Page 57 of Every Shattered Note
After I found out that the musician I’ve been fantasizing about since that night at the burger place—the one who smiled at me like he was seeing something worth remembering—isn’t just anyone.
He’s Dexter freaking Vaughn.
He says he’s sorry for deceiving me, but what about me?What am I supposed to do with this?
This can’t happen.I’m just ...me.A woman with a credit card balance, deadlines that won’t quit, and a car that still smells faintly like orchids from last week’s wedding.And he’s—well, him.A name passed around backstage and scribbled in gossip columns, the person people speculate about but never truly know.
I came along because I wanted to figure out what I was missing.I knew something wasn’t quite right.Let’s say that it was curiosity more than courage.Jules signed an NDA—she only bets on sure things.She verifies everything before she signs anything.She told me to trust her.
Still, during the flight, I can’t stop replaying the timeline in my head.
A hotel lobby.A stranger with a guitar.A wrong assumption.
And now, a private jet slicing through the night sky like none of it could possibly be real.
It’s absurd.Unrealistic.Something out of one of those dramas I used to watch with my sister, where the girl gets caught in a whirlwind that isn’t meant for her.
“Why were you in the hotel carrying a guitar?”I finally ask, breaking the silence that’s been stretching between us like static.I pause, then add, “And wearing glasses.Drenched.Then, somehow, looking dapper in a suit twenty minutes later.What’s that about?”
His mouth lifts in what could almost be a smile—but not quite.It’s hesitant, restrained.Then he clears his throat.
“Some kid dumped a cherry bomb in his parents’ bathroom and blew up half the plumbing in the building,” he says.“My penthouse looked like a swimming pool.”
Of course, he lives in a penthouse.
Okay.Maybe things are starting to make sense now.“Is that why you said you were between homes?”
He nods once, casual like it’s not completely unhinged.Like explosions and penthouses and hiding in plain sight are just part of his weekly schedule.
He goes on, voice softer now.“That Saturday was already going to shit,” he admits, then pauses—eyes flicking to my mouth for a second too long before meeting mine again.“You didn’t even notice all my suitcases being wheeled toward the elevator.I had a few suits with me.Rosie was there, like always.”
My jaw slackens slightly.“So I met you on what was officially your worst day?”
He nods again, but slower this time.The way he looks at me—like he’s rewinding something he wants to relive—it makes my stomach twist in a way I don’t want to analyze.
“Yes,” he says.“Until you pulled me out of it.You dragged me out of my own head and made me do something I hadn’t done in a long time—play without expectations.”
“With musicians you’d never met,” I add.
He huffs a quiet laugh, then leans his head against the seat like he’s back in that moment.
“That part was easy.Grandpa taught me young: adapt, blend, listen harder than you play.That’s all music is, really.You disappear into it until it makes room for you.”
He looks out the window for a second, then back at me.
“But it was weird, you know?”he says, quieter now.“No arena.No noise.No fans screaming my name.No one had a clue who I was.”
His lips twitch—not quite a smile, not quite a frown.
“It was so fucking weird.And somehow ...perfect.”
I tilt my head.“The musicians didn’t recognize you?”
He averts his eyes.“I might’ve paid them for their silence.”
My eyebrows shoot up.“Paid them?”
“That wedding was fucking expensive,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.“Between the thousand I gave Rafe and?—”
