A quick glance across the beach reveals Rachel's snow cone cart, quiet and nearly empty. No line. No buzz. No laughter. A pinch of guilt twists in my stomach. After all, she's trying to raise money for a good cause. But good causes always seem to find support. People rally around them, open their wallets, and pat themselves on the back for making a difference.
This cart? This is my shot—my one chance to prove I can stand on my own without Pierce & Sons breathing down my neck. If I lose here, it's not just about the money. It's about proving that I can build something that's mine, even if it's small.
"Good afternoon to you too, Rachel." I keep my tone even, tamping down the flicker of guilt. "I take it the new sundae bar caught your eye?"
"Caught my eye? Please. It's stolenmycustomers." Her voice carries an edge, but her eyes—sharp, clever, and flecked with sunlight—give her away. There's more than frustration there, though she'd probably never admit it.
"It's just market innovation," I reply, reaching for my professional tone. "People like options."
"Options?" She picks up one of the bamboo bowls, turning it over with exaggerated care, like she's inspecting some high-end relic. "Sustainable serveware, artisanal toppings, an actual sundae bar—it's all very… polished. Let me guess, this is what corporate funding buys you? You know Magnolia Cove isn't the kind of place you can just buy your way into, right?"
Her words hit like a precision strike, sharp and unrelenting, and the worst part is she doesn't know just how deeply they cut. Magnolia Cove isn't the kind of place you can buy your way into. That's exactly why I moved here, but her diatribe is a reminderthat I'll always have the Pierce name trailing behind me like a shadow. I'll always be an outsider. Someone like Rachel belongs here without even trying. She's everything I'm not: authentic, grounded, impossible to ignore. And maybe that's what inspires the quip that falls from my mouth.
"It's easy to criticize someone else's work ethic rather than focus on your own problems."
Of all the wrong things to say, that was the wrongest. Her head snaps up so fast I'm surprised she doesn't get whiplash. The air between us shifts, sharp and electric, like the crackle before a storm. Her eyes narrow, dark with fury, and her lips press into a thin line. She sets the bamboo bowl down with deliberate care, the soft clink against the counter somehow more threatening than if she'd thrown it at me.
"You think I lack work ethic?" she hisses.
I open my mouth to respond, but she's already stepping closer, her eyes blazing with an intensity that freezes me in place.
"This isn't some fun side gig for me, Pierce," she says, her tone biting. "I'm not here to play at being a local. I work full-time as a teacher, run the entire middle school music program—alone, by the way. And when I'm not grading papers or planning lessons, I'm mentoring students who don't have anyone else in their corner."
She crosses her arms, which I'm grateful for because, for a disturbing moment, I was certain she might punch me.
"I'm not standing out here sweating in the sun every day to stroke my ego or pad my résumé. I'm doing it because this program matters. And you? You have the audacity to stand there with your shiny new big-city-funded ice cream shop and your designer sundae bar, acting like you know what hard work looks like? You don't have a clue."
Her words hit like a drumline pounding through my chest, each one shaking something loose I didn't even realize was there. She's fierce, unapologetic, and somehow even more captivating when she's furious. That fire in her eyes, the conviction in her voice—it's impossible to ignore. But she has no idea. No idea that this cart isn't some cushy extension of my father'sbig-cityempire. That I'm out here scraping together recipes from scratch, funding this from my own pocket, and barely keeping it afloat. That this cart is my shot at finally breaking free of my father's shadow, proving I can do something entirely my own.
Before I can respond, another voice joins the conversation.
"Well, well," Grammie Rae, the local gossip, drawls, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "You two are quite the show. I can't decide if I'm watching a business rivalry or the lead-up to a wedding toast." She smirks. "Tell you what, I'll donate five hundred dollars to whoever makes the most sales this week. A little friendly competition, winner takes all. What do you say?"
Rachel's lips press into a line, and my spine stiffens. Grammie Rae may be talking about sales, but all I can think about is how Rachel's beaten me at something far more important since the moment I met her. She's already got the town on her side, with her passion and determination. Meanwhile, I'm the outsider, the polished corporate intruder trying to find my place in a world that isn't built for people like me. And the worst part? I don't know whether I want to win—or if I just want her to see me as more than the guy standing in her way.
I glance at Rachel, waiting for her to laugh it off. Instead, her fingers tap a steady rhythm against her thigh, and her eyes sharpen.
"Fine." She jabs a finger toward my chest. "This means war, Pierce."
She spins on her heel, storming back to her cart with a determined swagger that has me torn between amusement and admiration, between competitiveness and desperation.
By the next morning, the battlefield is set. Rachel has transformed her section of the beach—carnival games stretch along the sand, each one offering free snow cones to winners. Children laugh as they toss bean bags at colorful targets, and their parents line up for snow cones.
My till stays empty all morning. Every time I glance her way, she's flashing that genuine, unpolished smile at a customer. Her friend even hands out hand-painted flyers advertising the music fundraiser in bold letters.
I should plan a counterattack, but all I can do is watch her. She crouches beside a little boy, her laugh carrying over the sand like music, making everyone around her feel like they belong. It's maddening. She's not just running a cart—she's creating a moment, a memory. And me? I'm just standing here, losing customers by the second.
It's disarming. Maddening.
And completely unsustainable.
By mid-afternoon, it's painfully clear I'm losing my shirt. The numbers don't lie—today's profits barely cover the cost of supplies, let alone the overhead. I've poured everything I have into this cart, scraping by without a single dime from my father, and if the money runs out, that's it. No lifeline. No second chances. This cart isn't just a business; it's my one chance to breathe.
I glance at Rachel's cart, bustling with activity. Laughter echoes across the beach, parents juggling snow cones while their kids race between carnival games. Meanwhile, my side of the beach feels like a ghost town.
The thought burns in my chest as I decide. With a heavy sigh, I pull out my ledger and finalize the numbers for the day. Closingearly stings, but I can't waste any more resources waiting for customers who clearly aren't coming.
As I pack up, I catch Rachel glancing my way, a satisfied little smirk tugging at her lips. My jaw tightens, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of reacting. Instead, I load up and drive straight to the council building, my resolve hardening with each mile. Guilt twists low in my gut. I know exactly what I'm about to do, and who it's going to hurt. But this is survival. This is what I've been taught: when the odds are stacked against you, you push back. You fight.
