Even if it means going to war in impractical shoes.
Grant
Between my father's voicemails and my brother's texts, my phone hasn't stopped vibrating since six this morning. Magnolia Cove is supposed to have minimal cell service, but, of course, I'd be the lucky one to break that rule. I silence my phone and tuck it beneath the cart's counter, ignoring the stream of demands from both my father and Owen. The ocean breeze carries away the lingering guilt as I focus on arranging my display of polished stainless steel bowls. Each one is perfectly aligned, reflecting the meticulous precision my family expects from Pierce & Sons. Even though this cart is mine, their shadow is impossible to escape.
My father calls this Magnolia Cove location another "strategic expansion"—Pierce & Sons' latest ice cream shop, crafted with the same sleek, soulless perfection that defines the family brand. And I'm running it, just as he wanted. But this cart? This little sun-bleached, sea-sprayed rebellion parked on the beach? This is mine. Paid for out of my own pocket, far from the cold marble counters and corporate-approved menus of the downtown shop.
I'd told myself the cart was a way to test my recipes, free from the expectations of the Pierce legacy. But the truth? I just needed a breather—a space where every detail wasn't scrutinized by my father's exacting standards or filed into one of Owen's endless spreadsheets. The shop is their legacy. The cart is mine—a small act of freedom that might not even turn a profit, but that doesn't matter. It's not about the money.
Even if I promised Father I'd establish the franchise here, Magnolia Cove was my choice—a way to prove myself within the family business. The shop is everything Father expects: polished, profitable, and managed to perfection. My staff handles it beautifully, and by all accounts, it's thriving.
But the cart? The cart is my escape. No family crest stamped on the side, no spreadsheets, no corporate branding. Just me, my recipes, and a reminder of why I fell in love with ice cream in the first place. My family might see it as a rebellion, but after a lifetime of living in Willow Bay and bearing the weight of the Pierce legacy, there's something liberating about serving ice cream with sand between my toes.
The Pierce legacy is perfection, precision, and profit. Our franchises are known for luxury—the kind of ice cream you eat with silver spoons in climate-controlled lounges. But I didn't come to Magnolia Cove to replicate that. I came here to breathe.
The morning crowd builds nicely. I serve each cone with the precision drilled into me since childhood: exactly three turns of the wrist for the perfect spiral, garnish positioned precisely at two o'clock, napkin folded into a tight triangle. My movements are automatic, leaving my thoughts free to drift to the woman at the other end of the beach.
Ms. Williams. The music teacher.
She's attempting to set up her snow cone cart again after our... spirited discussion earlier. Her chestnut hair has completely escaped its braid, and she keeps tucking straystrands behind her ear with hands that never stop moving. There's something about her that's impossible to ignore. She's not polished or controlled like the people I grew up with—every movement she makes is unfiltered, genuine. Even from here, I can see her fingers tapping against the cart's handle, keeping time to some rhythm she played out on my cart earlier. It's a song I think I'd love to hear.
"Your signature sundae, please," a customer requests, pulling my attention back where it belongs.
I begin the careful layering: Madagascar vanilla bean ice cream (my recipe, not my family's), hand-crafted caramel (also mine), and a sprinkle of Himalayan pink salt (admittedly, still sourced from the family's supplier). With each ingredient, I infuse a whisper of magical feelings—summer afternoons, carefree laughter, the kind of memories I'm trying to create for myself here in Magnolia Cove. The wards around the Cove keep the human tourists from noticing the magic, while the rest of us enjoy its benefits.
The woman gasps in delight at her first taste, and I allow myself a small smile. At least some things from my training are worth keeping.
My phone buzzes again, vibrating against the wood. Another text from Owen, no doubt, asking why I haven't responded to Father's latest demands about the California expansion. They still haven't accepted that I'm not interested in overseeing the opening of our fifteenth location in Silicon Valley. That I left our perfectly curated magical community of Willow Bay—with its constant networking and status-obsessed residents all trying to balance tech wealth with magical traditions—for this quiet beach town across the country.
Even if that "something" is currently being glared at by an increasingly frustrated music teacher.
Ms. Williams has managed to serve exactly three customers in the past hour. Her friend—Mia, I believe I heard her say—left some time ago, leaving her to wage her one-woman war against the beach economy alone. She's switched from her impractical flats to bare feet, and there's a smudge of what appears to be cherry syrup across her cheek.
I shouldn't find it charming.
I definitely shouldn't notice how the sunlight catches the gold flecks in her hazel eyes when she looks my way—which she does frequently, each glance accompanied by what I assume is meant to be an intimidating frown.
"You know," Mrs. Delehay says as I serve her a scoop of lavender honey ice cream, "Rachel's doing this to save the middle school's music program." She's my third customer today to mention it. Small towns and their gossip. "Such a shame about the budget cuts. Those children just light up during her classes." She accepts a whipped cream cup for her Pomeranian, then walks away with a wave.
Something in my chest twinges. I force my attention back to my work, but I can't help sneaking glances at her cart throughout the afternoon. The way she straightens her spine every time a potential customer walks past. The genuine smile she gives the few who stop. The quiet determination in every movement.
This is exactly what you don't need,I remind myself.You came here to focus on building your identity away from the family name—not to get involved in local politics. And definitely not to find a local teacher attractive.
The mere thought of my family's reaction to me dating a government employee makes me wince. I can already hear my father now: "A teacher, Grant? Really? I suppose next you'll tell me she doesn't even come from a magical lineage."
He'd say it in the same dismissive tone he uses for everything that doesn't fit his vision of the Pierce legacy—the same tone that made me desperate to escape Willow Bay in the first place. And yet, I still hear that voice in my head. It's ridiculous, really—after everything, after years of trying to distance myself from his suffocating expectations, part of me still wants to prove him wrong. Or maybe prove him right. Prove that I can succeed, even if I do it my way. That I'm still worthy of the Pierce name, even if I trade marble counters and silver spoons for sand and sunshine.
The worst part is, imagining his horror only makes me want to march over to her cart and ask her to dinner. But that would be another rebellion—another declaration that I'm not the golden son he raised. And deep down, I think that's what scares me the most: not that I'm failing by his standards, but that I'll never stop wanting to meet them.
Father's barely tolerating myquaintexpansion of Pierce & Sons here. He already sees my beachfront cart as an embarrassing distraction from the “real work.” Adding a "completely unsuitable" relationship to the mix would be like tossing a lit match into a firework factory. I can only fight so many battles at once.
But I can't stop watching her—watching the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the way she smiles at the smallest victories. I tell myself I'm staying away because it's the practical choice, but I know the truth: I'm staying away because a part of me still wants to hear him say, just once, that I got it right.
Besides, Ms. Williams—Rachel, as I've gathered from the locals—clearly has her own mission, her own passion. The last thing she probably wants is to get tangled up in the complicated politics of someone like me.
And she doesn't like me. That realization sits uncomfortably in my stomach, an unfamiliar sensation. I'm used to people falling over themselves to curry favor with the Pierce familyname, used to women showing up at our Willow Bay shop with perfectly practiced laughs and strategically timed visits. The way Rachel Williams glares at me—like I'm nothing more than an obstacle in her path—is... unsettling. Refreshing. Intriguing.
A young boy approaches her cart, and she serves him with surprising flair, her hands dancing in the air as she says something that makes him laugh.
