Page 23 of Strings Attached
She rises to her feet and sets Giuseppe’s case against the wall, her eyes softening as she regards me. After a beat, she speaks, her voice quieter now. “I’d love to hear that one day.”
“Maybe,” I whisper, like the word is more fragile than I want to admit. I pull off my jacket then Mom’s protection sweater. Missy’s watching me in a way that has caused her expression to change. Her eyes have darkened, and she lifts them back up from where they’d lingered a moment too long, observing the slip of skin my ridden-up shirt exposed.
“Here,” I say, my voice thick and filled with too much emotion. And completely out of my control for the moment. “You’ll need this for the storm.”
“What about you?”
“I’ve lived on this island for nearly a decade. I can handle a bit of rain.”
Her breathing is heavy enough to cut through the wind’s roar. The air seems to pulse with the unspoken. “Okay,” she whispers as she accepts it, our fingers brushing.
She attempts to turn the sweater inside-out, but it gets tangled in her hand, the fabric pulling awkwardly. Her brow furrows, and she bites down on her lower lip.
“Let me help,” I say.
She nods, and I step closer and accept the sweater then gently untangle it. As I pull it over her head, then down hershoulders, my fingers graze the curve of her hips, the touch electric, sending a rush of warmth through me.
I don’t want to move my hands away. I want to curl them tighter, pull her closer to me. “Is this okay?”
She swallows then nods as she looks up at me. So close she smells like vanilla mixed with something else—something sweet and familiar with the faint hint of wood polish and strings, like her cello. It’s intoxicating.
She raises her hands then rests them against my stomach, her fingers curling around my ribs. The touch is soft, but the way her fingers settle against me feels like an anchor, rooting me to the spot.
My heart pounds so hard it’s drowning out my thoughts. Which is good. I don’t want responsible, think-through-everything Dean at this moment. I want to breathe in her sweetness and feel the softness of her body beneath my hands and lean closer to her and?—
“And this?” I barely whisper against her lips. “Is this okay?”
Her eyes flutter closed, and she leans in so that our noses touch. “More than okay.”
With that, she pulls me in, closing the gap between us. Her lips meet mine with a gentle urgency, like she’s hungered for this moment as much as I have. The kiss begins soft, but quickly deepens. She presses in closer, all softness and warmth in my arms. Her fingers find their way to my hair and grip. I groan into her mouth then slide a thumb down the column of her throat and press a kiss there and?—
A deafening boom of thunder cracks through the room, making the walls shake. I pull back, force my hands to return to my side. “Let’s get you home.”
Missy nods once then grabs Giuseppe’s case. I accept it and, when she’s preoccupied for a moment, ward it with a water-repellent charm. The last thing I need is for her precious cello to get damaged in the downpour.
I wrench the door open again, and we battle the storm together. I spend the entire walk warding her, keeping the worst of the storm at bay with subtle shifting spells—shielding us from the heaviest rain, steering the wind away, but it’s exhausting. My energy is already stretched from the magic I’ve used today, and every extra bit pulls something from me, leaving me increasingly drained with each step.
At Ethan and Alex’s door, she rises on her tiptoes and presses a soft kiss to my lips. “Good night, Dean.”
“Good night, Missy.”
In that one gesture, all the exhaustion and worry from the night feels worth it. I wait until she’s safely inside, wrapped in layers of magical protection before turning toward my cottage. Soaked and trembling with exhaustion, I wearily pull my jacket off. I can’t sleep until the storm passes. Until Magnolia Cove is once again safe.
I run my fingers across my lips, tracing the spot where hers had just touched.
Some storms change everything. Some magic defies explanation.
And some risks are worth taking.
Dean
Storm debris litters the festival grounds—broken branches, rain-soaked Spanish moss, and the occasional hay bale, left out in the open after its protection ward failed to hold, now drenched and flattened by the storm. I clutch an Americano from the Whisk against my chest as I trace the ward lines. Most parts held up. Others need reinforcement. Oddly, my magic feels settled this morning, despite the exhaustion weighing me down and caffeine being the only thing keeping me upright.
The damage could have been worse. Much worse, if not for…
I push away thoughts of moonlit music and vanilla-scented kisses. Force myself to focus on the task at hand. Grammie Rae’s voice cuts across the field from where she’s directing the cleanup crew with her particular blend of iron will wrapped in a grandmotherly Southern accent.
“Thomas Andrew Bryson, that is not where those pumpkins go. I know your grandmother taught you better than that.”
