Page 4 of Every Shattered Note
“Good.Because we can’t have a damp guitarist ruining my perfectly curated humidity levels.”I point at his hair.“You’ll need to dry it.Use Hand dryer in the men’s bathroom right here in the lobby.”
He lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug that should be irritating but somehow isn’t.“Listen?—”
“No.You listen, Rafe.”I jab my pen toward him for emphasis.“We spoke.You were supposed to be here on time, in suit form, prepped, and with a vague notion of who Hall & Oates are.”I give him my best stink-eye, an expression I reserve for vendors and exes.
He snorts—a sound that’s almost a laugh, like he’s testing the air for how far he can go.The corner of his mouth curves, slow and defiant, like a dare wrapped in apology.“Sure,” he says, that smirk settling in, equal parts charm and chaos.“I’ve, uh ...heard of them.Maybe.”
My eyes narrow.“You think that’s funny?”
“I think it’s tragic you’re this stressed about an eighties playlist.”
“I think it’s tragic you don’t have a musical education.”
That earns a low chuckle—dark, lazy, and far too pleasant.It slides under my skin, setting something off inside me, like an old record catching on a lyric I wasn’t ready to hear again.Damn it.
He leans forward, a little too close, voice dropping just enough to sound amused.“What’s your name again?”
“Alyssa.”My brain misfires, stumbles, then corrects itself with a silent curse.“Alyssa Stone.I hired you, remember?Over the phone.The polite-but-panicked late-night slot so you could play at this wedding.”
“Right.Play.”His grin widens, like he’s trying not to laugh at some inside joke I’m not in on.
He’s infuriating.If I didn’t desperately need him right now, I’d be escorting his smug, rain-soaked self right back out the revolving doors.“Do you remember the playlist, or did it go on an adventure with your car battery?”
He tilts his head, pretending to think.“Hmm.That’s possible.”
“Possible?”
“Probable.”
I glare.
He just looks back, patient, lips twitching like he’s trying to behave.“Relax, Alyssa.I’ll manage.If you tape the setlist to the stage, I’ll follow it like a map.”
“Wonderful.”I pinch the bridge of my nose.“I’m dealing with a musician who’d get lost even with MapQuest printed out.”
He grins, unbothered.“To be fair, I’m great with directions.Terrible with rules.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“Didn’t say it was supposed to be.”
God, he’s enjoying this.He’s that specific brand of impossible that thrives on deadlines and disapproval.
I could tell him this is so fucking unprofessional, but I don’t have the luxury of another replacement.“Fine.We’ll do it your way.For now.”I point toward the ballroom doors like I’m directing a parade of clowns.“You have five minutes.Go to the bathroom.Dry off.Change.I don’t want to see one drop of water on you, got it?No soggy solos.I don’t do acoustics that sound like a weather report.”
He follows my gesture, smirking.“You’re very specific for someone under this much pressure.”
“Specific is how this ship stays afloat.”
“Noted, Captain.”
Then he taps the guitar case, gentle but sure, like it’s breathing under his hand.“She never fails me.”
“Good to know,” I mutter, crossing my arms.“Because I don’t have the time—or budget—for failure.”
He winks.“I’ll try not to disappoint.”
That offhanded charm should be illegal in at least three states.Probably four.I don't roll my eyes because professionalism demands it, but there’s a traitorous part of me that wants to ...not punch his shoulder exactly, but something that sits between that and buying him coffee.Maybe both.
