Page 12 of Every Shattered Note
I arch a brow, fighting the urge to laugh.“You really know how to motivate a guy.”
A muscle jumps in her jaw.“You seem like someone who doesn’t hear ‘no’ often.”
She’s not wrong, but I can’t tell if she’s curious or just done with me.
She studies me, expression unreadable, like she’s trying to pinpoint my angle—why I’m still here, what I want.Maybe part of her suspects there’s more beneath the soaked musician who appeared out of nowhere.Maybe part of her already knows.
I sling Rosie’s strap over my shoulder and nod toward her clipboard.“You’re good at this.”
“It’s my job,” she says automatically.
“No,” I counter, my voice dropping, softer now.“You’re really good.”
Her eyes lift, wary.She’s searching for sarcasm.There’s none to find.
“I mean it,” I add.“You pulled off a flawless night after a last-minute swap with a guy you didn’t even trust.That’s not luck—that’s skill.”
Something in her expression softens, then shutters again.She looks away, pretending to check her notes.Maybe compliments confuse her more than problems do.
“You were good too, Rafe,” she says after a beat.
I almost tell her.Almost.
That my name isn’t Rafe.
That she’s been arguing with Dexter Vaughn all night—the man who was once called a fucking prodigy.A man who played with bands like Dreadful Souls, Led Zeppelin, and others because they needed a musician last minute and my grandfather would just offer his fifteen-year-old grandson who could play anything.
It’s on the tip of my tongue.
But somehow, saying it out loud feels like breaking whatever this is—this strange, quiet moment that doesn’t belong to the world outside.I can be myself without being myself for once and it’s refreshing.I hate expectations.
So instead, I just smile.“Next time, I might be more prepared.”
And because I can’t help myself, I wink.
Her lips twitch.Not quite a smile, but it’s there, caught between irritation and something dangerously close to interest.She turns before it can bloom, heels clicking against the marble, stride efficient as ever.
But I swear—she’s smiling.
Just a little.
I watch her walk away, clipboard hugged tight to her chest, hair slipping from its pins.She leaves behind a faint scent of citrus and stress and something sweeter I can’t recognize but I doubt I’ll forget anytime soon.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here.
I don’t know why it matters if she smiles again.
I don’t know what will happen next.
But I know this: I want to find out.
ChapterFour
Dexter
My phone rings just as I’m debating whether I can stomach the cold, shriveled fries I left sitting on the plate.I answer without checking the caller ID, too lazy to pretend I’m not alive.
Barret’s voice cuts through.“I went to your place and you’re not there.”
