Page 7 of Every Shattered Note
And smiles.
Not a wide grin.Not the smug smirk from the lobby.No, this one is smaller.Controlled.Knowing.There’s something behind it—recognition, maybe, or something he wants me to think is recognition.A silent little challenge that hums under the skin.
That good,his smile seems to say,or should I make it better?
Arrogant bastard.
At least he doesn’t wink.He doesn’t need to.That subtle lift at the corner of his mouth says enough:Eat your words, Alyssa Stone.
I drop my gaze to the clipboard, forcing my fingers to move, flip a page, pretend to take a note.“Don’t you dare smile at me like that,” I whisper.
And yet ...
My mouth betrays me.Just a little.
When the next song starts—something soft, something slow, maybe “Wonderful Tonight”—I catch myself swaying.Barely.A shift in my heels.A breath that lingers too long in my chest.
Maybe it’s the champagne-sweet air.
Maybe it’s the way he plays—like the world could come apart around him and he’d still keep time.
Or maybe it’s the unnerving realization that the man I’d nearly fired in a fluorescent-lit lobby now owns the room in a way I hadn’t predicted.Not with bravado, not with flash—but with presence.
Authentic, quiet, impossible-to-ignore presence.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
I slide farther into the edge of the ballroom, repositioning near the side curtain.From here, I can see his fingers moving over the frets.Controlled.Confident.Each gesture is like second nature.There’s no tension in his shoulders, no hesitance in the way his voice glides through lyrics that have been sung a thousand times before.
But this time ...they sound personal.
Maybe that’s what makes my throat tighten.Not the words.Not the music.But the truth in it.
He looks up again—just a glance—I swear he’s searching.Not for a face.For a reaction.
I turn, suddenly hot beneath my collar, and slip toward the back of the room, weaving between catering trays and discarded champagne flutes.I duck behind the partition where no one can see me flush.
Get it together, Alyssa.You’ve survived worse.You’ve handled groomsmen who tried to grope the cake.You’ve dealt with flower girls on sugar highs and ministers who forgot the script.
You can handle a charming wanna-be-musician with a decent voice and a stupidly, symmetrical face.
I press the clipboard against my chest again to stop my pulse from tripping over itself.
Behind me, the music shifts again.It’s something more upbeat now.Guests start returning to the dance floor.A murmur of laughter, a clink of glasses.The wedding, it seems, is unfolding exactly as planned.
Except for the part where I’m standing behind a curtain having an identity crisis over a man named Rafe who was supposed to be clueless and probably college age—which is definitely not the case.
Because here’s the thing: Rafe isn’t just good.
He’s unreasonably good.Like someone who was never supposed to be background music.Someone who’s used to being center stage, even if he pretends otherwise.Which makes no sense.Because twenty minutes ago, he was late, lost, soaking wet, holding a guitar case like it contained someone else’s mistake.
Now?
Now he plays like the world rearranges around his tempo.
I steal another glance through the curtain’s edge.
He’s talking to the sound tech, crouched slightly, adjusting a dial near the amp.His brow furrows, expression focused—intent.A nod.Then a brief laugh at something the drummer mutters.It’s low, off-mic, and yet it cuts through the noise like something intimate.
