Page 48 of Every Shattered Note
“I thought you weren’t going to show up,” I say, my voice low enough that it doesn’t carry.
He smirks, tipping his head toward the stage.“Just in time to set up.Brought a couple of friends to help.Won’t take long.”
He raises the glass slightly, as if in a toast.
“Vodka?”I ask.“For courage?”
“Water,” he says.“Tequila used to be courage.Now it’s trouble.”
He takes a sip, his throat moving with it.“After my last trip to rehab, I switched to caffeine and sugar.Safer addictions.”
“Oh.”It’s all I can manage.I wasn’t expecting that.
He doesn’t look like someone who’s been to rehab—whatever that’s supposed to look like.He looks alive, alert, too self-aware for someone still trying to drown himself.
His gaze drops briefly to my clipboard, to the earpiece hooked behind my ear.“You run this room like it’s an orchestra,” he says, his tone soft but certain.
“That’s the goal.”
“You ever stop conducting?”
I let out a breath that almost passes for a laugh.“Not if I can help it.The moment I put the baton down, everything collapses.”
He tilts his head, studying me like he’s tuning to a frequency I didn’t know I was giving off.His eyes linger long enough that I feel it.“You look tired,” he murmurs.
“Wow.”I raise an eyebrow.“You really know how to flatter a girl.”
His mouth curves, slow and sure.“You didn’t let me finish.”
“Oh?”
“I was going to say tired ...but still the most alive person in this room.”
The words hang between us.They shouldn’t mean anything.They shouldn’t feel like anything.But they do.The air shifts—just slightly—and I forget how to breathe for a second.
“Save the charm for your set,” I manage.
He chuckles, low and rough, and for a heartbeat, I want to hear that sound again.
Then, softer—“You’re good at this.You make everything look easy.”
“It’s not.”
“I know,” he says.“That’s why it’s impressive.”
I look down at my clipboard to keep from meeting his gaze again.“You should get ready.Dinner’s almost over.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he teases.But he doesn’t move.
Instead, he watches me for a few more seconds—too long, really—before walking toward the stage.
I force myself to focus on anything else.The bride’s mother’s perfume.The servers passing champagne.The silverware catching light like tiny mirrors.
But my pulse doesn’t calm.
When the lights dim for his set, my stomach twists.Then he plays.
It’s “At Last” again—but different this time.Slower.More stripped down.He rebuilds it from the ground up, replacing Etta’s grandeur with something raw and intimate.His voice fills the space like a confession meant only for one person, and it takes me too long to realize it might be me.
