Sweet Harmony (Magnolia Cove Magic)

Chapter 1 Rachel

Rachel

I should have known better than to wear my favorite flats to the beach.

"A little to the left," I call to Mia, who's helping me navigate our secondhand snow cone cart through the stubborn sand. The wheels, which had seemed perfectly serviceable during our test run on the boardwalk, now sink with every push. "No, my left. Your right. Oh, forget it—"

I abandon my end of the cart, letting it tilt precariously as I wipe my forehead with my sleeve.

My carefully braided hair is already escaping in the morning humidity, and strands cling to my neck.

The cart's hand-painted sign—Musical Melts: Snow Cones with Soul—had taken me three attempts to get just right.

Now, it seems to mock me with its cheerfulness.

My fingers find their way to the cart's metal side, tapping out an anxious rhythm. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

"Tell me again," Mia says, leaning against the handle of our temperamental vehicle, "how is this going to save the school's music program?"

"Too many of the instruments have worn out, and we don't have the funds to replace them.

Twenty thousand dollars by summer's end.

That's what the board said. That's what we'll get.

" I straighten my wide-brimmed hat, trying to look more confident than I feel.

"With tourist season and Ethan Hart's bakery bringing in all those viral video visitors—"

The words die in my throat.

There, in the distance, occupying the prime spot where the boardwalk meets the beach, stands what can only be described as an ice cream oasis.

The stand gleams in the morning sun, polished chrome and vintage-inspired curves catching the light.

A striped awning in cream and pale blue offers shade to an already-forming line of customers.

But what really catches my attention is the elegant script across the top: Grant's Coastal Creamery.

Behind the counter, the sleeves of his fitted linen shirt rolled to his elbows, stands a man I've never seen before.

He's methodically arranging what look like bamboo bowls, each movement precise and practiced.

The morning breeze ruffles his dark curls as he works, and even from a distance, I can see the intensity of his focus.

A melody hums in my head—something in a minor key, with an edge to it.

"Oh no," Mia whispers. "Oh no. Rachel—"

But I'm already marching across the sand, my flats completely useless in this terrain. When one slips off, I snatch it up and continue my charge, clutching it like an impromptu weapon. This is what I get for choosing cute over practical today of all days.

The man—someone named Grant, I presume—looks up as I approach. His eyes are the kind of deep blue that remind me of the ocean during winter, and they widen slightly at what I'm sure is my thunderous expression. But his composure doesn't crack.

"Good morning," he says, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Can I interest you in our signature—"

"What is this?" I demand, gesturing at his setup with my shoe. Real professional, Rachel. Nothing says take me seriously like wielding footwear.

One dark eyebrow arches. "This," he says, adjusting a silver scoop to align perfectly with its fellows, "is an ice cream stand. I thought that was fairly obvious from the signage."

My fingers start their telltale tapping against my thigh.

One, two, three, four. The same rhythm I use to help my students keep time.

Magnolia Cove Middle may not have an official music teacher—I double down, teaching four English classes and also overseeing the afternoon band and symphony.

But music is my passion. For kids who live in a magical pocket community on an island—a place that helps protect the bits and bobs of magic we all possess but also keeps us separate from the rest of the world—band class offers an escape.

An opportunity to excel at something that has nothing to do with magic.

A chance to travel to competitions, to see more of the world, to make friends who get them.

"I mean, what is it doing here? I petitioned the council for permission to sell on this beach. It took me weeks to gather signatures, present my proposals—"

"Ah." He straightens, and I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.

Not that I'm noticing how his height or presence makes my stomach twist. "You must be Ms. Williams. The music teacher.

" His tone is cordial, but something flickers in those stormy blue eyes—recognition, maybe even admiration, quickly masked.

"The council's decision opened beach vending to all qualified applicants.

They were particularly interested in established businesses with proven track records. "

The implied criticism stings worse than the sand between my toes. Heat creeps up my neck, and not just from the morning sun. "So you just swooped in to take advantage of someone else's hard work?"

"I'd say I'm taking advantage of a business opportunity," Grant corrects, picking up a bamboo bowl and straightening it. "The beach is a public space. You're welcome to set up your"—his gaze drifts to my cart in the distance—"enterprise wherever you'd like."

A customer clears their throat behind me. I suddenly remember I'm still holding my shoe like some sort of deranged Cinderella.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," Grant says, his professional smile firmly in place, though it doesn't quite reach those interesting eyes of his.

"I have customers waiting. Though…" He pauses, and that flicker of something genuine crosses his face again.

"I do hope you'll stay and observe. You might pick up some useful tips about customer service. "

I open my mouth, close it, then open it again. But for once, no words come out. Not even a note. Instead, I spin on my one-shod foot and stalk back to my cart, where Mia waits with a sympathetic wince.

"So," she says as I aggressively jam my foot back into my shoe, "I'm guessing we're not giving up?"

My hands grip the cart's handle. In the distance, I can hear the cheerful ring of his antique cash register, the delighted murmurs of his growing crowd of customers. The melody in my head grows louder, more insistent. My jaw sets.

"Give up?" I shove the cart with a determined push, and this time, it rolls forward. "Mia, we haven't even started fighting." I'm good at fighting—at focusing on goals and keeping my heart safely tucked away from distractions. Even irritatingly handsome ones with perfect ice cream spirals.

As I position our cart at what I hope is a strategic distance, I notice the shimmering sparkle of magic at his ice cream cart.

So this Grant, this Mr. watch-me-to-learn-about-customer-service snob, has magic.

No surprises there. The council would never allow a non-resident to start a business on the island.

But that complicates things further. I have magic, but it's wobbly.

I won't sell a million snow cones because of magical enhancement.

Anyway, I have bigger problems than my lack of magic-wielding abilities or irritatingly handsome ice cream vendors. I have a music program to save.

Even if it means going to war in impractical shoes.