Chapter 6 Missy
Missy
Giuseppe and I arrive at Rachel’s studio bright and early, my steps lighter than they’ve been in days.
Whatever magic Rachel worked to change Dean’s mind about me giving Emma lessons—and I’m half convinced actual magic had to be involved given his absolute refusal at the dinner party—I’m determined to prove her faith in me justified.
Meeting Emma the previous afternoon went off without a hitch.
She’s lovely and young and excited. The familiar weight of sheet music in my arms and coffee balanced precariously in one hand feels like a possibility rather than an obligation for the first time in months.
Maybe Alex is right. Maybe Dean really does have it out for me.
I refuse to be intimidated by his presence, even if he makes the morning feel charged with… something. I’m trying to decide if that something is fueled more from attraction or hate as I take a breath of the sweet cedar smell permeating the room.
“Mr. Markham.” I set Giuseppe against a corner. “Lost your way to the council chambers? Do city employees in Magnolia Cove not get to take a Saturday off?”
He slips a hand into his pocket and pops a breath mint into his mouth with deliberate ease, his thumb brushing the corner of his lip as he does. The movement shouldn’t be compelling. It absolutely isn’t compelling. “Miss Sinclair. Consider me quality control.”
“For music lessons?” I straighten the sheet music and walk toward a stand.
“Among other things.” Dean is in a remarkably grumpy mood this morning. Which is truly a feat considering that his standard disposition seems to hover somewhere between ‘storm cloud’ and ‘angry cat caught in the downpour.’
I choose to ignore him and twirl around to take in the performance space.
It’s truly remarkable for a small music program on a little-known island.
The warm wooden panels glow under soft lighting, curving gracefully overhead like the hull of an old ship turned skyward.
The acoustics seem to hum with quiet anticipation, as if the room itself is holding its breath, waiting for the first note to break the silence.
And Rachel told me there’s several recording spaces down the far hallway as well.
“Wow,” I breathe into the space, partially just to hear how my voice carries. “This place is more amazing than I expected.”
That’s when I realize Dean is watching me spin around beneath the wood beams and vaulted ceiling.
He pushes off from the wall and steps over.
With that simple movement the room feels smaller and significantly more intimate.
The air between us thickens, like fog. His cologne catches me off guard for a second time.
It’s rich but nuanced, something you’d only notice if you got truly close to him.
I somehow doubt many people get to smell it.
He’s near enough to touch and I’ve gone completely still.
“Rachel raised a great deal of money when some video went viral,” he grumbles. His voice has gone low and rough but the room with its amazing acoustics brings the sound back, sending it shivering down my spine.
“Oh, I bet you just loved that.” I mean for my words to come out teasing, but my tone has shifted into something soft, matching his, as if we’re sharing secrets in this golden haven.
“I didn’t,” he whispers. The words are so faint, so close, that I can nearly imagine his breath brushing against my skin and I can’t fight a shiver.
His gaze drops to my lips, lingering just a heartbeat too long. The space between us feels fragile, stretched thin by something heavier than words. I can’t tell if it’s the room amplifying the tension or just the undeniable something that crackles between us whenever we meet.
I swallow, and the sound is too loud. His eyes flick up to meet mine, and for a second, neither of us move. It’s that suspended moment, like the hush before the downbeat of a symphony, when everything feels inevitable.
Dean shifts forward, just barely, and I catch my breath. I lean in, drawn as if by an invisible force. I’m barely a whisper away. From a distance his eyes appear ebony but up close they’re flecked with deep amber, catching the light like sparks beneath the surface.
My gaze drops to his lips—
The door bursts open banging against the wall and light spills across the wood floors and tiered chairs.
“Hey,” Rachel says then freezes mid-step, eyes flicking between us. “Am I interrupting?”
Dean clears his throat and steps back so quickly it’s almost comical. “No,” he says, far too fast.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Subtle. “Not at all.” I walk over and open Giuseppe’s case. “Perfect timing, actually.”
Emma walks in, violin case in hand. Rachel doesn’t even seem to notice the student’s arrival as her eyebrows quirk up.
“Okay, I’m going to pretend to believe that.
Do you need anything before I head out? Grant and I have a pop-up ice cream stand this morning, but I can swing by later if you need me.
” Rachel’s gaze grows in intensity. It’s like she’s asking me to blink twice if I need rescuing—or wink if something else is going on.
Her eyes flick briefly to Dean, then back to me, and I resist the urge to laugh.
“I’m good. Go wow the crowds. I can handle things here.”
Emma grins, oblivious to Rachel’s subtle interrogation. The teen bounces on her toes. “I’ll take a scoop after the lesson if you don’t sell out before we’re done.”
Rachel smirks and wraps an arm familiarly around Emma, giving her a squeeze. “If that happens, run down to the store and tell him I said to give you a free cone on me.”
“Sweet!” Emma says as Rachel gives another wave and exits. The girl’s smile lingers until she notices Dean who’s returned to lurking in the shadows. Her expression dims. “Oh, hi, Dean.”
He nods, silent but watchful, his arms crossed as he surveys the incredibly threatening situation of a musician and a student preparing to tune their instruments.
“He’s just here for the atmosphere.” I pluck my fingers across Giuseppe’s strings and hum with pleasure as the sound echoes back in the room’s excellent acoustics. “Adds to the whole serious musician vibe. Venue security is part of the package for those of us who perform for a living.”
Emma huffs a quiet laugh but ducks her head slightly and tucks a strand of curls behind her ear. “Yeah, sure. You’re so high risk.”
“Hey, give it a few years—once you’re headlining, you’ll have your own Dean lurking backstage. He’ll also have grumpy as his default setting and disapproval as his backup mode.”
Dean’s lips twitch—not quite a smile, but nearly.
His eyes sparkle, though, giving him away.
Maybe beneath those perfectly pressed black clothes he actually has a sense of humor.
A shocking revelation. The thrill of pulling that emotion from him sings through my bones.
I already want to see if I can do it again.
I lean in toward Emma and whisper, “Besides, having someone glowering at you like a cranky gnome while you play is excellent practice for becoming a performer.”
A giggle escapes Emma's mouth, and she slaps her hands over her lips to try to capture the sound but does so too late.
“A gnome?” Dean sighs but his eyes still have that gleam to them. “Whispers carry in this space, and I’m still standing right here.”
“Wouldn’t want you anywhere else,” I reply sweetly as I play a scale and nod for Emma to do the same. She lifts the violin to her chin and executes the notes perfectly.
We settle into a groove immediately—Emma playing with effortless grace, me melting into Giuseppe and swaying with the sounds, and Dean… doing whatever it is Dean does. Looming professionally, I guess.
Emma’s better than I expected. When Rachel mentioned having a student who wanted to attend Juilliard I’d assumed she possessed talent, but hearing her play is something else entirely. She doesn’t just perform the music, she feels it. That’s the difference between a technician and an artist.
There’s something wild and unpredictable in her performance that reminds me of myself before Juilliard polished away my rough edges.
She picks up the accompaniment for “The Swan” with instinctive ease.
Soon she’s losing herself to the music, her hair falling across her eyes.
The air seems to shift, as if it’s bending to her will and—
“Emma, that’s enough.”
Dean’s voice cuts through the music’s magic, firm and low. The bow slips from Emma’s strings with a jarring scrape, and she blinks as if waking from a trance.
I frown and straighten. “She was fine. Getting into the music isn’t—”
I stop speaking when I see something on Dean I haven’t seen before. His crossed arms aren’t a show of authority—they’re tight, almost tense, his fingers digging into his sleeves. His gaze isn’t sharp with impatience. It’s edged with something else.
Worry.
Emma doesn’t argue. She lowers her violin toward its case, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling like she’s just run a mile.
“I’m good,” she says quickly, brushing a sticky strand of curls off her forehead. “It’s fine, Missy. Thank you. This was amazing.”
Dean’s jaw jumps but he nods and steps back against the wall again.
I open my mouth, ready to press the issue, but neither of them are looking at me. Whatever just happened isn’t something Emma wants to explain—or Dean, for that matter.
Instead, I let out a breath, and loosen my grip on Giuseppe. “Okay, next time I’ll keep a stopwatch. Apparently we have a time limit.”
Emma chuckles but looks back up to me with bright eyes. “It’s true that you perform with Jules Bouchard, right?”
“I do, yes. We’re actually working on an album together currently.”
Well, he is. My stomach twists. The package Dean delivered the other night still sits opened but unexplored in my room filled with sheet music that should excite me but instead feels like handcuffs.
“Oh my gosh, his compositions for violin are incredible! The way he blends classical pieces with modern elements…” She hugs her case to her chest and squeezes her eyes tight. “He’s brilliant.”
“Jules is…” I sigh, softly. “Someone who practices for hours every day.” I grin at her. “Not a bad plan to follow if you have ambitious dreams.”
She nods enthusiastically. “I will. I do already, I mean.”
She didn’t need to say it—I already know. The way she’d lost herself to the music, the sharp focus that narrowed her world down to the strings beneath her fingers. It was obvious. Emma doesn’t just want this. She’s working for it.
She snaps her case shut and slings it over her shoulder. “Well, I’m taking Mrs. Pierce up on the free ice cream!”
“See you Tuesday night?”
She grins as she opens the door. “I can’t wait.”
The light disappears, and the space turns back into quiet stillness—only mine and Dean’s breaths echoing together.
I move back toward Giuseppe and loosen the bow. “Just how long do you plan to observe lessons?”
“Just how long do you plan to conduct them?” Dean steps toward me again.
My pulse quickens. I haven’t forgotten the moment Rachel interrupted earlier.
I haven’t thought about it, either. This man is like lightning against a dark sky.
Electric, alive, and carrying a raw kind of power that feels impossible to ignore.
Dean stops walking a few steps in front of me and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Can’t say I’ve had the opportunity to see a world-class performer in a private concert before.” His lips twitch upward. “I’m impressed, Ms. Sinclair.”
I wipe down the strings and fingerboard with a soft cloth and refuse to look up and meet his intense expression. “Was that a compliment? Careful, Dean. I think you’re warming up to me.”
His voice dips lower, the gravelly sound of it amplified in the room. “You don’t make it easy to stay cold.”
I lift my face. He’s standing in a puddle of golden light, half of him in shadows which sculpt his features, cutting across his defined jaw and emphasizing his brow. I want to swallow hard. I want to stand up and finish whatever we started before Rachel and Emma arrived. I want—
The door opens again and we both jump. Alex’s eyes flick between the two of us then she tightens her grip on her handbag. “Ready for lunch?”
“Yeah, of course.” I leap up and ease Giuseppe back into his case, then latch it carefully. I need the moment to catch my breath. God, I swear Dean Markham is like discovering coffee—unexpected, slightly addicting, a little too strong, and suddenly I can’t imagine going without it.
He nods and produces a fresh mint from somewhere. “Ladies.”
Alex watches him go with an expression I can’t quite read. When she turns back to me, there’s a tightness around her eyes and she hasn’t released her grip on the bag.
“Don’t you need to work?” I ask, trying to shift the subject.
“With my sister in town, I can be flexible! How often do I get to see you?” She loops her arm through mine, but there’s something protective in the gesture.
As we step outside together, I realize three essential truths that settle into my chest like a bad cold.
First, despite my attempts to carve out my own space here, I’m still pulling Alex off-rhythm. She’s falling right back into the role of rearranging her world to care for me.
Second, I’m offering to mentor Emma while my own musical future sits disregarded in a package in my room and Jules’ emails remain unread. I’m more adrift career-wise than I realized, and that leaves a gnawing sense of dread aching in my stomach.
And third—the thought that causes me to miss a step on the way out and Alex to frown as she steadies me—this electric current between Dean and me is a problem.
Because the last thing I need is something further throwing off my focus.
And, more importantly, the last thing Alex needs is for me to complicate her world even more by falling for someone who holds power here.
Each step away from the studio feels like moving farther from something I shouldn’t want but can’t quite forget—a melody stuck in my head long after the song stopped playing.