Something in his tone makes me study his face more carefully. For all his polished exterior and privileged upbringing, I'm realizing that growing up as a Pierce "prince" wasn't the fairy tale I'd first assumed. The way he talks about my friends' protectiveness, how he lingers over casual dinners at the diner, his obvious delight when Zoe teases him, or his happiness when Tom includes him in their banter... It's like he's discovering something he never knew he was missing.
The simple things I've taken for granted—friends who protect me, impromptu beach concerts, sharing leftover pie while discussing ridiculous books, having a community that shows up for you just exactly as you are—seem to amaze him. Maybe that's part of why he chose Magnolia Cove. Not just to escape his father's empire, but to find the kind of magic that has nothing to do with prestige or perfect ice cream spirals.
On screen, Wesley is halfway through his epic sword fight with Inigo Montoya. The crowd's laughter mingles with the sound of waves lapping at the shore. Grant's thumb traces circles on my palm, and everything feels... right.
Later, when the movie's over and we've packed up our carts, Grant grips the back of his neck and looks down at the ground when he whispers, "Rachel, I was wondering…" He clears his throat. "Well, that is, would you like to come back to my place? For, um…" He trails off, his confidence from earlier completely vanished.
The mighty Grant Pierce, blushing like a teenager. It's possibly the most endearing thing I've ever seen.
I step closer. "For…?" I can't help teasing him a little.
"Coffee?" He winces. "I mean... Or..." His lips press together, then he blows out a breath. "Sorry, I'm not very good at this. I haven't really done… commitment before."
Commitment. The word hits me like a sweet note in perfect pitch. We haven't talked about what this is between us, haven'tput labels on summer nights and stolen kisses. But hearing him say it—commitment—makes everything inside me hum with possibility.
"Grant, I have to say no," I whisper. His face falls, and I step closer. "Because you have an apartment in busy downtown, and I live in one of the private beach cottages. The only logical solution is that you should come home with me… for… coffee."
I snake an arm around his neck, and he grins softly, his eyes lighting up the way they do when he plays piano. "Can't argue with logic," he whispers, pulling me closer.
As we walk hand in hand toward my cottage, the sound of waves in the background, I can't help thinking that maybe we're writing our own fairy tale. One with waffle cones and jazz piano and kisses that taste like rainbow ice. One where the princess saves herself and the prince learns that perfect isn't always better.
I just hope we get our happily ever after.
The weeks that follow blur together in a haze of sunny days and starlit evenings. Grant and I fall into an easy rhythm on the beach, our competition turning into something more like a dance. He brings me coffee every morning—always perfectly made because of course he's memorized my order. I save him the last rainbow cone each day, even though he insists it's "undignified."
We have dinner at The Siren's Song so often that the staff starts preparing our usual table without asking. Some nights, we walk the beach afterward, talking about everything and nothing. Other nights, we end up at the school, where Grant plays piano while I grade papers or organize sheet music.
It's perfect. Too perfect.
"Earth to Rachel?" Mia waves her hand in front of my face. "You've been staring at that inventory list for ten minutes."
I blink, realizing I've been sitting in my classroom thinking about Grant instead of actually working. Again. The stack of music I need to organize for the fall semester—assuming we still have a program—sits untouched on my desk. I've barely made a dent in the new English Literature books.
"Sorry," I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "I just... I feel like I'm falling behind. The fundraiser deadline is getting closer, and I'm spending all my time either at the beach or with Grant."
"You really like him, don't you?" Mia perches on the edge of my desk.
"Yeah," I murmur, tapping my fingers rapidly against the edge of the inventory sheet, each beat betraying my unease. "I do. He’s nothing like I thought he'd be. When he plays music, when he talks about his dreams, or even when he lets his guard down for just a second... he's different."
"But you're still worried about the fundraiser?" she asks, her voice gentle, but I can feel the weight of the question settling in between us.
The words strike a wrong note in a song I’ve known too well. "I don’t know," I confess, my tapping accelerating with each passing second, a rhythm I can’t seem to control. "Maybe? The snow cone sales are good—especially since we started working together—but it feels like it’s not enough. I should be doing more—planning events, reaching out to donors, building momentum. But instead... I’m spending my days watching sunsets and going on moonlit walks, like some kind of heroine from a romance novel."
"Rachel." Mia’s hand, warm and steady, catches mine mid-motion, halting my restless drumming. "You’re allowed to be happy, you know. It's okay."
"But what if being happy costs these kids their chance at music?" The words rush out of me. "What if I'm letting myself get distracted when I should be focused? What if?—"
"What if you're catastrophizing?" She squeezes my fingers. "Take a breath. No one said you have to choose between saving the program and falling in love."
"Love?" I sputter. "Who said anything about?—"
"Oh, honey." Mia's smile is knowing. "Have you seen the way you look at him?"
I drop my head to my desk with a groan. "I'm so screwed."
"No." She pats my shoulder. "You're just finally letting yourself have something good. The rest will work out."
I lift my head enough to glance at the fundraising tracker on my wall. We're still eight thousand short, and summer is winding down. There's still so far to go.
