Page 30 of Every Shattered Note
“Professional feedback only,” I call out, crossing my arms tighter.“Let’s try something more upbeat.”
He nods, the hint of challenge lighting his expression.“Sure thing.”
He strums twice—and there it is.The unmistakable riff of “Maneater.”
Jules elbows me so hard I almost drop my clipboard.“You asked for upbeat.”
Rafe’s grin widens as he leans into the mic, voice dipping low.“This one’s for you.”
It shouldn’t work.It’s Hall & Oates.It’s cliché.
But somehow, it does.
He doesn’t play it like a joke.He plays it like the music is smirking at me, but also tempting me.Is that even possible?
By the time he hits the chorus, my pulse does this ridiculous thing it hasn’t done since college—back when I still believed people meant what they sang in love songs.Back when music felt like truth instead of background noise at someone else’s happy ending.
The last note fades, and silence rushes in.It’s not awkward—it’s electric.
No one moves.
Then Jules claps once, the sound slicing through the stillness.“Okay,” she declares, eyes bright.“I don’t care if he’s secretly a serial killer.We should hire him.”
I shoot her a glare, but my voice doesn’t match the conviction.“We’ll see.”
Rafe doesn’t even flinch.He shifts, adjusts Rosie against his shoulder, and dives right into the next song like he’s got something to prove—or maybe he already knows he doesn’t need to.He skips around my list, choosing what fits his rhythm, not mine.It should piss me off.Instead, I find myself leaning forward, clipboard forgotten, watching the way his hands move.
He even nails “The Chicken Dance.”
It’s ridiculous.It’s supposed to be campy, awkward, a throwaway crowd pleaser.Yet somehow he makes it sound like it belongs in a stadium—bigger, fuller, alive.
Who is this guy?
Every chord, every note is too polished for someone who claims to be a one-man band desperate for wedding gigs.Jules was right—he’s not just some musician down on his luck.There’s history in the way he plays.Precision.Maybe his grandfather was someone famous—legendary.Perhaps he’s famous in the classical music world and this is all some elaborate punishment.
I should dig.I will dig.
By the time he’s done, he’s drenched in sweat and glowing like the stage lights bent toward him on purpose.He unstraps his guitar and steps offstage, his shoes clicking against the parquet floor, the sound echoing in the hollow ballroom.He doesn’t look at anyone else—just me.
He stops a few feet away, voice low.“So?Do I pass your test?”His mouth tips up, a lazy smirk tugging at one side.“Am I good enough to get the show going?”
My pulse flutters.I fold my arms to hide it.“That depends.Can you follow a schedule, or do you show up ten minutes before the ceremony and decide to improvise?”
His smile deepens.“Depends.Do you trust me to improvise?”
“Absolutely not.”
He laughs softly, his voice low and rough, like something meant for late nights and bad ideas.“Didn’t think so.”
The air shifts—nothing visible, nothing loud—but something tilts.That small stretch of space between us tightens, as if every word carries more charge than it should.I tell myself it’s nothing.It’s not attraction.It’s adrenaline, caffeine, curiosity.I tell myself a lot of things.
“Good,” he says finally, still watching me.“I like earning it.”
He nods toward the clipboard in my hand.“You’ll call me if you book another wedding?”
“I’ll call you when we’re ready to start auditions with our clients.”
He frowns, feigning confusion.“I thought this was the audition.”
