as she introduced him to her sister, the same sister that I’m pretty certain she still hasn’t told about us.
I’ve spent a decade building walls, maintaining control, protecting the town from exactly these kinds of complications. Yet here I am, watching all my carefully laid safeguardsbreak because a cellist with autumn-bright eyes and too many questions made me believe, just for a moment, that letting someone in wouldn’t end in disaster. But of course it would. Of course it has. Jules Bouchard with his charming smiles and shiny reputation is proof of that—a walking reminder that Missy belongs to a world of spotlight and standing ovations, not hidden magic and small-town secrets.
“We’ll need extra security measures,” I manage, my voice low and gritty.
“We always do so for festivals,” Eleanor says.
I nod sharply and turn away, seeking escape. Thankfully, the booth inspections won’t complete themselves. Plus, it gives me something to focus on besides the hollow ache in my chest.
Zoe’s wild grin meets me at the Whimsical Whisk’s setup. Her purple-streaked hair is twisted into a messy bun, leaving her giant hoop earrings free to sway with every movement. She’s perched on the edge of the display table while Ethan arranges their famous pumpkin scones.
“Dean! Just the man we need.” She swings her legs. “You like to read, don’t you?”
“Read?” It’s a surprising enough question that it almost pulls me out of my dark mood. Almost.
Her grin widens, if that’s possible and Ethan just huffs a laugh behind her.
“I had this book I loved as a kid,” she continues. “This boy drank a fizzy soda, and he almost got diced by the ceiling fan.”
Ethan shoots up. “That’swhat you remember from that book?”
She rolls her eyes. “Best scene, boss.” She turns back to me. “Anyway, it inspired my Autumn Uprising cupcakes, and I thought—” At this she bats her lashes. As if charm ever works on me. Or as if she’s one to bother charming men at all.
Ethan groans. “Please tell me you’re not suggesting?—”
“Bubbles!” She claps her hands together. “Nothing fancy, just some floating up from bubble machines. But, you know, with a twist.”
“A twist,” I intone. There’s not much I like less in life than a twist.
“When they pop, they’re scented. You know, pumpkin spice, maple, maybe a hint of wood smoke…” She places her hands together in a praying motion. “The kids would love it and I’d tell everyone we used essential oils! Pinky swear and hope to die.”
Ethan stands to his full height. “The last time you got inspiration from children’s literature, you had us handing out lickable wallpaper samples.”
