Chapter 6 Rachel
Rachel
The fluorescent lights flicker to life with a familiar hum as I unlock the music room door.
At nine p.m., the school hallways feel like a different world—echoey and strange, populated by shadowy versions of the usual school day sounds.
My footsteps bounce off metal lockers, and somewhere deep in the building, an ancient AC unit groans to life.
I'd rather be home, maybe reading the spicy monster romance Rhianna's been raving about, but these instrument inventory sheets won't fill themselves.
Everyone claims teachers get the summer off.
If they only knew how much work we all have to complete before the new school year, they might change their tune.
And since my days are now dedicated to waging snow cone warfare on the beach. ..
A smile slides up my face as I remember the five hundred dollars Grammie Rae handed me today.
But it falls away just as quickly when I think about how far we have left to go.
My fingers find their way to my thigh, tapping out a steady rhythm.
It's as natural as breathing, a habit that drives my students crazy, but keeps me grounded when everything else feels like it's spinning out of control.
That's when I hear it—a soft jazz piano drifting down the hall like a ghost. The melody is haunting, something classical but reimagined, twisted into new shapes that make my heart ache. For a moment, I think I'm imagining it—too many late nights surrounded by silent instruments, maybe.
But no—the music is real, flowing from the secondary practice room. The one with the ancient upright piano that perpetually needs tuning. Except it doesn't sound ancient now. It sounds… alive.
I follow the sound, drawn like a sailor to a siren's song.
Through the door's narrow window, I glimpse Grant Pierce at the piano, his dark wavy hair falling across his forehead as his hands dance over the keys.
He's angled slightly toward me, just enough that I can see the undone buttons of his shirt and the way his sleeves are rolled up.
The sharp, polished image from the beach is gone, replaced with something more raw, more human.
His broad shoulders still dominate his frame, but there's a looseness to him now, a quiet intensity that pulls me closer.
He's playing The Bach Suite: Allegro, but not like I've ever heard it before. The familiar melody weaves through jazz harmonies, transforming into something both old and new, structured and wild. My breath catches.
His conversation yesterday had seemed so careful. But there's nothing careful about how he's playing.
He'd appeared at my cart all pressed linen and practiced charm, ordering a snow cone like it was some kind of peace offering. Though, when he'd licked the melting treat from his fingers, I'd fought a shiver. There wasn't anything careful in that gesture, either.
And now here he is, probably breaking every rule in his family's precious handbooks. A Pierce, playing jazz music so passionately it makes me want to cry in a well-worn middle school music room well past dark.
His too-generous tip still burns a hole in my cart's money box, and I've spent half the day convincing myself it meant nothing—that he was just another rich guy trying to ease his conscience about taking up space on the beach.
But this… this isn't the carefully measured movements of someone following a corporate handbook.
This is raw, real, and absolutely beautiful.
His whole body sways with the music, like he's finally letting himself breathe after holding it in all day.
Like he's speaking a language he's been forbidden to use.
I know I should leave. I should close the door and pretend I never saw this side of him.
It would be easier to keep fighting our little beach territory war if I didn't know he could make music like this.
If I couldn't see how the moonlight streaming through the dusty windows turns him into someone else entirely, gleams in his eyes with a passion I didn't know a man like him could possess.
My hand finds the doorknob before I can think better of it. The hinges creak—because of course they do—and Grant's hands freeze on the keys. He turns, and in the dim light from the hallway, his eyes look almost black.
"Rachel." My name in his voice sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. "I didn't think anyone would be here this late."
"I could say the same." I lean against the doorframe, aiming for casualness despite my racing pulse. "Breaking and entering to play Bach? That's a new one."
A smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. "I asked around about where I could find a piano to play. The principal let me in. I… may have bribed him with ice cream."
"Of course you did." I step into the room, drawn by some force I can't name. Or maybe I don't want to. "I didn't know you played."
"It's not something I share." He shifts on the bench, making room. An invitation. "My father would say I'm doing a proper job of maintaining the correct image."
I shouldn't sit. I have inventory to do, supplies to organize, a program to save.
But my feet carry me to the piano anyway.
The moment I settle beside him on the narrow bench, warmth radiates through my whole left side where we touch—shoulder to hip to knee.
It's like slipping into a hot bath after a long day at the beach—that same sense of oh and finally all at once.
His cologne is subtle but intoxicating, mixing with the scents of wood polish and sheet music that always linger in this room. I'm aware of every breath, every tiny shift of his body, the way his hands hover over the keys with long, elegant fingers.
He'd been talking about his father, something he seems to do a lot. From the little I've heard about the great Mr. Pierce, the man could give a master class on crushing dreams. No wonder Grant escaped to Magnolia Cove, even if he brought some of those polished edges with him.
I realize I've been quiet too long, lost in my thoughts and the warmth of him beside me. He's waiting for me to reply to his comment about what his father would think.
"And what would you say?"
His fingers brush the keys, not playing, just touching. Like he's remembering something. "I'd say I came to Magnolia Cove to figure that out."
Just like that, another piece of the Grant Pierce puzzle clicks into place.
I've suspected there was more beneath that perfectly pressed surface.
I glimpsed it in the way he's watched my students play, how he actually listens when people talk to him at his cart instead of just serving them and sending them on their way.
And okay, yes, even without all that, he's ridiculously attractive.
The kind of handsome that usually comes with an ego to match.
But watching him now, backlit by moonlight, his guard finally lowering…
There's something quietly beautiful about him that has nothing to do with these broad shoulders or the way his rolled-up sleeves reveal surprisingly muscular forearms.
Knowing he's not the heartless corporate invader I first assumed makes it harder to ignore the way my pulse quickens when he's nearby. Harder to pretend I don't catch myself looking for him on the beach each morning.
The practice room feels smaller suddenly, more intimate. Grant's shoulder brushes mine as he plays again, softer this time. A melody I don't recognize.
"Something original?" I ask.
He nods, still playing. "I used to compose all the time, before... well, before the family business required my full attention." His hands still. "Father says composition is beneath the Pierce name. Too unpredictable. Too emotional. Too… self-indulgent."
"That's ridiculous." The words burst out before I can stop them.
"Music is supposed to be emotional. That's the whole point.
" I turn toward him, and our knees brush.
"And self-indulgent? Please. If pouring your heart into something that moves people is self-indulgent, then every great composer in history was guilty.
Bach had twenty kids and still found time to write music.
I'd say you're allowed to indulge yourself a little. "
Grant turns to look at me, and I realize how close we are. Close enough that I can see the faint stubble along his jaw, and catch the scent of sea salt and something sweeter that clings to his skin.
"Thank you, by the way," I whisper. "For the tip yesterday. It was... excessive."
"It wasn't enough." His voice drops lower, matching the intimate darkness around us.
"What you're doing—fighting for these kids, for their chance to find this…
" He gestures to the room, the ancient instruments sleeping in their cases, the sheet music waiting to be awakened.
"For them to hear that their desires are important.
It matters, Rachel. More than selling ice cream ever could. "
"We're still twelve thousand short." The words catch in my throat. I haven't admitted that to anyone yet—not even Mia. "The board wants to redirect the funds to STEM programs, which is important, I know. But..." My fingers find their familiar rhythm against my knee. One-two-three-four.
Grant's hand covers mine, stilling the motion.
His palm is warm, and surprisingly, slightly calloused.
"You'll find a way. I've seen you on that beach, conducting your impromptu concerts.
The rest of the town loves you. You should hear how the parents of your students speak about you. You're... remarkable."
The word hangs between us like a note held too long, vibrating with possibility. I should pull away. Should remember that he's my competition—that his fancy chrome cart is everything that doesn't belong in our quirky little town.
Instead, I turn my hand under his, letting our fingers intertwine.
He releases a breath. It's the loudest sound I've ever heard.
"Play something else?" I whisper. "Play me your favorite song."