Page 135 of Every Shattered Note
Barefoot.Bare-forearmed.Grinning like this isn’t an event unraveling, but an adventure he’s been waiting for all week.
He looks wildly out of place in the best way—surrounded by sage linens and fairy lights, standing in the middle of what should be a disaster, somehow turning it into charm.Behind him, the band warms up with a smoky jazz riff, and it’s like the universe is laughing in rhythm.
I pinch the bridge of my nose.“Why do I feel like you’re enjoying this?”
“Because I am.”He steps closer, eyes bright with that infuriating spark.One hand curves around my waist, casual like it belongs there.“You’re beautiful when you boss people around.”
“I’m sweaty.”
“Beautifully sweaty.”
I laugh despite myself, pressing my palm to his chest and pushing him lightly away—just enough to create space.Not enough to mean it.
He doesn’t go far.He never does.
“You’re ridiculous.”
His gaze sweeps the room, and for once, there’s no teasing in it.Just quiet admiration.The kind that doesn’t need to be loud to be heard.
“You’ve built something incredible here,” he says, voice low.“You move everyone like music.You don’t just run a room—you conduct it.”
I freeze.
That shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.But it does.
“That’s the nicest way anyone’s described my micromanaging.”
“It’s not micromanaging.”His fingers brush mine, warm and grounding.“It’s art.”
The words don’t sound like flattery.They sound like the truth.And somehow, that sincerity cuts through the tension buzzing in my chest better than caffeine or calming pills ever could.
“Dex, we have an event in twenty minutes,” I murmur, even as my fingers fold into his.
“I know.”He gives my hand the softest squeeze.“And it’s going to be perfect.”
And somehow—he’s right.
Twenty minutes later, the guests arrive.
The lights dim.
The ballroom hushes like it’s catching its breath.And the band eases into a low, velvet-draped version of “Dream a Little Dream of Me.”The candles dance on every table, but none of them set anything on fire this time.
Every detail—the substitute linens, the last-minute place cards, the reprinted menus—just works.
It’s not seamless.But it’s beautiful.
And maybe that’s enough.
I catch Dexter watching me across the room while guests mingle and servers glide by with trays of champagne.He’s still barefoot, a little disheveled, laughing with someone in a tux who has no idea he’s talking to a man with two platinum records and a past thick enough to write an entire album about.
His gaze finds mine.He doesn’t smile right away.Just looks at me like I’m something worth watching—something he doesn’t want to miss.
My stomach flips.When the first toasts begin, Dexter appears beside me again.I don’t see him approach—I just feel the shift in the air.The way things slow when he’s near.
“You were right,” I say, keeping my voice low so it doesn’t carry past the champagne tower.
“I usually am.”He nudges his shoulder into mine, a quiet tease under the noise of clinking glasses and laughter.“But you did the hard part.”
