Page 132 of Every Shattered Note
She leans in.Her hair brushes my jaw.Her lips find mine—soft, lingering, certain.
It’s a kiss that promises.
“Then it’s a date,” she breathes against my mouth.
“Tonight?”
“Yes.Tonight.”
Her lips brush mine again, softer this time.A touch that ruins a man for everything that isn’t her.
“Tonight,” she murmurs.
And I know there’s no going back.Not from her.Not from this.Whatever happened when this started, it doesn’t end here.
ChapterFifty-Seven
Alyssa
Seattle glows like it’s been waiting for tonight.
The skyline hums beneath a gauzy mist, each window pulsing with stories that don’t belong to us—and still, it feels like the city’s leaning in to listen.
I spent the afternoon pretending I wasn’t nervous—answering calls, checking invoices, rearranging centerpieces that didn’t need rearranging.Anything to keep from thinking about him.About what it means to see Dexter again.Not as the man who stumbled into my chaos or the one who made everything too complicated too fast—but as the one who asked me on a first date.
Now I’m standing before of a sleek black car idling outside my building, exhaust curling into the night.The driver steps out, opens the door, and says my name like it’s part of his job description.“Ms.Stone?”
“That’s me,” I manage, smiling as I slide inside.
The city passes in soft motion—neon reflected on wet pavement, silhouettes caught between traffic lights and fog.The Space Needle glows faintly through the mist, a ghostly lighthouse watching us drift through the night.My hands won’t stay still.I keep adjusting my clutch, smoothing my dress, pretending it’s about fabric and not the way my pulse keeps stuttering.
We turn down a private drive, glass walls glinting on either side, fairy lights dangling like constellations hung too low.And there, at the end of it all, sits Canlis.Every planner in Seattle knows it—the view, the food, the impossible reservation list.
Inside, the lighting is soft and forgiving, golden enough to make every stranger look like they belong in someone’s story.A jazz trio plays in the corner—upright bass, brushed drums, a piano carrying something tender enough to ache.
Then I see him.
Dexter Vaughn.
Black suit.Crisp white shirt.His hair tied back neatly, jaw freshly shaved, posture far too confident for someone who once crashed a wedding.But the smile—God, that smile—is exactly the same: boyish, dangerous, and too easy to fall for.
I almost forgot how to walk.
He moves first, meeting me halfway, and suddenly it feels like that ballroom all over again—the rest of the world dimming just enough for us to exist.
“Wow,” he says softly, eyes tracing over me, pausing in the places that make my heart trip.“You clean up okay.”
I laugh, trying to find air.“You say that like I just crawled out of a floral disaster zone.”
He smirks.“You’ve had a few of those.Somehow made them look good.”
He offers his arm, and I take it.His warmth seeps through the fine black fabric, too real, too close.As he leads me to the table by the window, the city unfolds below us—boats glimmering like scattered stars across the dark water.
There’s already champagne waiting, two glasses catching the light.His is filled with water.Mine bubbles like it’s impatient to be touched.
“Trying to impress me?”I ask, sliding into my seat.
His mouth curves, almost shyly.“No.Trying to deserve you.”
