Page 40 of Strings Attached
“It’s a small town. And you two can’t be within a hundred feet of each other without gravitating together like magnets. Dean’s been at the cafe more in the past month than in the entire time I’ve lived here and he’s visiting the Whisk more frequently as well. And I doubt it’s to hear Zoe’s latest and increasingly dramatic wedding cake ideas she regales him with every time he stops in. Plus, you get a little smile every time someone mentions his name—like you’re doing right now.”
My face burns hotter. “Are you… are you mad at me?”
She grabs my hand and squeezes it fiercely. “No, Missy. No, of course not. I mean Dean is… well… he’s Dean.” She pauses and takes a considering sip of her tea. “I’ve never thought he was a bad guy, though, just… intense?”
“He just cares so much… about Magnolia Cove and protecting it.” The words come out soft, almost defensive.
Alex’s eyebrows lift but she clutches her hands around her tea like she’s warming her fingers and pauses for a moment before speaking. “And what about you? How do you feel?”
“Honestly?”
“Completely.” She smiles.
I return it but my voice is shaky. “Terrified that I’m letting everyone down.” The words tumble out like they’ve waited for their chance to escape. “That I’ll mess things up for you by dating the Head Warlock of the town you love, and I’m letting Jules down by not getting work for the album done, and I’m letting my manager down by not committing, and?—”
“Missy.” Alex places a hand on my arm like she’s pausing me. “You have never let me down. I’ve always wanted you to be happy. If a cranky warlock achieves that, then I can support it.”
A laugh bubbles up unexpectedly. “Oh my gosh, he’s so cranky, isn’t he?”
“Very.” Alex chuckles, then her expression softens. “It sounds like you’re focused on everyone else, but what do you want? If you owed no one else anything, what would you do?”
The questions slam into me. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. It’s such a simple question—what do I want?—but I realize I’ve spent so long trying to live up to everyone else’s expectations I’m not sure I know the answer.
“I don’t know,” I finally whisper.
“How about stop worrying about the rest of us, and figure out the answer to that? Hmm?”
I pull her into another hug, breathing in the familiar scent of vanilla and spices. The scents of the bakery and cafe. Of her and Ethan’s home. “I need to warm up before the performance.”
“I’ll be in the front row, cheering you on like always.” She squeezes my hand, then a mischievous glint enters her eye. “And I need to go track down my fiancé and tease him relentlessly. He lost our bet.”
“Your bet?”
“Mhmm. I bet him a week of shoulder rubs that you and Dean were seeing each other. He said not a chance.”
“Wait, why did he think there wasn’t a chance?”
“Mostly because Ethan would rather imagine a world where sugar disappears than one that involved dating Dean Markham.” She places a quick kiss on my cheek. “But he also doesn’t like flavored coffees, so take his opinion with a grain of salt.”
Her words pull another laugh from me, one that fades as she heads back into the festival. She weaves through the crowd, stopping to chat with what seems like everyone she passes. She belongs here completely—the food writer who found her authentic story, the sister who finally got to build her own life instead of just supporting mine.
Alex glances back over her shoulder with a wicked grin. “Oh, and while we’re spilling secrets—just in case Dean hasn’t told you yet—Ethan’s a shifter. Okay love you, bye!”
She disappears into the crowd, leaving me blinking after her like she just told me the sky was lime-green. I sit there for a beat, absorbing it. Okay… that’s shocking. But also… fine. Ethan is a great guy. A steady presence. That doesn’t change because he’s a shifter. Though I definitely need more details about what, exactly, that entails.
The sound of the Harvest Hoopla drifts over—children’s laughter, carnival music, the constant hum of happiness and community. From my seat beneath the oak tree, it all feels like a snow globe scene, one I’m watching from the outside. Alex has her cafe and Ethan and friends that feel like family, Emma has her music and magic, even Jules knows exactly who he is and what he wants. But me?
I’m sitting on a bench beneath a tree as old as some of the music I play, clutching a contract for a life I’m not sure I want anymore. Afraid to reach for something different, something real. Maybe I’ve spent so many years moving from stage to stage, city to city, that I don’t know how to be anything but temporary.
Dean
Twilight bleeds across the festival grounds, painting everything in shades of uncertainty. I stand at the back of the crowd, far enough that no one notices me but close enough to intervene if needed. Not that I should be here at all. Eleanor’s perfectly capable of handling any magical disruptions. More capable, probably, given how compromised I am.
The thought sits bitter on my tongue as Missy takes the stage with Giuseppe. Even in the fading light, she glows. Her movements are precise, practiced—exactly what you’d expect from a world-class musician. Jules joins her, their instruments weaving together a song in intricate patterns that leave the crowd breathless.
It should be beautiful. It is beautiful, in the way cut crystal is beautiful—pristine, perfect, hollow.
I’ve seen Missy play differently. Wrapped in starlight and blankets at the lighthouse, her eyes closed, her soul bare. Playing not because she should, but because the music lived in her bones and demanded release. The performance is nothing like that. This is craft without heart, technique without truth.
