Page 12 of Strings Attached
Rachel and Alex exchange a look weighted with meaning—the kind of silent communication that comes from sharing secrets others don’t understand.
Ethan’s broad frame fills the doorway, blocking some of the light as he smirks at his fiancée. “I thought you said Dean wasn’t so bad?” The teasing lilt in his voice only makes Alex’s frown deepen.
“Maybe I’m rethinking my opinion if he’s going to continue antagonizing my sister,” Alex mutters, but there’s something beneath her words. Something too tense for the brief interactions I’ve had with Dean.
Ethan presses a kiss to Alex’s forehead then offers me a gentle smile. “Don’t worry about Dean. He’s prickly with everyone on the island.”
Rachel nudges Alex. “Like a sea urchin who somehow got elected and hung around.”
They both laugh and Ethan smiles down at Alex before brightening. “Speaking of prickly things, dessert’s ready. Zoe’s threatening to eat it all if we don’t hurry.”
They file back inside, Rachel squeezing my arm as she passes. I linger for a moment, drawing in a breath of the night air that still holds traces of Dean’s presence—autumn leaves and thunderstorms and something darker, more magnetic. The space around me feels emptier now, a concert hall after the audience has gone and the crew has dimmed the lights.
I should be angry at Dean’s dismissal, frustrated by his high-handed refusal. Instead, I’m thinking about the way his voice roughened when he said my name, how his carefully maintained control cracked just slightly when I challenged him.
I take one last breath of the autumn-scented air before turning back into the warmth and light of Alex’s dinner party. But even as I step inside, I can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted tonight, like the first subtle key change in what promises to be a very complicated composition.
Missy
Giuseppe and I arrive at Rachel’s studio bright and early, my steps lighter than they’ve been in days. Whatever magic Rachel worked to change Dean’s mind about me giving Emma lessons—and I’m half convinced actual magic had to be involved given his absolute refusal at the dinner party—I’m determined to prove her faith in me justified. Meeting Emma the previous afternoon went off without a hitch. She’s lovely and young and excited. The familiar weight of sheet music in my arms and coffee balanced precariously in one hand feels like a possibility rather than an obligation for the first time in months.
That feeling lasts exactly as long as it takes me to push through the door into the arched golden wood room and find Dean Markham already there. Of course he is. He leans against the far wall like he’s auditioning for the role ofIntimidating Authority Figure #1in some procedural drama. Today’s all-black ensemble would certainly fit the part.
Maybe Alex is right. Maybe Dean reallydoeshave it out for me.
I refuse to be intimidated by his presence, even if he makes the morning feel charged with… something. I’m trying to decideif thatsomethingis fueled more from attraction or hate as I take a breath of the sweet cedar smell permeating the room.
“Mr. Markham.” I set Giuseppe against a corner. “Lost your way to the council chambers? Do city employees in Magnolia Cove not get to take a Saturday off?”
He slips a hand into his pocket and pops a breath mint into his mouth with deliberate ease, his thumb brushing the corner of his lip as he does. The movement shouldn’t be compelling. It absolutely isn’t compelling. “Miss Sinclair. Consider me quality control.”
“For music lessons?” I straighten the sheet music and walk toward a stand.
“Among other things.” Dean is in a remarkably grumpy mood this morning. Which is truly a feat considering that his standard disposition seems to hover somewhere between ‘storm cloud’ and ‘angry cat caught in the downpour.’
I choose to ignore him and twirl around to take in the performance space. It’s truly remarkable for a small music program on a little-known island. The warm wooden panels glow under soft lighting, curving gracefully overhead like the hull of an old ship turned skyward. The acoustics seem to hum with quiet anticipation, as if the room itself is holding its breath, waiting for the first note to break the silence. And Rachel told me there’s several recording spaces down the far hallway as well.
“Wow,” I breathe into the space, partially just to hear how my voice carries. “This place is more amazing than I expected.”
That’s when I realize Dean is watching me spin around beneath the wood beams and vaulted ceiling. He pushes off from the wall and steps over. With that simple movement the room feels smaller and significantly more intimate. The air between us thickens, like fog. His cologne catches me off guard for a second time. It’s rich but nuanced, something you’d only notice if yougot truly close to him. I somehow doubt many people get to smell it. He’s near enough to touch and I’ve gone completely still.
“Rachel raised a great deal of money when some video went viral,” he grumbles. His voice has gone low and rough but the room with its amazing acoustics brings the sound back, sending it shivering down my spine.
“Oh, I bet you just loved that.” I mean for my words to come out teasing, but my tone has shifted into something soft, matching his, as if we’re sharing secrets in this golden haven.
“I didn’t,” he whispers. The words are so faint, so close, that I can nearly imagine his breath brushing against my skin and I can’t fight a shiver.
His gaze drops to my lips, lingering just a heartbeat too long. The space between us feels fragile, stretched thin by something heavier than words. I can’t tell if it’s the room amplifying the tension or just the undeniablesomethingthat crackles between us whenever we meet.
I swallow, and the sound is too loud. His eyes flick up to meet mine, and for a second, neither of us move. It’s that suspended moment, like the hush before the downbeat of a symphony, when everything feels inevitable.
Dean shifts forward, just barely, and I catch my breath. I lean in, drawn as if by an invisible force. I’m barely a whisper away. From a distance his eyes appear ebony but up close they’re flecked with deep amber, catching the light like sparks beneath the surface.
My gaze drops to his lips?—
The door bursts open banging against the wall and light spills across the wood floors and tiered chairs.
“Hey,” Rachel says then freezes mid-step, eyes flicking between us. “Am I interrupting?”
