Chapter 1
Chapter One
Alyssa
The champagne flutes clink precariously as the waiter wobbles past, his tray tilting like he’s testing the limits of gravity.
My lungs hitch until he disappears through the ballroom doors, the bubbles miraculously intact.
If he drops one more tray tonight, I’m adding “acrobat” to the skill requirements for future hires.
On the surface, the ballroom is pure enchantment.
Crystal chandeliers scatter light like spilled diamonds, ivory drapes fall from gilded cornices in perfect lines, and every table blooms under the glow of a hundred candles.
The air hums with roses—rich, heady sweetness layered with the faint metallic tang of the vents overhead.
This is the setting brides dream about—curated corners built for fantasy, every detail crafted to look eternal through the camera’s lens.
But for me, it’s a battlefield stitched together with silk and candlelight.
Magazines love to print glossy spreads of weddings—brides mid-laugh, cakes like monuments, flowers cascading from ceilings like waterfalls.
They never print the duct tape holding up those waterfalls, the blisters hidden under heels, the planner smiling through a crisis while a bride insists her day is ruined because the roses turned up ivory instead of cream.
Tonight has been a string of those crises.
A florist meltdown on the loading dock. A caterer calling from the freeway, forty minutes late.
A bride sobbing over a “vanished” veil that turned out to be locked in the maid of honor’s car.
That little scavenger hunt cost me twenty minutes, two frantic calls, and a panic attack I had to swallow whole.
Now she lingers near the mirrored doors, mascara smudged, her smile trembling at the edges like it might collapse at any second.
I approach with a calm I’ve perfected after years of triage, even though my sneakers squeak across the floor like cartoon sound effects.
Yes, I forgot my heels at home. No, I don’t regret it.
“Do I look like I’ve been crying?” she whispers, clutching my arm like I’m the last rope on the cliff.
I study her, tilting my head. I’ve been managing meltdowns since I was twelve—back then, it was homework crises, burnt toast, and getting three siblings out the door before Dad’s night shift ended.
Some people are born to lead. Me? I was born to patch things together with duct tape and love until they hold.
“Only if raccoon chic is the vibe you’re going for,” I say lightly.
Her eyes widen in horror—until I grin and swipe the corner of her eye with a tissue. She exhales a shaky laugh, swatting at me with her bouquet.
“You’re evil.”
“Evil is what keeps weddings running,” I tell her, crouching to free the hem of her gown from her heel. I glance toward the door, catch the makeup artist hovering with brushes still in hand, and tilt my chin to summon her. “Let’s do a quick touch-up. Two minutes and no one will ever know.”
The bride’s shoulders lower, the rigid line of her body softening. The makeup artist swoops in, powdering cheeks, smoothing eyeliner. I stay close, murmuring encouragement while the bride keeps her eyes shut, as though afraid opening them will unravel her composure again.
When the artist steps back with a satisfied nod, I lean in. “Now relax. You’re perfect. He’ll only see you.”
And when the bride turns to the mirror, her lips curving into a smile that isn’t trembling anymore, I remember why I do this.
Why I drag myself through disasters patched with duct tape and caffeine, why I keep stitching together holes no one else even notices.
Because sometimes I get to reshape panic into joy.
Sometimes, I get to make it all look like magic.
I check my clipboard, scanning the next line of impending disasters.
The ballroom hums quietly—servers aligning silverware, the photographer snapping filler shots.
My pulse hasn’t slowed since noon, but that’s normal.
You don’t notice the exhaustion until the last song fades and everyone’s gone.
Then it hits like a fire extinguisher to the face.
The schedule says “band sound check, 6:30 PM.” It’s 6:47.
I glance toward the stage. The band members—the drummer, a keyboardist, a bassist—stand in a loose cluster, tuning half-heartedly. But there’s a space where the guitarist should be.
“Please tell me he’s just late to warm up,” I say, approaching the drummer, who happens to be Jules’s friend. His eyes dart to the doorway and then back to me, guilt already forming.
“Nope,” he says. “Told you this was a bad idea.”
“Yeah, well, Love & Vinyl broke up on Monday and left me with exactly zero options. You try finding a wedding band on three days’ notice that doesn’t sound like karaoke night at a dive bar.”
He smirks. “Should’ve hired a DJ.”
“Don’t start with me.”
He chuckles under his breath, returning to his drumsticks. I pull out my phone and dial the guitarist’s number again, pacing toward the hallway. The ringing feels endless, each tone slicing through the carefully constructed calm I wear like armor.
Voicemail.
“Hey, it’s Alyssa from the Belmont wedding. You’re supposed to be here by now. Sound check started fifteen minutes ago. Please tell me you’re parking or running through the door. Call me back, okay?”
I hang up, jaw tight. The phone feels warm against my palm, absorbing my irritation.
“Everything all right?” a voice asks behind me.
I turn. Jules leans against the doorframe, dressed in her usual organized chaos—black jumpsuit, messy bun, clipboard hanging from her wrist. “You look like you’re about to throw that phone at someone’s head.”
“The guitarist isn’t here.” I glare at the phone one more time.
“Maybe he’s tuning his soul before the performance.”
“Maybe he’s dead,” I retort.
She laughs. “Dark. I like it.”
“I’m running on espresso and adrenaline, Jules. I’ve reached the part of the evening where murder feels productive.” I look at her. “Ready for the ceremony?”
She nods. “Yep. I’ll bring the children for the dinner at seven-thirty.”
“They’re not children.”
She snorts. “Please. I have to remind them to get in line keep their hands to themselves and not run through the hallways.” She smirks. “Just like I did with my kindergarteners before I left that job.”
I’d love to say she’s wrong, but she does have a point. One of the things that she brings to this partnership is the calm of a teacher who knows how to keep rowdy guests in line. Not that we agreed to start this business because of that, but it helps, right?
“Take deep breaths before you check the list.”
We both fall quiet, listening to the low hum of last-minute preparations—the scrape of chairs, the murmur of waiters rehearsing service cues, the faint hiss of champagne being poured.
For a moment, I let myself breathe. The air tastes faintly of roses and something metallic from the vents overhead.
My reflection wavers in the glass doors—tired eyes, lipstick fading, dark hair escaping its bun.
Every wedding takes a piece of me, and I keep giving it freely, like it’s the price of belonging somewhere.
I’m halfway to the lobby with revenge plotted in my head—the sort of revenge that involves finding a missing musician and making him explain himself in uncomfortable detail—when a shape moves through the revolving door and I stop.
He’s carrying a guitar case that’s clearly been around for decades.
If I didn’t know better I’d think it’s been around the world and back: stickers peeling at the edges, a dent that looks like it was part of a big fight—or war.
Scuff marks arranged like tattoos. Rain stitches his jacket into darker lines.
A few strands of hair cling to his forehead.
He’s taller than I expected. Taller than any refusal I was planning to hand out.
“You must be Rafe,” I say approaching him. My voice is clipped with professional courtesy. Underneath it, the relief and irritation are doing a slow, awkward tango.
He looks at me properly, and for a ridiculous second, I pretend my clipboard is a shield.
There’s something in his eyes—stormy, like a city that’s seen its share of bad nights and good songs—and behind the rain-scratched glasses they look too awake for this hour.
Soulful would be a bookstore label. Good thing that I don’t have time for bookstore labels.
“You have other clothes, right?” I ask because I’m a planner, and planners are the human equivalent of extra batteries.
He blinks, glances down at his soaking jacket, then around the lobby like he’s checking for a costume change station. “I mean, obviously.”
“Good. Because we can’t have a damp guitarist ruining my perfectly curated humidity levels.” I point at his hair. “You’ll need to dry it. Use Hand dryer in the men’s bathroom right here in the lobby.”
He lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug that should be irritating but somehow isn’t. “Listen—”
“No. You listen, Rafe.” I jab my pen toward him for emphasis. “We spoke. You were supposed to be here on time, in suit form, prepped, and with a vague notion of who Hall & Oates are.” I give him my best stink-eye, an expression I reserve for vendors and exes.
He snorts—a sound that’s almost a laugh, like he’s testing the air for how far he can go. The corner of his mouth curves, slow and defiant, like a dare wrapped in apology. “Sure,” he says, that smirk settling in, equal parts charm and chaos. “I’ve, uh . . . heard of them. Maybe.”
My eyes narrow. “You think that’s funny?”
“I think it’s tragic you’re this stressed about an eighties playlist.”
“I think it’s tragic you don’t have a musical education.”
That earns a low chuckle—dark, lazy, and far too pleasant. It slides under my skin, setting something off inside me, like an old record catching on a lyric I wasn’t ready to hear again. Damn it.
He leans forward, a little too close, voice dropping just enough to sound amused. “What’s your name again?”
“Alyssa.” My brain misfires, stumbles, then corrects itself with a silent curse. “Alyssa Stone. I hired you, remember? Over the phone. The polite-but-panicked late-night slot so you could play at this wedding.”
“Right. Play.” His grin widens, like he’s trying not to laugh at some inside joke I’m not in on.
He’s infuriating. If I didn’t desperately need him right now, I’d be escorting his smug, rain-soaked self right back out the revolving doors. “Do you remember the playlist, or did it go on an adventure with your car battery?”
He tilts his head, pretending to think. “Hmm. That’s possible.”
“Possible?”
“Probable.”
I glare.
He just looks back, patient, lips twitching like he’s trying to behave. “Relax, Alyssa. I’ll manage. If you tape the setlist to the stage, I’ll follow it like a map.”
“Wonderful.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m dealing with a musician who’d get lost even with MapQuest printed out.”
He grins, unbothered. “To be fair, I’m great with directions. Terrible with rules.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“Didn’t say it was supposed to be.”
God, he’s enjoying this. He’s that specific brand of impossible that thrives on deadlines and disapproval.
I could tell him this is so fucking unprofessional, but I don’t have the luxury of another replacement.
“Fine. We’ll do it your way. For now.” I point toward the ballroom doors like I’m directing a parade of clowns.
“You have five minutes. Go to the bathroom. Dry off. Change. I don’t want to see one drop of water on you, got it?
No soggy solos. I don’t do acoustics that sound like a weather report. ”
He follows my gesture, smirking. “You’re very specific for someone under this much pressure.”
“Specific is how this ship stays afloat.”
“Noted, Captain.”
Then he taps the guitar case, gentle but sure, like it’s breathing under his hand. “She never fails me.”
“Good to know,” I mutter, crossing my arms. “Because I don’t have the time—or budget—for failure.”
He winks. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”
That offhanded charm should be illegal in at least three states. Probably four. I don't roll my eyes because professionalism demands it, but there’s a traitorous part of me that wants to . . . not punch his shoulder exactly, but something that sits between that and buying him coffee. Maybe both.
“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.