Chapter 12 Missy #2
My heart does the fluttery thing again. There’s basically nothing that could keep me from coming again, from feeling this way, from finding out what other secrets this lighthouse—and its keeper—holds. “I might be able to clear my schedule.”
He laughs—actually laughs—and the sound is better than any music we made. “Wouldn’t want to impede on the important schedule of master cellist, Margaret Sinclair.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose on your important council duties either. I’m sure you have urgent pumpkin inspections for the Hoopla. Or perhaps some teenage musicians to intimidate with your stern glares?”
He laughs again, softer this time. “Is that a yes or a maybe?”
“It’s an ‘I should probably use the time to respond to Jules’ emails and pretend I’m working on our album’ but it’s a ‘yes’ if you’re the one asking.”
His arms tighten. “How is that going?”
“The working or the pretending?”
“Either. Both.”
I think about the unfinished compositions waiting in my room, how for the first time since Juilliard I’m not sure I want the future I’ve planned.
But Dean’s looking at me like I’m something precious, and the setting sun is turning everything to magic, and somehow none of those complications seem to matter.
“Ask me tomorrow.” I stretch up for one last kiss.
As I walk home through growing shadows, Giuseppe’s case bumps against my legs and I realize I’m humming something new. Not a carefully crafted melody, but something wild and honest and entirely my own.
I’m nearly to the lighthouse again, Giuseppe’s familiar weight against my leg no longer feeling like guilt but anticipation.
These past two weeks have settled into a pleasant rhythm.
My days start with early before-school practices with Emma.
Rachel and Dean usually observe. I try not to steal glances at Dean, at least not obviously.
In the afternoon, I help Alex around the store and get to sample Zoe’s increasingly eccentric wedding treat ideas.
Yesterday’s was lavender-matcha-rose macaroons and I still can’t decide if I loved or hated them.
And my evenings—those stolen moments—feel more real than any stage I’ve ever played on.
Jules’ messages pile up in my inbox like fallen leaves, but I can’t bring myself to care.
The music flowing through me now isn’t his carefully constructed masterpieces.
It’s powerful and untethered and I can’t stop following it now.
I tell myself that’s why Giuseppe still accompanies me everywhere, though it’s just as much about maintaining the fiction Alex and Ethan believe—that I’m frequently slipping away to private practice sessions.
The lie sits lighter these days, though my stomach still aches a bit when I think about it.
Dean’s waiting when I round the last bend, the setting sun painting him in shades of autumn.
He rolls his sleeves and runs a hand through his hair, then drums his fingers nervously against his leg.
When he spots me, his shoulders tense then forcibly relax, like he’s trying to maintain control but can’t quite manage it. My heart skips a beat. This is new.
When he kisses me hello, even that feels different. An urgency breaks through his usual measured restraint. His fingers tremble slightly as they fumble with the lighthouse key, and he has to clear his throat before speaking. “I brought something today. To make things more… comfortable.”
The door creaks open on our private world and I catch my breath.
In our usual corner, Dean has created a nest of thick blankets and pillows, surrounded by even more twinkle lights.
He moves around the room, turning them all on so that stars dance along the weathered walls and glisten over the plush comforters.
He shuffles around and straightens an already perfect blanket. I fight back a laugh. This man who maintains iron control over an entire town is fidgeting like a nervous teenager, and somehow that makes me feel completely certain.
Setting Giuseppe down with careful reverence, I grab Dean’s hand and pull him toward the makeshift bed. I kick off my shoes and sink into the softness, drawing him with me. Above us, the spiral staircase winds toward windows painted in sunset colors, and salt air mingles with the sound of waves.
Every day the sun sets a little earlier, the dark comes a bit sooner.
“Can I ask you something?” Dean’s voice is raspy against my hair.
“Of course.” I trace patterns on his arm, marveling at how natural this feels.
“Why do you avoid the work you’re doing with Jules if you love what you do and you’re so good at it?”
I take a breath, searching for the truth.
It’s something I’ve been avoiding answering myself.
“I’ve seen Jules literally miss an entire night’s sleep perfecting a song and take the stage the next evening just as energized as ever.
He’s brilliant at it. But I…” For a moment I pause, the crashing waves filling my quiet.
Dean’s embrace tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“I just want to play from my heart,” I say.
“That’s not how it works in that world, though.
Everything has to be precise, planned a year in advance, perfect. ”
Dean’s thumb brushes circles on my arm, and something about it grounds me as I continue. “And Alex is so proud of who I’ve become. You don’t know what all she sacrificed for me to get here. How do I tell her I might want something different?”
Dean’s quiet for a long moment, his fingers drawing abstract patterns along my side. “I might understand that part more than you think,” he finally says, voice rough.
I hesitate, then gather my courage. “Your sister?” I whisper, the question I’ve wanted to ask for weeks. “I’ve noticed you don’t talk about her. Is she…?” I let the question hang, afraid to assume the worst.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “She’s alive. Her wedding is coming up, actually. My mother sent an invitation but…” He releases a heavy breath. “I broke her heart once. She hasn’t spoken to me since. Some things can’t be fixed.”
“How long has it been?”
“More than a decade.”
“What?” I sit up and stare at him, pressing my palms against his sculpted chest. “Over ten years? Dean, that’s—” I stop myself from saying ‘ridiculous’ and soften my voice instead. “Have you tried reaching out? People change. Hearts heal.”
He kisses me, soft and slow, then offers a sad smile. “Thank you for caring. But, you don’t know my sister. It’s impossible.” Before I can protest his lips are on mine, gentle still but urgent. “Besides,” he whispers against them, “she’s not who I’m wanting to talk about right now.”
There’s a part of me that wants to press him for more about his sister. But the heat that pools in my body at his touch, the electric sizzle that seems to spark between us entirely drowns out that voice.
I kiss him instead. It turns deep and urgent. His hands slide down my curves and my fingers explore his shoulders then find his sweater’s hem. I hesitate for just a moment before slipping my hand under, savoring the warmth of his skin.
He inhales sharply at my touch, his muscles tensing then relaxing under my fingertips.
The sweater lifts away like a whispered crescendo, revealing a lean, muscled torso.
My breath catches as I take in the sight of him.
Dean’s always handsome, but like this—hair mussed, eyes dark with wanting, chest rising and falling rapidly—he’s breathtaking.
“Missy,” he breathes against my neck, his voice as rough as I’ve ever heard it. “Are you sure? I know I set this up in here but we don’t have to if you don’t want—”
“I want to.” I’ve never felt more sure of anything. “Please, Dean.”
The sound he makes against my skin resonates through me like the lowest note on Giuseppe’s strings.
His hands map my body with reverent precision, each touch an exploration of dynamics—soft then urgent, gentle then demanding as he peels clothes away.
When our eyes meet, the intensity in his gaze steals my breath.
I’ve seen that look before, during the storm when thunder cracked around us and lightning painted his features in stark relief.
But there’s no storm to blame for the electricity crackling between us, no thunder to drown out my racing heart.
His fingers trace the curve of my neck, like he’s memorizing sheet music.
His lips follow, and I arch into his touch, wanting more.
The way he holds me—like I’m something precious yet unbreakable, makes me feel both powerful and vulnerable.
My hands find their way to his hair, gripping, and the sound he makes vibrates into my skin.
“Wait,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my temple before reaching for his wallet. Even this moment feels charged with meaning—his care, his protection.
Then we’re creating our own symphony, every touch an arpeggio, every kiss a crescendo.
The twinkle lights cast their spell across his skin, turning our private concert into something sacred.
His hands map my body like he’s discovering a new instrument, learning which touches draw sighs, which caresses make me gasp.
I’ve performed in the world’s greatest concert halls, but nothing has ever felt as perfectly orchestrated as this—the way we move together, the rhythm we create, the harmonies we build.
At this moment, there’s no need for precision or technical mastery.
Just the pure music of two hearts finding their shared melody.
Later, wrapped in blankets and starlight, reality seeps back in. “I should go soon,” I mumble. “Before Alex worries.”
Dean pulls me closer but sighs against my shoulder. “You probably should.”
“Dean…” I hesitate. Swallow. Force myself to be brave and say the words. “I can’t keep pretending this is just…”
“I know.” His arm tightens.
“It’s complicated, I remember.”
He’s quiet for a long moment and I match my breathing to the waves. Before he speaks again, he presses a kiss to my shoulder. “If I asked you to trust me, to give me some time, and I promise I’ll explain everything—would you?”
The lights dance across the beaten walls.
I nestle my face into the blanket’s warmth and breathe in Dean’s cinnamon and salt scent, letting the familiar mixture settle my racing thoughts.
Trust has always been complicated for me.
I’ve spent so many years being what others needed, measuring my worth in perfect performances and meeting expectations.
But Dean… Dean sees past the polished exterior to the messy, uncertain woman beneath.
He’s never asked me to be anything but exactly who I am.
“Yes,” I whisper, surprised by how easily the word comes. Like the natural resolution of a complex chord progression, like finding the perfect note after searching through endless variations. “I can do that.”
As we dress, his hand lingers on my cheek with a tenderness that has me holding my breath. For the first time, I let myself imagine building a future here—not just with Dean, but in Magnolia Cove. Teaching music, writing my own songs, creating something true.
We part ways as always—walking back on separate paths. But tonight, something shifts in me like a key change in a familiar melody. I turn back, drawn by an impulse I don’t resist, and find him still standing in the gathering dusk, watching me go.
The way he looks at me—unguarded, longing, real—mirrors everything that thrums through my skin. We’ve crossed some invisible threshold, moved beyond the realm of stolen moments and secret smiles into something deeper.
The composition of us has shifted—evolved into something too powerful to contain in mere snippets of stolen time. There’s no more pretending this isn’t changing us both.