Page 50 of Every Shattered Note
She smirks like she’s part of some secret I’m not yet privy to.“He’s not a serial killer, Aly.Just ...let yourself have this.Trust me.”She leans in, her voice low.“Also, if you don’t go with him, you’ll be sitting at home helping me rearrange centerpieces for tomorrow’s vow renewal.Bride wants ‘second-chance symbolism’ but only in mauve.”
“Ugh.”
“Exactly.”Then, louder, to her cousin, “No, Kyle, we don’t stack the votives like Legos.”
She’s already halfway across the room barking orders when Rafe tilts his head toward the hallway.
“Let’s go, Alybear.”
I narrow my eyes at him.“Don’t ‘Alybear’ me.I’m only going because Jules wouldn’t send me off unless she had at least two backup plans and a hit list.And you said beach.”
“And I meant it.”His voice shifts, low and inviting.“Let me take care of you for a couple of days.That’s all I’m asking.”
The words press through me, quiet and disarming—like it’s been a lifetime since someone offered care instead of asking what I could fix.
I should demand answers.Should ask why a guy who was scraping by for gigs a month ago now has staff at his beck and call.But I don’t.At least not here.My feet are already moving.
We slip out through a quiet hallway, past servers rolling linen carts.He walks beside me, unhurried, like there’s nowhere else he needs to be.His arm brushes mine—just once—and something tightens low in my spine.I tell myself not to read into it, not to respond, but my body already has.It’s the same quiet pull that’s been threading through me for weeks, no matter how carefully I try to ignore it.
Outside, the air bites with late February chill.A sleek black town car waits at the curb like it’s been summoned by fate instead of Rafe’s checkbook—which was in red last time he complained.The driver steps forward, tipping his hat.
“Mr.Vaughn,” he says, opening the door.
I freeze.I ...I don’t think that’s his last name.“Mr.Vaughn?”
“I’ll explain,” Rafe says gently.“But we can’t linger out here.”
“You said your last name was ...”
“I didn’t say anything,” he corrects.“You never asked.”
I cross my arms, refusing to move.“Where are we going?”
He smiles, that infuriating mix of mischief and calm.“A private tarmac.There’s a jet waiting.”
“A private airport?”I blink, trying to piece together how the hell this even makes sense.
“Kind of.It’s not Sea-Tac,” he says with a shrug, “but it’ll get us where we’re going.”
I hesitate, watching him.Trying to reconcile the version of him who played a beat-up guitar at a dive bar with this—this man who has a driver, a plane, and apparently a different last name.
“Tell me now,” I say, voice low but firm.“Or I’m not getting in that car.”
He exhales through his nose and glances around, jaw tight—like he’s scanning for something he’s been avoiding for years.Then he steps closer—close enough that I catch the faint trace of something warm and citrusy on his skin.It clings to him like sunlight pressed into fabric, softened by distance.Something that feels like a memory and a warning all at once.
“I can’t.Not here,” he murmurs.“We’ll talk in the car.Last thing I need is for someone to recognize me.”
“You say that like it’d ruin everything.”
“Maybe not for me,” he says, filling his cheeks with air and letting it out slowly.“I’ve lived through headlines.But you?”His voice softens.“You still have time to walk away.I just need to explain this somewhere private.Preferably under the sun, but I’ll settle for leather seats and tinted windows.”
I study him—really study him.The lines around his eyes look deeper, like they’ve been carved there by sleepless nights.His mouth is set, tense in a way that betrays the calm he's trying to hold together.And beneath it all, something brittle pulses just under the surface.
Fear—but it’s not rooted in self-preservation.It’s for me.I’ve seen it because I’ve reacted like that before.It’s as if he’s bracing for the moment I realize whatever truth he’s hiding ...and walk away.
And that undoes something in my chest.
“Fine,” I say, slow and measured.“But you owe me the truth.”
