Page 11 of Strings Attached
“I think Alex said something about you running the school’s music program?”
Rachel nods and hair slips free and spills over her eyes. She bats it away. “And a summer camp. Plus private lessons for students who need extra support. You should see some of these kids. Raw talent paired with a bucket of heart. There’s this one girl—Emma. She has her eyes set on Juilliard, but struggles to contain all her… umm, musical talent.”
“I could help.” I scarcely even notice how Rachel stumbled on the end of her words because I’m so fixed on what an obvious solution this could be. A student would spend her days in school—and I should spend that time working on compositions for mine and Jules’ album. But early mornings or afternoons? I could devote hours each day to helping a promising student. She’d probably get out of school about the time the Whisk closes. It would give Ethan and Alex some alone time and get me out of their hair. I shoot up, sloshing the wine in the glass.
Rachel grimaces and gives a chuckle that sounds hollow. “I’m sure you’re busy.”
“Not really. I mean, I am composing, but I’d love to help a promising student, and I graduated from Juilliard. If there’s anyone that could help prepare her for the stress and pressures, it would be me.”
Rachel drums out a rhythm against the railing before giving a nod. “Yeah, maybe it’s a good idea! Emma is… special. Incrediblygifted, but traditional conservatory training might not be the right fit. Maybe with you here for a few months though…”
Rachel’s words die, and the air shifts—like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. I don’t need to turn around to know who has just walked up the path and onto the porch. Dean Markham’s presence fills the space in a way that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
“Miss Sinclair.” His voice is lower than I remember, rougher. I turn and my breath catches.
Memory is a poor composer. It captured the basic melody—dark eyes, strong jaw, broad shoulders. But as porch light plays across the sharp angles of his face I realize it missed all the vital harmonics that make him impossible to ignore. There’s something about his persona that reminds me of the moment a conductor raises their baton—potential energy about to turn into sound.
He wears all black again, but the ocean breeze has ruffled his precise appearance. A few strands of dark hair have fallen across his forehead, and he’s rolled his sleeves up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. A tremor courses through me and I realize I’ve been staring at him and not speaking for too long. And with an audience. An audience that’s very close friends with my sister.
“Mr. Markham. Are we back to formalities?”
His expression shifts and the light glistens across his eyes, more compelling than the evening sky. He doesn’t answer, just holds out a package—Jules’ familiar scrawl across the front—but I’m distracted by his hands. Strong hands. Musician’s hands, though I can’t say how I know that.
“You deliver mail now?” I ask, the words softer than I intended.
His gaze shifts to Rachel who bobs her head to him before he answers me. “When necessary.”
“This is great timing, Dean.” Rachel takes a step forward.
Dean tenses, like that is his least favorite expression in an entire sea of disagreeable phrases. Even worse than ‘community drum circle’ or ‘mandatory social gathering.’ The thought of his carefully controlled reaction to those scenarios almost makes me smile. I can picture him standing ramrod straight through an impromptu karaoke session, the muscle in his jaw working overtime.
Rachel props her hands on her hips like she’s up for the challenge. “I was just talking with Missy about possibly mentoring Emma?—”
“No.”
The word drops between us like a discordant note, sharp and jarring. Something flares in my chest—a familiar heat that reminds me of countless auctions where judges decided my fate before I played a single note. I straighten my posture, feeling the old steel of competition settle into place.
“I’m sorry,” I say, not sorry at all. “But what exactly disqualifies me from teaching a student?” The wine makes me bolder, or maybe it’s the way his eyes darken at my challenge. “I trained at Juilliard myself. I’ve toured internationally. Plus I’ve mentored young musicians before and?—”
“This is different.” His voice carries that edge of authority that probably works wonders on everyone else in town. But I’ve faced down conductors with god complexes and seen more of the world than this little island. Dean Markham’s impressive scowl doesn’t even rank in my top five of the most intimidating moments I’ve had with others.
Rachel jumps in front of me, like she can feel the tension building and wants to break the storm. “Dean, you know Emma needs someone who understands her desires and with Missy being Alex’s sister it might be?—”
“What Emma needs,”—he cuts in, and his voice has grown as dark as black diamonds—“is not up for discussion given the current circumstances.”
The air has lost the easy, cool ocean breeze. It’s grown charged, filled with static and I’m aware of every breath the three of us take, of the straining muscles along Dean’s forearms where he’s clenched his fists, of the way his gaze dips to my lips then back up to my eyes. Anger and attraction fight to propel the pulse in my chest. I can’t tell which is making my heart race faster.
I’m opening my mouth to argue when the door opens and Alex walks out. The golden light from inside frames her like a spotlight, and something in her expression shifts when she takes in the scene before her—me squared off against Dean Markham, Rachel caught between us like a mediator.
“Everything okay out here?” Alex’s voice carries a particular note of protectiveness I thought she’d retired after my teenage years—the tone she used with playground bullies and the unfair employer I had at my first job.
Dean’s intensity banks like a fire he’s carefully tamped down. “Just discussing council matters.”
“Dean takes his council matters very seriously.” Alex is speaking to me, I think, but her unblinking eyes remain fixed on him.
Dean frowns then looks at Rachel. “We’ll discuss the situation at a more appropriate time.”
Without another word, he turns and walks off the porch, disappearing into the darkness beyond the cottage light’s reach. The crackling energy that surrounds him dissipates, leaving me feeling deflated.
