I've never so desperately wanted to hear what a kid was saying before, to know what's making her grin like that. The way she leans in, fully captivated… it makes me wonder what it would be like to be on the receiving end of her attention.
The breeze catches her hair, sending loose strands floating around her face. Apparently, she doesn't mind that her braid always falls loose in the ocean breeze. And the way she's smiling—unrehearsed and radiant—is like seeing a lighthouse after a rough month at sea. She's nothing like the people I grew up withor my family. They only express appropriate emotions, but she's radiating with real, unfiltered joy, and I want to bottle it like one of our specialty flavors.
"Excuse me?"
I jolt, nearly dropping the ice cream scoop I’d somehow managed to suspend over an empty bowl, oblivious to the fact that I’ve been holding it there for who knows how long. A woman is standing at the cart now, cash in hand, her gaze curious.
"My apologies," I stammer, heat creeping up my neck. In fifteen years of serving ice cream, I’ve never had someone catch me daydreaming at the counter. My father would be appalled. “What can I get for you?"
Much later, when the last of the crowd finally trickles away and the sun dips low, casting the sky in hues of pink and amber, I make a decision that would send my father into a spiral. I shut down my cart early—an unthinkable breach of Pierce & Sons protocol—and, without a second thought, I walk down the beach.
Rachel's hair has become some wild, wind-tangled halo, framing her face in a way that's both chaotic and beautiful. She doesn't even seem to notice, laughing as she tucks a stray strand behind her ear, only for it to spring free again. She's talking animatedly with the last few students as they pack up their instruments, her fingers tapping against her thigh in a rhythm I wish I could hear.
"One rainbow snow cone, please," I say when I reach the cart, surprising myself as much as her. My father's voice echoes in my head: Pierce men don't eat colored ice. Pierce men don't support the competition. Pierce men don't cavort with public school teachers who have no connections.
The familiar litany of rules and expectations follows me even here, three thousand miles and an entire coastline away from home. But that's exactly why I chose Magnolia Cove. This small,magical town where people care more about the quality of your conversation than the quality of your connections.
I straighten my shoulders, silencing my father's voice. Let him disapprove from his climate-controlled office in Silicon Valley. Here, with sea grasses tickling my ankles and the sunset painting the sky in colors no screen can capture, I'm just Grant—a man buying a snow cone from a beautiful, passionate woman who couldn't care less about my family name.
Rachel's eyebrows shoot up, but she reaches for a paper cup. "Slumming it with the competition?"
"Market research," I reply, though we both know it's a lie. She creates the perfect arch of shaved ice, then adds dye so that each color bleeds into the next, reflecting the sunset. There's an artistry to it that reminds me of the way she conducts her students—intuitive, flowing, alive.
When she hands me the snow cone, our fingers brush. The contact sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with the ice. I nod to her still-tapping fingers. "Maybe I'm just curious to discover what's worth singing about."
She pulls her hand back but smiles, her expression turning slightly smug. "Ah, so you paid attention to our little concert."
"Hard to miss. I think half the beach was dancing by the end."
Rachel shrugs, and another strand of hair slips free. I've never once in my life wanted to do something as much as brush it behind her ear, to feel the softness between my fingers. The snow cone's iciness bleeds into my hand, freezing me in place.
"That's mostly Zoe's doing," she says. "She has that effect on people. I notice you resisted the urge to join in."
"Some of us have a reputation to maintain." I'm smiling. The snow cone is melting, syrup dripping onto my hand, and Rachel Williams has eyes that look like sunlit amber. "The Pierce familyhandbook probably has an entire chapter against impromptu dance parties."
"There's an actual handbook?" She leans down against her cart's counter, making her eyes look large and her lips pouty. I don't understand how this woman is single. I found that information out from the owner of the Hungry Gull, who gave me an unprompted rundown of the Cove's most eligible residents. The local gossip mill is good for something, it seems.
"Three volumes. Color-coded tabs. My father takes ice cream very seriously."
She laughs, the sound as warm and rich as I'd imagined. "It's ice cream! It's supposed to be fun, not a corporate mission statement."
"Try telling that to a Pierce."
"I just did." Her smirk makes my heart stop. I don't even care that a bit of frozen, sticky, food-dyed ice has just landed on my knuckle.
"And what about music?" I ask, the words slipping out before I think better of them. Because apparently, I can't think at all in this woman's presence.
Her smile fades slightly, replaced by something fiercer. "Music should be about fun too. But it's hard to keep it that way when the school board is implementing budget cuts." Her fingers start their telltale tapping against the counter. "You know, I met my best friends in the middle school band? We were this weird little group of misfits who couldn't throw a ball to save our lives, but put instruments in our hands…" She trails off, shaking her head. "It gives a magical kid confidence when they learn they don't need to hide behind their powers. And how are we supposed to keep the high school music program going if we cut it at the middle school level? That's when kids need to start. I mean, every time a new sixth-grader picks up a violin, I'm prettysure I lose a year off my life from the screeching—but they're amazing. The program is amazing. It can't just… end."
"Ah yes, the fundraiser." I lick the ice from my hand, then up the cone to keep it from continuing to melt over my fingers. I'm hyper-aware of her gaze as it follows the motion, lingering just a second longer than it should. Heat builds in me, and it has nothing to do with the sun. I feel the sudden need to redirect. "Every resident mentions it when they stop by my cart. Usually with pointed looks of disapproval."
I mimic the look they give me, and she giggles. The sound is musical, and it's yet another detail about her I wish I could capture—something to play back in my mind when she isn't around.
"Well, you have to admit, your cart is very… bold… for Magnolia Cove."
I look back atGrant's Coastal Creamery.Chrome gleams in the setting sun, every surface polished to mirror brightness. She's right—it stands out against the weathered boardwalk and hand-painted signs like a Rolex at a farmer's market. For the first time since I set it up, I wonder if I made a mistake. After all, I came here to escape the Pierce & Sons aesthetic, not replicate it.
"Maybe I overshot a bit." I turn back to find her watching me with curious eyes. "I was so focused on proving I could do this on my own, I didn't stop to think if I should do it differently." The words feel strange in my mouth—Pierce men don't admit mistakes—but something about her makes me want to be honest. "The recipes are mine though. Not my father's. That's something, at least."
