Page 65 of Mountain Bean Dream

He leaned impossibly close. “Somehow over the past week, which is crazy because how can it happen like that, and so fast too? Somehow I’ve fallen for you, and I can’t help myself. You’ve been the first thing on my mind when I wake up and the last thing I think about before I fall asleep. That kiss?”

“The one at trivia night?” I held my breath as I replayed it in my mind.

“Yeah.”

“It wasn’t fake, was it?”

Slowly, he shook his head.

A huge smile bubbled out of me, spreading over my face. “It wasn’t for me either.”

“Really?” The award for genuine happiness was all Jeremy’s.

Inhaling, he cupped my cheek, stroking it lightly as he brushed his lips across mine, teasing and wanting. When I came up for air, my soul felt lighter than it ever had.

The doctor was barely a flicker in my thoughts now. Jeremy, on the other hand? He was a full-on forest fire. Smoldering, steady, and all-consuming. A man I hadn’t expected. A hope I didn’t deserve.

* * *

As I left the dance floor, the warmth of Jeremy’s hand lingered on mine, the weight of his words still wrapping around my heart. My cheeks were flushed from more than just the swing of the music, my pulse quick with something I didn’t want to name.

Sliding onto the edge of the stage, I cradled my flute in my lap, its familiar weight cool against my damp palms. Around me, the people buzzed; laughter mingling with the clink of glasses and the low hum of conversation. The elegant warmth of it all felt distant like I was watching a scene from a movie.

For the first time in years, I’d felt like I belonged here—like Molly was enough. Not Holly Gaudreau, the actress. Not some version of me shaped to fit others’ expectations. Just Molly. And I was okay with that.

Completely and truly.

I glanced across the room to where the handsome Jeremy stood at the bar. His tie was loosened, and his jacket slung over the back of a chair. However, his relaxed posture had stiffened. He wasn’t looking at me anymore. His smile—the one that made me feel like I was the only person in the world—was gone.

Had I imagined it? The connection between us, the spark that felt so undeniable. My chest tightened. My breathing became uneven. No, it wasn’t in my head. But something had shifted. Why?

The conductor’s baton rapped sharply against the music stand, breaking through the fog in my head. I straightened andlifted my flute, willing my fingers to steady as the first notes of the set began.

I’d done this countless times. The melody should have come effortlessly, weaving through the room with practiced ease. Instead, my fingers trembled over the keys. My breath became shaky. My focus was splintered and the rhythm slipped just out of reach.

Then, from the corner of my eye, I spotted her.

She lingered near the edge of the room, partially obscured by a potted fern. Her black pantsuit was sharp but unremarkable—except for the camera in her hands. My stomach dipped.

It wasn’t the kind of camera you brought for casual snapshots. The lens was long. Pointed. Deliberate. And it was aimed directly at me.

My fingers stumbled over the keys, the next note cracking in the air like glass shattering on marble. The clarinet player beside me shot a glance my way. I forced a tight smile, heat flooding my cheeks as I adjusted my pained grip on the flute.

Maybe she’s with the fundraiser. The conductor did say someone would be taking pictures for the community music program.

But the pit in my stomach deepened as the camera’s flash lit up the room.

The next note wavered, slipping through my grasp.

This was innocent, she was just here to highlight the music and bring attention to the community music program. But my instincts whispered otherwise, the thought gnawing at the edges of my panic.

Was she here for me? Had I been outed?

The potted fern shifted as the woman stepped forward, the camera rising for another shot. My pulse quickened. Two men moved in from opposite sides of the room, their cameras at the ready. Their movements were smooth, practiced, and theirattention was targeted on the stage.

On me.

Murky whispers rolled through the crowd, my stage name breezing off the tips of their tongues. They were soft at first but swelled into a low hum. Heads turned. Fingers pointed. Curiosity surfaced.