Page 47 of Every Shattered Note
MustLoveMusic:That’s all I’m asking.See you Saturday.
ChapterTwenty
Alyssa
February 24th, 2001
Something is going to go wrong.I can feel it.
It’s a sixth sense at this point—one I’ve earned from too many sleepless nights and crisis calls that start with, “Don’t panic, but?—”
Weddings are never perfect.They pretend to be, sure, but behind every flawless photo op, there’s at least one disaster waiting in the wings.I’m just bracing for which one this will be.
I take another glance around the ballroom.
Soft amber light spills from the chandeliers, gilding the crystal glassware and the edges of sequined dresses.The string section hums through a familiar melody—“Clair de Lune,” of course—and the bride glows under it, her gown catching the light like it was stitched from sighs and wishful thinking.Guests laugh over candlelit tables.Champagne pours freely, catching the light like liquid celebration.
No one here has a clue how close this night came to unraveling.
They don’t know the original quartet canceled three days ago.
They don’t know I drove to Portland half-asleep, bribed a jazz trio with espresso and leftover cake samples, and begged them to rearrange their entire weekend for me.
And they’ll never know.That’s the job.
I smooth a napkin that’s already perfectly placed, then another.“Everything’s fine,” I murmur to the linen, pretending it believes me.“Completely fine.”
It’s not.
“Boss?”
Nadia materializes at my side, clutching her clipboard like a flotation device.Her lipstick’s faded, her hair’s escaping its bun, and she’s sweating through professionalism.
“What now?”I ask, afraid to hear the answer.
“The cake’s late.”She winces.“The pastry chef said—and I quote—the tiers are ‘reconsidering their structural integrity.’”
I stare at her in horror.
“His words, not mine,” Nadia states.
I close my eyes.“Tell him to freeze its integrity for ten minutes and get it here.If I don’t see him soon, I’ll stab him with a plastic knife.”
She snorts.“Copy that.”And disappears into the crowd.
I exhale, glance toward the bar—and stop breathing altogether.
He’s here.
Rafe stands near the edge of the room, half in shadow, half bathed in golden light.Charcoal suit.Tie loosened.Hair slicked back like he just pushed his fingers through it one too many times.He looks expensive and undone all at once—the kind of contradiction that shouldn’t work but does.Effortlessly.
He’s holding a glass, condensation running down his fingers.Our eyes meet, and something electric hums beneath my ribs.He nods, faintly.Casual.Controlled.
I should look away.
I don’t.
The din of dinner carries on—laughter, cutlery, music drifting overhead—but the second he starts walking toward me, it all blurs.Like the air bends around him.My pulse ticks up, matching his pace.I shouldn’t be this aware of him, but I am.
