Chapter 7 Rachel
Rachel
"So," I say, walking up alongside Grant's ice cream cart.
The ocean breeze is mercifully calm today, and most of my braid is still in place.
The late afternoon sunlight glints off his chrome counter, nearly as blinding as his practiced smile.
The scent of waffle cones and salted caramel drifts through the air, mingling with sea spray.
"Has anyone told you about Moonbeams & Movie Munchies Madness yet? "
The way his eyebrows scrunch together in confusion shouldn't be so adorable.
Neither should the careful way he wipes his hands on his apron before leaning towards me across the counter.
Ever since our date at The Siren's Song—where we'd talked until the owner had practically shooed us out, then spent another hour walking along the beach—I've discovered Grant Pierce has an entire collection of expressions that make my heart do cartwheels.
And don't even get me started on his kisses.
Each one feels like the first time in the music room—electric and sweet, and somehow both careful and consuming at once.
The way his strong hands cup my face, how he tastes like whatever flavor he's been sampling that day, the little sound he makes when I run my fingers through his perfectly styled hair.
.. It's addictive. Dangerous. Like my own personal flavor of ice cream I can't get enough of.
Even now, watching him lean across his cart so his fitted shirt shows off his shoulders, I have to fight the urge to pull him closer.
"That sounds like something from a children's book," he says. "Though, given what I've learned about Magnolia Cove so far, I'm guessing it's real?"
"Very real. The town sets up these enormous screens on the beach after dark.
Everyone brings blankets and watches classic films under the stars.
" I rest my chin in my hand, fighting a grin.
"As the new guy, I thought you might want a heads-up.
You know, so you can prepare your cart accordingly.
People love treats at the Movie Munchies Madness. "
"How thoughtful of you." His voice is dry, but his eyes are sparkling. "Are you offering this friendly warning before you've called dibs on renting a prime spot, or after?"
"Actually, I was thinking we might want to work together this time.
" I trace a pattern on his counter with my finger.
My friends' voices echo in my head—Zoe's dramatic fraternizing with the enemy!
followed by her gently elbowing me and saying but honestly, you two are cute together.
Rhianna's endless stream of romance novel comparisons.
Even Mia had pulled me aside to say she's never seen me smile so much.
They're right, of course. What started as attraction has grown into something deeper, something that makes my heart race every time he looks at me like he is now—like I'm some wonderful surprise he can't quite believe is real.
"My snow cone cart's been doing pretty well lately, but it might be nice to join forces instead of compete.
Who knows? Maybe we'll both sell more if people don't have to cross the beach to choose between us. "
His eyebrows shoot up. "Rachel Williams, suggesting cooperation? Should I check for signs of fever?"
"Oh, shut up." I flick water at him, and he catches my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in a way that makes me shiver despite the summer heat. "I'm just being practical. And maybe..." I bite my lip. "Maybe I enjoy working with you."
His expression softens. "I enjoy working with you too." Then a slow smile spreads across his face. "Tell you what—I'll give twenty-five percent of my proceeds to your fund. We can set up together, share supplies..."
"Really?" I straighten. "You'd do that?"
He shrugs, but the tips of his ears turn pink. "Seems like the right thing to do. Besides," he adds with another wink, "I hear the company will be excellent."
"The Princess Bride?" I call over my shoulder, watching another group settle onto their blankets. "Really?"
"It's a classic! It's inconceivable you wouldn't like it!
" Grant's laugh carries across our shared space, where we've arranged our carts to create a cozy little alcove.
Strings of lights twinkle overhead—Zoe's contribution, along with her unsubtle thumbs-up when she'd seen us together.
"Besides, what's wrong with a little romance and some comedy? "
"Nothing." I hand a cherry snow cone to a waiting customer. "I just wouldn't have pegged you as an Inigo Montoya fan."
He gasps and leans closer to me, then delivers a line in perfect imitation of the actor.
"You killed my father. Prepare to die." My laugh cuts off because he's close enough that I can smell his cologne mixing with the sweet scent of ice cream.
"Let me guess? You had me figured for something more. .. pretentious?"
"The thought may have crossed my mind." I bump his shoulder with mine. "Though that was before I knew about your secret fairy tale obsession."
"Not a secret anymore," he says with that confident half-smile that makes my stomach twist. "I'm now openly pro-happily-ever-after. New year, new me."
"It's summer."
His only answer to that is a laugh and a wink that sends a chill down my spine all the way to my toes. Before I can respond, someone clears their throat behind us. We spring apart like guilty teenagers, and I turn to find Rhianna watching us with undisguised glee.
"Don't let me interrupt," she says, bouncing on her toes. "I just wanted to see how the happy enemies-to-lovers arc is progressing."
"Don't you have a library to run?" I ask pointedly.
"It's after hours." She grins. "Plus, Zoe bet me a dozen of her to-die-for chocolate chip cookies you two would make heart eyes at each other all night. I had to verify for myself."
Grant chuckles as she practically skips away. "Your friends are..."
"Impossible?" I suggest. "Nosy? Completely lacking in subtlety?"
"I was going to say 'entertaining.'" He prepares another cone. "Though I could have done without Tom's shovel talk at The Hungry Gull yesterday."
I groan. "He didn't."
"Oh, he did. Very thorough. Something about having access to a variety of tools and knowing all the best spots to hide a body?"
"I'm going to kill him."
"Please don't. I actually found it kind of sweet." His hand finds mine between our carts. "They care about you. It's nice."
Something in his tone makes me study his face more carefully.
For all his polished exterior and privileged upbringing, I'm realizing that growing up as a Pierce "prince" wasn't the fairy tale I'd first assumed.
The way he talks about my friends' protectiveness, how he lingers over casual dinners at the diner, his obvious delight when Zoe teases him, or his happiness when Tom includes him in their banter.
.. It's like he's discovering something he never knew he was missing.
The simple things I've taken for granted—friends who protect me, impromptu beach concerts, sharing leftover pie while discussing ridiculous books, having a community that shows up for you just exactly as you are—seem to amaze him.
Maybe that's part of why he chose Magnolia Cove.
Not just to escape his father's empire, but to find the kind of magic that has nothing to do with prestige or perfect ice cream spirals.
On screen, Wesley is halfway through his epic sword fight with Inigo Montoya. The crowd's laughter mingles with the sound of waves lapping at the shore. Grant's thumb traces circles on my palm, and everything feels... right.
Later, when the movie's over and we've packed up our carts, Grant grips the back of his neck and looks down at the ground when he whispers, "Rachel, I was wondering…
" He clears his throat. "Well, that is, would you like to come back to my place?
For, um…" He trails off, his confidence from earlier completely vanished.
The mighty Grant Pierce, blushing like a teenager. It's possibly the most endearing thing I've ever seen.
I step closer. "For…?" I can't help teasing him a little.
"Coffee?" He winces. "I mean... Or..." His lips press together, then he blows out a breath. "Sorry, I'm not very good at this. I haven't really done… commitment before."
Commitment. The word hits me like a sweet note in perfect pitch. We haven't talked about what this is between us, haven't put labels on summer nights and stolen kisses. But hearing him say it—commitment—makes everything inside me hum with possibility.
"Grant, I have to say no," I whisper. His face falls, and I step closer. "Because you have an apartment in busy downtown, and I live in one of the private beach cottages. The only logical solution is that you should come home with me… for… coffee."
I snake an arm around his neck, and he grins softly, his eyes lighting up the way they do when he plays piano. "Can't argue with logic," he whispers, pulling me closer.
As we walk hand in hand toward my cottage, the sound of waves in the background, I can't help thinking that maybe we're writing our own fairy tale.
One with waffle cones and jazz piano and kisses that taste like rainbow ice.
One where the princess saves herself and the prince learns that perfect isn't always better.
I just hope we get our happily ever after.
The weeks that follow blur together in a haze of sunny days and starlit evenings.
Grant and I fall into an easy rhythm on the beach, our competition turning into something more like a dance.
He brings me coffee every morning—always perfectly made because of course he's memorized my order.
I save him the last rainbow cone each day, even though he insists it's "undignified. "
We have dinner at The Siren's Song so often that the staff starts preparing our usual table without asking. Some nights, we walk the beach afterward, talking about everything and nothing. Other nights, we end up at the school, where Grant plays piano while I grade papers or organize sheet music.
It's perfect. Too perfect.
"Earth to Rachel?" Mia waves her hand in front of my face. "You've been staring at that inventory list for ten minutes."
I blink, realizing I've been sitting in my classroom thinking about Grant instead of actually working. Again. The stack of music I need to organize for the fall semester—assuming we still have a program—sits untouched on my desk. I've barely made a dent in the new English Literature books.
"Sorry," I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "I just... I feel like I'm falling behind. The fundraiser deadline is getting closer, and I'm spending all my time either at the beach or with Grant."
"You really like him, don't you?" Mia perches on the edge of my desk.
"Yeah," I murmur, tapping my fingers rapidly against the edge of the inventory sheet, each beat betraying my unease. "I do. He’s nothing like I thought he'd be. When he plays music, when he talks about his dreams, or even when he lets his guard down for just a second... he's different."
"But you're still worried about the fundraiser?" she asks, her voice gentle, but I can feel the weight of the question settling in between us.
The words strike a wrong note in a song I’ve known too well.
"I don’t know," I confess, my tapping accelerating with each passing second, a rhythm I can’t seem to control.
"Maybe? The snow cone sales are good—especially since we started working together—but it feels like it’s not enough.
I should be doing more—planning events, reaching out to donors, building momentum.
But instead... I’m spending my days watching sunsets and going on moonlit walks, like some kind of heroine from a romance novel. "
"Rachel." Mia’s hand, warm and steady, catches mine mid-motion, halting my restless drumming. "You’re allowed to be happy, you know. It's okay."
"But what if being happy costs these kids their chance at music?" The words rush out of me. "What if I'm letting myself get distracted when I should be focused? What if—"
"What if you're catastrophizing?" She squeezes my fingers. "Take a breath. No one said you have to choose between saving the program and falling in love."
"Love?" I sputter. "Who said anything about—"
"Oh, honey." Mia's smile is knowing. "Have you seen the way you look at him?"
I drop my head to my desk with a groan. "I'm so screwed."
"No." She pats my shoulder. "You're just finally letting yourself have something good. The rest will work out."
I lift my head enough to glance at the fundraising tracker on my wall. We're still eight thousand short, and summer is winding down. There's still so far to go.
"I hope you're right," I whisper. But as I stare at the numbers, I can't shake the feeling that something's got to give. I just pray it isn't my heart.