Page 5 of Every Shattered Note
“You’re skating on thin ice, Rafe.You pull one more stunt and I’ll make sure your name’s blacklisted from every event from here to Portland.”
He lifts his brows, feigning innocence.“Oh, no.Not Portland.I live for their wedding circuit.”
“Maybe I’ll fine you instead.”
His grin returns, lazy and bright.“What’s the fine?”
“Extra setup.And interpretive dancing.”
He presses a hand to his chest in mock horror.“Not the interpretive dancing.Anything but that.”
“Good.Fear is a healthy motivator.”
“Guess I should start stretching.”
There’s a beat—a charged, cinematic pause—where sound seems to fall away.The rain outside blurs the city lights into soft, molten gold, and somewhere down the corridor, someone’s laughter drifts like a forgotten melody.
He studies me with that same half-grin, eyes warm now, unreadable.“You always this fun under pressure?”
“I’m fucking delightful.Especially when I’m being tested by men who show up late and drenched.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Take it however you want.Just dry off before the bride sees you and mistakes you for a tragic love song.”
He laughs again, genuine this time, low and rough around the edges.“Noted.I’ll do my best to look less ...poetic.”
“Please don’t.”The words slip out before I can stop them.“We have enough drama already.”
He tilts his head, grin deepening.“Was that a compliment?”
“It was a warning.”
“Same thing, really.”
I exhale through my nose, fighting a smile I absolutely cannot afford.“Go.Prove you’re not a walking liability.”
“Yes, ma’am.”He gives me a lazy salute and slings the guitar case over his shoulder.
He walks off with that uneven, off-beat swagger that says he doesn’t quite belong here—and knows it.There’s something in his rhythm, though, something that fits in the worst way possible.
I catch myself watching him longer than I should—the damp hair curling at the back of his neck, the way his shoulders fall into the rhythm of his steps, the faint hum under his breath like he’s warming up for a song only he knows.
It’s nothing I can afford.
And somehow, everything I’ll remember.
ChapterTwo
Alyssa
The next time I see Rafe, I almost don’t recognize him.
Gone is the rain-soaked, half-grinning disaster from the lobby.No trace of damp rebellion, no rogue curls plastered to his forehead, no slouch in his stance that said,I don’t belong here but I’m showing up anyway.
Now, he looks like he was born for this stage.
His hair is neatly pulled back, revealing the strong lines of his face—those cheekbones that shouldn’t be allowed this close to chandeliers.His glasses are wiped clean, catching the low amber glow of the ballroom lights.And that suit—God help me—fits like he walked out of a department store window instead of the elevator hallway two nights ago, trailing water and a cocky smile.
