"It's not something I share." He shifts on the bench, making room. An invitation. "My father would say I'm doing a proper job of maintaining the correct image."
I shouldn't sit. I have inventory to do, supplies to organize, a program to save. But my feet carry me to the piano anyway. The moment I settle beside him on the narrow bench, warmth radiates through my whole left side where we touch—shoulder to hip to knee. It's like slipping into a hot bath after a long day at the beach—that same sense ofohandfinallyall at once.
His cologne is subtle but intoxicating, mixing with the scents of wood polish and sheet music that always linger in this room. I'm aware of every breath, every tiny shift of his body, the way his hands hover over the keys with long, elegant fingers.
He'd been talking about his father, something he seems to do a lot. From the little I've heard about the great Mr. Pierce, the man could give a master class on crushing dreams. No wonder Grant escaped to Magnolia Cove, even if he brought some of those polished edges with him.
I realize I've been quiet too long, lost in my thoughts and the warmth of him beside me. He's waiting for me to reply to his comment about what his father would think.
"And what would you say?"
His fingers brush the keys, not playing, just touching. Like he's remembering something. "I'd say I came to Magnolia Cove to figure that out."
Just like that, another piece of the Grant Pierce puzzle clicks into place. I've suspected there was more beneath that perfectly pressed surface. I glimpsed it in the way he's watched my students play, how he actually listens when people talk to him at his cart instead of just serving them and sending them on their way.
And okay, yes, even without all that, he's ridiculously attractive. The kind of handsome that usually comes with an egoto match. But watching him now, backlit by moonlight, his guard finally lowering… There's something quietly beautiful about him that has nothing to do with these broad shoulders or the way his rolled-up sleeves reveal surprisingly muscular forearms.
Knowing he's not the heartless corporate invader I first assumed makes it harder to ignore the way my pulse quickens when he's nearby. Harder to pretend I don't catch myself looking for him on the beach each morning.
The practice room feels smaller suddenly, more intimate. Grant's shoulder brushes mine as he plays again, softer this time. A melody I don't recognize.
"Something original?" I ask.
He nods, still playing. "I used to compose all the time, before... well, before the family business required my full attention." His hands still. "Father says composition is beneath the Pierce name. Too unpredictable. Too emotional. Too… self-indulgent."
"That's ridiculous." The words burst out before I can stop them. "Music is supposed to be emotional. That's the whole point." I turn toward him, and our knees brush. "And self-indulgent? Please. If pouring your heart into something that moves people is self-indulgent, then every great composer in history was guilty. Bach had twenty kids and still found time to write music. I'd say you're allowed to indulge yourself a little."
Grant turns to look at me, and I realize how close we are. Close enough that I can see the faint stubble along his jaw, and catch the scent of sea salt and something sweeter that clings to his skin.
"Thank you, by the way," I whisper. "For the tip yesterday. It was... excessive."
"It wasn't enough." His voice drops lower, matching the intimate darkness around us. "What you're doing—fighting for these kids, for their chance to find this…" He gestures to theroom, the ancient instruments sleeping in their cases, the sheet music waiting to be awakened. "For them to hear that their desires are important. It matters, Rachel. More than selling ice cream ever could."
"We're still twelve thousand short." The words catch in my throat. I haven't admitted that to anyone yet—not even Mia. "The board wants to redirect the funds to STEM programs, which is important, I know. But..." My fingers find their familiar rhythm against my knee. One-two-three-four.
Grant's hand covers mine, stilling the motion. His palm is warm, and surprisingly, slightly calloused. "You'll find a way. I've seen you on that beach, conducting your impromptu concerts. The rest of the town loves you. You should hear how the parents of your students speak about you. You're... remarkable."
The word hangs between us like a note held too long, vibrating with possibility. I should pull away. Should remember that he's my competition—that his fancy chrome cart is everything that doesn't belong in our quirky little town.
Instead, I turn my hand under his, letting our fingers intertwine.
He releases a breath. It's the loudest sound I've ever heard.
"Play something else?" I whisper. "Play me your favorite song."
Even in the darkness, a flush sweeps across his cheeks. The great Grant Pierce, actually embarrassed about something. This, I have to hear.
"I promise I won't make fun of your song choice," I nudge his shoulder with mine. "Even if it'sIce, Ice Baby,because you secretly know all the lyrics."
He huffs a laugh but still hesitates, his fingers poised above the keys. "You'll think it's silly."
"Try me."
He lowers his fingers, but they stay suspended for a moment. Finally, the first delicate notes of a familiar melody float into the darkness. It takes me a moment to place it, but when I do, my heart does a little flip.
"A fairy tale song?"
"You said you wouldn't laugh." His voice is defensive, but there's a smile tugging at his lips as his hands continue over the keys, playing a version of the song that's obviously well-practiced.
