"I hope you're right," I whisper. But as I stare at the numbers, I can't shake the feeling that something's got to give. I just pray it isn't my heart.
Grant
I'm already smiling when I hear Rachel's footsteps approaching my cart, the familiar rhythm of her walk as distinctive as one of her musical patterns. After weeks of sharing the beach, I can identify her by sound alone—the light tap of her sandals, usually accompanied by that unconscious finger-drumming she does against her leg.
"If you're here to steal my secret sauce recipe, the answer's still no," I say without turning around.
"Please." Her laugh warms me more than the morning sun. "As if I'd want your boring vanilla bean whatever. Some of us prefer fun flavors."
I spin to face her, pressing a hand to my chest in mock offense. "Fun? My ice cream has won awards."
"Mhmm." She leans against my counter, and my breath catches as the sunlight gleams gold in her hair. "Let me guess—'Most Pretentious Use of Madagascar Vanilla'?"
"That was second place, actually." I can't help grinning. "First was 'Best Overuse of Sea Salt in a Single Scoop.'"
Rachel rolls her eyes, but her smile gives her away. She's wearing a sunshine-yellow dress that makes her look likesummer personified, and she has another smudge of syrup on her collarbone. Before I can think better of it, I reach out to brush it away with my thumb.
"You've got a little..." My voice trails off as she shivers under my touch. The morning air suddenly feels charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. My mind drifts to last night—to Rachel's soft sighs in the dark, and later, to her hair spread across my chest like spun gold. The way she fits perfectly in my arms as if she's made to be there. I've never slept better than I do with her, never felt more myself than in those quiet moments when we're tangled together, the sound of waves through her open window, our only company.
We haven’t moved in together, not officially, nor have we discussed anything that serious. But somehow, more and more of my clothes have found their way to her dresser drawers. My favorite mug—tattered, a little chipped—is now tucked comfortably next to her coffee maker. Last night, almost absentmindedly, she mentioned getting a second key made, her words faltering before a blush crept across her cheeks, and she immediately backtracked. I’d wanted to tell her yes, to tell her I wanted it all—a key and shared spaces and mornings that begin with her smile. The thought almost escaped me. But something held me back. Something deep inside, a whisper that’s always there, telling me I don’t deserve this kind of happiness. It’s that same voice, the one that made me hide my original ice cream recipes for years, afraid they weren’t “sophisticated enough” for the Pierce name, tucked away in a locked drawer, where they could never disappoint anyone, least of all myself.
"Grant." Her voice is quiet, but it’s soft in a way that shifts everything. Her amber-flecked eyes find mine with an intensity that hits me right in the chest. My heart stutters as she slides her fingers gently against mine, and I’m swept back to this morning—waking up tangled with her in sheets still warm from the nightbefore, soft laughter spilling between lazy kisses as the sun filled the room with hues of gold and pink, casting everything in the kind of peaceful glow that made me wish time could stand still. "I've been wanting to talk to you about?—"
"Grant Anthony Pierce!"
The booming voice shatters the air like glass hitting concrete. My body tenses before I even have to turn around, years of training ingrained in me—my spine straightening, my muscles bracing for impact—before I even comprehend why. That voice. The voice I’ve spent my entire life trying to live up to, and more recently, trying to escape.
My father stands on the boardwalk, his presence out of place among the flip-flops and sunscreen, his crisp suit an absurd, painful contrast to the laid-back nature of the tourists milling around, unaware of the storm that's about to hit. Owen, ever loyal and always eager to capture “the moment” for the family’s brand, hangs a few paces behind, already pulling out his phone—probably preparing for another obnoxious Pierce & Sons "strategic expansion" post. The scent of cold corporate efficiency is almost nauseating.
"Father," I manage, the word tasting like ash and bitterness in my mouth. "I wasn't expecting you."
"Clearly." His eyes sweep over my cart with his typical cold scrutiny. His gaze lingers on the hand-painted sign I added last week, and the disapproval in his eyes is immediate. It’s a small rebellion in the carefully constructed, polished facade of what Pierce & Sons should be. He turns his attention to Rachel, and something shifts in his expression, a quiet danger lurking there, one that makes me feel the instinct to step between them, to protect her from the calculated judgment in his eyes. "I see you’ve been... mingling with the locals."
Rachel doesn’t flinch. She stands tall beside me, her composure like stone, and I can practically feel her bristling."I'm Rachel Williams,” she says, extending her hand with the kind of quiet dignity that makes me want to kiss her right there in front of my father. "I teach literature and music at?—”
“How quaint.” The words drip from his mouth like acid, and still, he doesn’t take her hand. "Grant, we need to discuss the expansion plans. Your brother has been handling things admirably, but it’s time for you to recenter your focus and?—"
"I’ve already told you," I interject, my pulse hammering in my throat. "I’m not interested in overseeing the Silicon Valley location."
"Don't be ridiculous." He steps closer, lowering his voice. "You're a Pierce. This little... beach adventure... has been tolerated long enough. It's time to remember who you are."
Rachel pulls away, probably to give us privacy, and something in me rebels. I catch her hand, twining our fingers together. Her surprised intake of breath gives me courage.
"I know exactly who I am," I say, meeting my father's steely gaze. "I'm the guy who creates ice cream that makes people happy. Not for stockholders or social media metrics, but because I love it. And right now, I'm exactly where I want to be."
For one glorious moment, I feel invincible. Rachel's hand is warm in mine, the ocean breeze carries the scent of salt and possibility, and I'm finally, finally standing up to my father. This is what breaking free feels like. This is what the prince felt when he decided to fight the dragon—this surge of righteousness, this certainty that love conquers all.
Then Father laughs.
It's not his public laugh, the one he uses at board meetings and charity galas. This is sharp, cutting—the sound I'd hear right before he'd list all the ways I'd failed to meet the Pierce standard.
"Happiness?" He huffs another bitter laugh. "Life isn't about happiness. Life is about legacy. Duty. Excellence." His gazesweeps over my cart, my beach-rumpled clothing, Rachel's fingers laced with mine.
Suddenly, I'm seeing it all through his eyes—the hand-painted sign that probably looks childish next to our sleek corporate branding, the wrinkled linen shirt I pulled off the back of Rachel's chair last night, the way my hair has grown a bit too long. The unpolished spots on the chrome where salt air has dulled the finish. Rachel's bare feet, with sand between her chipped-polish toes—so different from the sophisticated women Father has already pushed me towards. Everything he would see as unworthy of the Pierce name.
"You're making a fool of yourself," he says, his voice dropping to that quiet tone that used to make me tremble as a child. "Playing beach vendor with your..." His gaze cuts to Rachel like she's curdled milk. "...local entertainment. Is this like that barista you slept with in college? The one you paraded around until I gave in to your demands about the summer internship?" His lip curls. "What is it you're wanting, Grant? A bigger budget for your little... experiment here?"
My stomach lurches as Rachel's hand goes stiff in mine. That was different—I was twenty-one and stupid, trying to prove something to my father. I'd never meant to hurt anyone, but I'd been so focused on winning that battle with him, I hadn't seen how I was using someone else as a weapon. The memory tastes bitter now, especially with Rachel's fingers slipping from mine.
