Page 53 of Strings Attached

“Hey… Dean.” She laughs awkwardly. “Nice weather we’re having, huh?”

His nod is pure Head Warlock, but when I nudge him, his expression warms. “It’s been a mild autumn. That’s always nice.”

Rhianna stares at him like a gargoyle just spoke and I’m once again biting back a laugh. Progress, one note at a time.

Zoe’s voice cuts through the chatter as she presents her latest creation. “Behold! Lavender-honey buttercream with elderflower sponge and edible gold leaf.” The cake sparkles with barely contained magic. “Tell me this isn’t the most exciting wedding cake concept you’ve ever seen.”

“It’s beautiful, Zoe,” Alex says.

Zoe props a hand on a hip. “You don’t like it, though, do you?” She stabs a knife into it. “Don’t tell me you’re going to be one of those tragic vanilla-and-buttercream couples. Next you’ll tell me you want the most basic roses piped on the cake. My artistic soul can’t take this level of betrayal.”

Mia passes around samples and we all start nibbling them, the flavors exploding in my mouth—each bite revealing newdepths and complexities. And the feeling—the magic—tastes exactly how happily ever after would taste. I catch Dean’s eye and my heart swells with recognition. Because I already know this flavor, this blend of sweetness and certainty.

Alex finishes her bite. “It’s delicious, Zoe.”

Zoe props both fists on her hips. “But?”

“I do really like vanilla cake.” Alex almost winces when she says it.

Ethan wraps an arm around her waist. “Whatever Alex likes is perfect to me.”

“You two are literally a tragedy.” Zoe throws her hands up. “I’m trying to create art here!”

“Well…” Alex exchanges a look with Ethan, one of those silent conversations they’ve mastered. “We’ve actually been thinking. One cake seems… limiting, especially given the talent we have at our disposal.” Her eyes sparkle as they meet Ethan’s again before returning to Zoe. “What if we gave you creative license over an entire cake table? Something that really lets you showcase your artistic vision?”

Zoe freezes mid-gesture, her eyes widening like Alex just told her they discovered a new flavor of sugar. “An entire table?” A grin breaks across her face and her eyes have gone bright and wild. “Now you’re speaking my language, Sugar. I only have a few months left, though. I need to plan.”

I chuckle as Dean and I drift to a quiet corner with other samples Mia has produced. His fingers trace patterns on my hand as we taste each option and Tom expounds on the possibilities now that they have aninwith the Head Warlock. “Just think of the magical potential,” he says, gesturing at Dean without looking at him and therefore missing the skeptical lift of his brow. “We could really push the boundaries of enchanted pastries.”

“My desserts stand on their own.” Zoe crosses her arms and her tattoos peek past her sweater’s sleeves. “They don’t need magical flair.”

Tom scoffs. “You literally love flair.”

Rhianna giggles from across the room. “Who doesn’t?”

Their voices and laughter fade into a pleasant hum as I turn my attention back to Dean. He’s watching me with that softness that still makes my heart skip—the way his careful control melts at the edges when we’re together, like frost yielding to spring sunshine.

He gestures with his fork at his empty plate. “They’re all excellent. Do you think you’d have the Whisk make your wedding cake one day?”

I go still, my fork suspended halfway to my mouth. Dean blinks, his mouth falling open slightly, as if to backpedal, but no words come out. His hand drops the fork with a clatter, and he quickly picks it up, gripping it too tightly. A flush creeps up his neck to his ears, and he shifts in his chair, suddenly hyper-focused on the smudge of frosting on the edge of his plate. “I mean… if that’s something you’d ever… you know… want. Not that you—uh.” His voice fades, and he stabs at an invisible crumb, his gaze fixed anywhere but on me.

I laugh first. Then Dean joins me and the tension dissolves into something sweeter than any of Zoe’s creations.

“Of course,” I say, squeezing his hand. “What’s a brother-in-law for if he doesn’t make my cake?” Our eyes meet, and in that look I see our future stretching out before us like an unfinished song waiting to be written. “Besides, you know I’m going to have to play at their wedding. I’d say they owe me.”

“That sounds fair.”

Around us, the Whisk hums with magic and laughter, with friendship and possibility. Dean’s thumb brushes across my knuckles, and I lean into him, savoring this moment of perfectimperfection. This is what I was searching for all those years on stage—not the perfect performance, but genuine connection. Not technical precision, but real magic.

Some songs take time to find their true melody. Beethoven spent a decade refining his Ninth Symphony, searching for something that speaks to the soul. Two centuries later, it’s a masterpiece that echoes in every grand music hall around the world. I meet Dean’s dark eyes, his soft smile, that rare thing he offers only to me. And it strikes me—that’s the magic of a truly great song. Once it finds its harmony, it doesn’t just resonate, it lingers, timeless and unforgettable.