Chapter 5 Grant #2
When she hands me the snow cone, our fingers brush. The contact sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with the ice. I nod to her still-tapping fingers. "Maybe I'm just curious to discover what's worth singing about."
She pulls her hand back but smiles, her expression turning slightly smug. "Ah, so you paid attention to our little concert."
"Hard to miss. I think half the beach was dancing by the end."
Rachel shrugs, and another strand of hair slips free. I've never once in my life wanted to do something as much as brush it behind her ear, to feel the softness between my fingers. The snow cone's iciness bleeds into my hand, freezing me in place.
"That's mostly Zoe's doing," she says. "She has that effect on people. I notice you resisted the urge to join in."
"Some of us have a reputation to maintain." I'm smiling. The snow cone is melting, syrup dripping onto my hand, and Rachel Williams has eyes that look like sunlit amber. "The Pierce family handbook probably has an entire chapter against impromptu dance parties."
"There's an actual handbook?" She leans down against her cart's counter, making her eyes look large and her lips pouty.
I don't understand how this woman is single.
I found that information out from the owner of the Hungry Gull, who gave me an unprompted rundown of the Cove's most eligible residents.
The local gossip mill is good for something, it seems.
"Three volumes. Color-coded tabs. My father takes ice cream very seriously."
She laughs, the sound as warm and rich as I'd imagined. "It's ice cream! It's supposed to be fun, not a corporate mission statement."
"Try telling that to a Pierce."
"I just did." Her smirk makes my heart stop. I don't even care that a bit of frozen, sticky, food-dyed ice has just landed on my knuckle.
"And what about music?" I ask, the words slipping out before I think better of them. Because apparently, I can't think at all in this woman's presence.
Her smile fades slightly, replaced by something fiercer.
"Music should be about fun too. But it's hard to keep it that way when the school board is implementing budget cuts.
" Her fingers start their telltale tapping against the counter.
"You know, I met my best friends in the middle school band?
We were this weird little group of misfits who couldn't throw a ball to save our lives, but put instruments in our hands…
" She trails off, shaking her head. "It gives a magical kid confidence when they learn they don't need to hide behind their powers.
And how are we supposed to keep the high school music program going if we cut it at the middle school level?
That's when kids need to start. I mean, every time a new sixth-grader picks up a violin, I'm pretty sure I lose a year off my life from the screeching—but they're amazing.
The program is amazing. It can't just… end. "
"Ah yes, the fundraiser." I lick the ice from my hand, then up the cone to keep it from continuing to melt over my fingers.
I'm hyper-aware of her gaze as it follows the motion, lingering just a second longer than it should.
Heat builds in me, and it has nothing to do with the sun.
I feel the sudden need to redirect. "Every resident mentions it when they stop by my cart.
Usually with pointed looks of disapproval. "
I mimic the look they give me, and she giggles. The sound is musical, and it's yet another detail about her I wish I could capture—something to play back in my mind when she isn't around.
"Well, you have to admit, your cart is very… bold… for Magnolia Cove."
I look back at Grant's Coastal Creamery.
Chrome gleams in the setting sun, every surface polished to mirror brightness.
She's right—it stands out against the weathered boardwalk and hand-painted signs like a Rolex at a farmer's market.
For the first time since I set it up, I wonder if I made a mistake.
After all, I came here to escape the Pierce & Sons aesthetic, not replicate it.
"Maybe I overshot a bit." I turn back to find her watching me with curious eyes.
"I was so focused on proving I could do this on my own, I didn't stop to think if I should do it differently.
" The words feel strange in my mouth—Pierce men don't admit mistakes—but something about her makes me want to be honest. "The recipes are mine though.
Not my father's. That's something, at least."
Her expression softens. "I've heard the ice cream is very good." Then a hint of her earlier smile returns. "Even if your cart looks like it landed from outer space."
"Are you implying I'm an alien?"
The smile grows until her cheeks dimple. She winks—actually winks—and my heart swoops into my stomach. "Don't worry about it. Our book club has a thing for aliens. Just ask Tom and Rhianna about next month's pick."
Someone walks up behind me, and just like that, our moment breaks. Rachel straightens, professional demeanor sliding back into place. "Hi there! What can I get for you today?"
While she's distracted with the order, I slip several large bills into her tip jar, significantly more than the cost of one cone.
It's fascinating, really—watching someone fight this hard, not for profit or prestige, but simply because she believes these kids deserve a chance at music.
No hidden angle, no social media strategy, no networking opportunities.
Just pure passion and determination to help others.
I'm halfway back to my cart before she can notice my contribution.
It's not much, considering what she needs to raise, but it feels different from any donation I've ever made.
More real. More like a choice I'm making for myself, rather than another line item in the Pierce family's carefully curated public image.
If I could access my money without Father's notice, I could just donate whatever she needed and free her from the summer job.
But I somehow know Rachel would never admire a man who tried to purchase her respect.
And besides, there's no way for me to move five figures without my father breathing fire down my neck about it and refusing to make a donation that doesn't come with corporate sponsorships.
One song Rachel's students played earlier is stuck in my head on my way home. I haven't touched a piano in months—there wasn't room for one in my carefully planned move to Magnolia Cove. But tonight, my fingers itch to play, to capture something of what I witnessed on the beach.
Something that has nothing to do with precision, or tradition, or the Pierce family name.
Something that tastes like rainbow ice and sounds like joy.
Something that feels dangerously like falling.