Her expression softens. "I've heard the ice cream is very good." Then a hint of her earlier smile returns. "Even if your cart looks like it landed from outer space."
"Are you implying I'm an alien?"
The smile grows until her cheeks dimple. She winks—actually winks—and my heart swoops into my stomach. "Don't worry about it. Our book club has a thing for aliens. Just ask Tom and Rhianna about next month's pick."
Someone walks up behind me, and just like that, our moment breaks. Rachel straightens, professional demeanor sliding back into place. "Hi there! What can I get for you today?"
While she's distracted with the order, I slip several large bills into her tip jar, significantly more than the cost of one cone. It's fascinating, really—watching someone fight this hard, not for profit or prestige, but simply because she believes these kids deserve a chance at music. No hidden angle, no social media strategy, no networking opportunities. Just pure passion and determination to help others.
I'm halfway back to my cart before she can notice my contribution. It's not much, considering what she needs to raise, but it feels different from any donation I've ever made. More real. More like a choice I'm making for myself, rather than another line item in the Pierce family's carefully curated public image.
If I could access my money without Father's notice, I could just donate whatever she needed and free her from the summer job. But I somehow know Rachel would never admire a man who tried to purchase her respect. And besides, there's no way for me to move five figures without my father breathing fire down my neck about it and refusing to make a donation that doesn't come with corporate sponsorships.
One song Rachel's students played earlier is stuck in my head on my way home. I haven't touched a piano in months—there wasn't room for one in my carefully planned move to Magnolia Cove. But tonight, my fingers itch to play, to capture something of what I witnessed on the beach.
Something that has nothing to do with precision, or tradition, or the Pierce family name.
Something that tastes like rainbow ice and sounds like joy.
Something that feels dangerously like falling.
Rachel
The fluorescent lights flicker to life with a familiar hum as I unlock the music room door. At nine p.m., the school hallways feel like a different world—echoey and strange, populated by shadowy versions of the usual school day sounds. My footsteps bounce off metal lockers, and somewhere deep in the building, an ancient AC unit groans to life.
I'd rather be home, maybe reading the spicy monster romance Rhianna's been raving about, but these instrument inventory sheets won't fill themselves. Everyone claims teachers get the summer off. If they only knew how much work we all have to complete before the new school year, they might change their tune. And since my days are now dedicated to waging snow cone warfare on the beach...
A smile slides up my face as I remember the five hundred dollars Grammie Rae handed me today. But it falls away just as quickly when I think about how far we have left to go. My fingers find their way to my thigh, tapping out a steady rhythm. It's as natural as breathing, a habit that drives my students crazy, but keeps me grounded when everything else feels like it's spinning out of control.
That's when I hear it—a soft jazz piano drifting down the hall like a ghost. The melody is haunting, something classical but reimagined, twisted into new shapes that make my heart ache. For a moment, I think I'm imagining it—too many late nights surrounded by silent instruments, maybe.
But no—the music is real, flowing from the secondary practice room. The one with the ancient upright piano that perpetually needs tuning. Except it doesn't sound ancient now. It sounds… alive.
I follow the sound, drawn like a sailor to a siren's song. Through the door's narrow window, I glimpse Grant Pierce at the piano, his dark wavy hair falling across his forehead as his hands dance over the keys. He's angled slightly toward me, just enough that I can see the undone buttons of his shirt and the way his sleeves are rolled up. The sharp, polished image from the beach is gone, replaced with something more raw, more human. His broad shoulders still dominate his frame, but there's a looseness to him now, a quiet intensity that pulls me closer.
He's playingThe Bach Suite: Allegro, but not like I've ever heard it before. The familiar melody weaves through jazz harmonies, transforming into something both old and new, structured and wild. My breath catches.
His conversation yesterday had seemed so careful. But there's nothing careful about how he's playing.
He'd appeared at my cart all pressed linen and practiced charm, ordering a snow cone like it was some kind of peace offering. Though, when he'd licked the melting treat from his fingers, I'd fought a shiver. There wasn't anything careful in that gesture, either.
And now here he is, probably breaking every rule in his family's precious handbooks. A Pierce, playing jazz music so passionately it makes me want to cry in a well-worn middle school music room well past dark.
His too-generous tip still burns a hole in my cart's money box, and I've spent half the day convincing myself it meant nothing—that he was just another rich guy trying to ease his conscience about taking up space on the beach.
But this… this isn't the carefully measured movements of someone following a corporate handbook. This is raw, real, and absolutely beautiful. His whole body sways with the music, like he's finally letting himself breathe after holding it in all day. Like he's speaking a language he's been forbidden to use.
I know I should leave. I should close the door and pretend I never saw this side of him. It would be easier to keep fighting our little beach territory war if I didn't know he could make music like this. If I couldn't see how the moonlight streaming through the dusty windows turns him into someone else entirely, gleams in his eyes with a passion I didn't know a man like him could possess.
My hand finds the doorknob before I can think better of it. The hinges creak—because of course they do—and Grant's hands freeze on the keys. He turns, and in the dim light from the hallway, his eyes look almost black.
"Rachel." My name in his voice sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. "I didn't think anyone would be here this late."
"I could say the same." I lean against the doorframe, aiming for casualness despite my racing pulse. "Breaking and entering to play Bach? That's a new one."
A smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. "I asked around about where I could find a piano to play. The principal let me in. I… may have bribed him with ice cream."
"Of course you did." I step into the room, drawn by some force I can't name. Or maybe I don't want to. "I didn't know you played."
