Page 134 of Every Shattered Note
“Same time tomorrow?”he asks, voice dipping low as the driver opens the door.
“You assume I’ll say yes.”
“I’m hoping you will.”
I lean against the car door, caught between defiance and temptation.“You planning to top this?”
His grin curves slowly and sinfully.“Oh, I’ve barely started.”
I shake my head, pretending not to smile.“Goodnight, Mr.Vaughn.”
He steps closer, the streetlight catching the gold in his eyes.“Goodnight, Ms.Stone.”
The door closes.The car glides forward.The city blurs into streaks of amber and glass, and somewhere between the hum of the tires and the fading music, I realize?—
This isn’t a new beginning.
It’s the continuation of a story that paused mid-sentence, only to pick up again with an intensity that might take my breath away but give me life.
ChapterFifty-Eight
Alyssa
April 22, 2001
This is going to be the worst event ever.
The sound system is sputtering like it’s choking on static.
Half the staff is either late or on the verge of a breakdown.
And one of the centerpieces just caught fire.
So, you know, a typical Saturday—just dialed up to eleven.
“Extinguishers,” I call out, trying to sound calm.Trying not to panic yet.“Now would be good.”
Dexter’s already moving before anyone else reacts.
Black shirt rolled to his elbows, barefoot like it’s normal to ignore hotel policy and fire code, he tosses his suit jacket aside and grabs a kitchen towel from the catering station.One hand muffles the small flame; the other cups the smoking vase like he’s done this in another life.
“They asked for ‘romantic candlelight,’ not ‘ritual sacrifice,’ right?”
I groan, dragging a hand down my face.“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” he says with a grin that’s too bright for ballroom drama.The flame fizzles.The vase sizzles.The flower—hydrangea, not a peony, thank God—somehow survives.
“There.Your hydrangea lives to bloom another night.We just need to change the tablecloth.”
My clipboard lands on the table with a soft thud.I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath since sunrise.“You’re supposed to be charming the guests, not playing firefighter.”
“I’m multitalented,” he replies, brushing ash off his arm.“Also, your team’s two servers short and down one AV tech.Someone had to keep this ship from sinking.”
“Someone,” I mutter, “has a Grammy and shouldn’t be schlepping floral arrangements.”
“Correction—someone has two Grammys, and apparently a flair for crowd control and pyrotechnics.”
He’s impossible.
