Page 35 of Strings Attached
“Which were genius.” She slams her hand down hard enough that it dislodges a scone. “Not my fault people have no appreciation for innovative dessert delivery systems. But,”—she returns her gaze to me and her eyes widen like a cat begging for a saucer of milk—“who doesn’t love bubbles, am I right? And it would barely use any magic at all.”
I grit my teeth and hold in a sigh. Ethan meets my gaze and shrugs. The council will, of course, approve mild magic like this—easily explained and designed to deliver the signature wow factor we aim to impress on visitors.
“You’ll use standard bubble machines?” I ask.
“Cross my heart and hope my soufflé never rises,” she says with such sincerity I can’t decide if she’s kidding.
“Fine.”
“Huzzah!” She jumps up and shakes her hips back and forth in a victory dance. Ethan laughs as he pulls raisin-studded muffins from their case. He’s such a perfectionist—he’s using the samples to ensure the table looks perfect for the event. He’ll pack them up in a few minutes and donate them because that’s who Ethan Hart is. The kind of man who remembers everyone on theisland’s orders, who keeps extra loaves warming for the night shift workers, who built his life around making others happy.
The kind of man Alex fell in love with instantly, without complication.
Something bitter coils in my chest. Ethan’s biggest daily crisis is whether the sourdough has the right tang or if the croissants are flaky enough. He gets to use his magic for warmth and comfort and sustenance. Despite being a shifter, he’s deeply accepted in the community. The townspeople don’t eye him with that mix of respect and wariness they reserve for me.
The weight of my power sits heavy beneath my skin, a constant reminder that my life can never be that uncomplicated. That I can never just be a man who plays guitar and loves freely and doesn’t have to worry about whether he’ll have to deny a young, powerful witch her life’s dream to study outside the island.
A familiar laugh cuts through my spiral. Missy approaches with Alex and Jules, her entire face lit up at something he’s said. Her hair catches golden threads of sunlight and her hands paint stories in the air as she talks. Jules leans in close, perfectly timed chuckles punctuating her words.
“And this,” Alex says, “is the booth for the Whimsical Whisk. Ethan and Zoe are the geniuses behind it.”
Missy meets my gaze, but just as quickly flicks her eyes away. She beams as she makes introductions, her voice carrying the practiced ease of someone who’s spent a lifetime charming audiences. As if the last few weeks haven’t happened. As if we never shared magic, music, and midnight confessions.
“Dean’s our resident killjoy,” Zoe announces cheerfully. “But he’s what makes the magic happen on the island, so we forgive him.”
She winks at me and I struggle not to gape. Zoe’s always cutting things too close. I’ll have to speak with her aboutthatcomment later.
Jules’ perfect laugh matches his perfectly coiffed hair. “Ah yes, Missy’s already told me about you and your… dedication to the rules.”
He extends a hand which I accept. His grip is also infuriatingly perfect—firm enough to convey confidence, brief enough to seem casual, the kind of handshake that opens doors in concert halls and board rooms alike. I withdraw my hand and resist the urge to wipe my palm against my jacket. Of course Missy’s been talking about me to him. Probably laughing about the stern council member who takes himself too seriously.
“A pleasure,” I grit out. “Speaking of rules, I have other booths to inspect. If you’ll excuse me.”
I don’t wait for a response, just turn and walk away.
“So, Jules,” Zoe says as I retreat. “How do you feel about award-winning literature?”
Their laughter trails me. I walk until I reach the gazebo. The nexus point nearby will explain my presence if anyone asks. Not that anyone will. Dean Markham, doing his duty, keeping his distance. Everything as it should be.
“Dean.” Missy appears beside me like I’ve summoned her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just busy.”
She plants her fists on her hips, bracelets clattering with the motion. “You’re shutting me out again, so obviously something is wrong.”
I nod at Marcus and Mia who walk by with stacks of book crates in their arms. Wait for them to pass. The truth sits bitter on my tongue, sharp as splinters. I could tell Missy that seeing her with Jules felt like watching my reality shatter. Howher uninhibited laughter with him exposed every crack in my practiced facade. But vulnerability has never served me well.
“I assume Mr. Bouchard’s visit will be brief? We didn’t receive any extended stay requests.”
“Dean.” Her voice has gone whisper-soft. “I know what you saw at the cafe yesterday, but?—”
“You don’t owe me explanations.”
“I don’t?” Fire flashes in her eyes. “Explain to me why I don’t because I thought this”—she gestures between us—“meant we required explanations.”
“Well, maybe you can tell me what this”—I mimic her gestures—“is because you clearly haven’t shared with your sister about us and it’s left me wondering.”
“That’s not fair. Jules showed up unexpectedly. I haven’t had time?—”
