Page 33 of Every Shattered Note
“I’m thinking a lot of things.Mostly that we’re absolutely fucked.”
“You’re thinking about Rafe.”
I ignore her and start flipping through the folders again, pretending I’m looking for a solution that isn’t a tall, broody problem with a vintage guitar and a face that should come with a warning label.
“This isn’t a farmer’s market,” I mutter.“We can’t just swap out the musical talent and hope nobody notices.”
“He’s more than talent,” Jules says.“He’s really good.The guy doesn’t just play the songs but makes them evolve.”
“He seems flaky,” I snap, my voice climbing.“He showed up solo, rewrote the damn setlist without asking, looked at me like he already knew the answer to every question I hadn’t even asked—then disappeared before I could find out if he’s even legally allowed to play weddings in the state of Washington.”
She laughs.“That’s not even a thing.Still, he’s a challenge and you love those.”
“I love a completed contract and a rehearsal dinner that doesn’t end in someone crying.”
She points toward the clipboard again.“So what’s that?”
I glance down.
Rafe—contact to get the fucking demo ASAP.
The handwriting’s mine.The fury is mine.But the whispery lyrics that are making my insides go all knotty?That’s all him.
I sigh and lean against the wall, letting my head tip back.The paint’s cool against my scalp.Somewhere in the living room, the drama show resumes, some doctor yelling, “We’re losing him,” over the hum of fake defibrillators.
But I’m still hearing him.
Rafe’s voice.
Low.Rough.Laced with something decadent—like velvet dragged across gravel.It lingers in the back of my mind, curling around every thought, every breath.A voice that settles into your spine and doesn’t leave even when you’re trying to hum the Flintstones theme song to get it out of your head.
His voice shouldn’t have done this much damage.It was one audition.One man, a guitar, and a voice that unraveled something I didn’t even realize I’d wrapped in steel.Now it’s all frayed nerves and heat blooming beneath my skin like an aftershock.I should be calculating logistics, finishing the setlist, making client calls.Instead, I’m replaying the way his eyes cut through the room like he already knew how it would end.Like he saw something in me I’ve spent years burying beneath clipboards and carefully orchestrated timelines.
This isn’t a crush.It’s not butterflies or giddy little sparks fluttering in my stomach.It’s pressure—low, rising, impossible to ignore.The sort that coils beneath your ribs and makes breathing feel like work.My body remembers every note, every glance, every quiet pause.They still vibrate somewhere beneath my skin.
Fuck.
It’s not just the way he sang At Last.It’s how he reshaped it—like it wasn’t a cover, but something he’d lived.Something he missed.
It’s a damn wedding song every bride wants.I shouldn’t be obsessing over it like this.But now it’s stuck.
Or maybe it’s not the song.
Maybe it’s him.
The way he looked at me like I wasn’t just another client.Like he saw right through my clipboard and blazer and straight into the part of me that still secretly loves music.The part that believes the right voice can make people stay.
I pick up my pen again, then pause.
“Jules,” I say slowly, “what if he’s dangerous?”
She snorts.“Dangerous how?Like you’ll fall for him while he’s harmonizing with YMCA?”
I don’t answer.
Because that’s exactly the problem.
It’s the way he’s already in my head.
