Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Alyssa
The next time I see Rafe, I almost don’t recognize him.
Gone is the rain-soaked, half-grinning disaster from the lobby. No trace of damp rebellion, no rogue curls plastered to his forehead, no slouch in his stance that said, I don’t belong here but I’m showing up anyway.
Now, he looks like he was born for this stage.
His hair is neatly pulled back, revealing the strong lines of his face—those cheekbones that shouldn’t be allowed this close to chandeliers.
His glasses are wiped clean, catching the low amber glow of the ballroom lights.
And that suit—God help me—fits like he walked out of a department store window instead of the elevator hallway two nights ago, trailing water and a cocky smile.
He doesn’t just look good.
He looks composed. Polished. Like someone you’d find framed behind glass in a vintage jazz club photo. The kind that makes you wonder what song he was playing when the flashbulb caught him mid-note, frozen in time and sound. Not behind a borrowed guitar at someone else’s wedding.
The stage lights shimmer against his lenses, a quick glint that makes him look surreal. For one suspended second, I forget how to breathe.
He adjusts his guitar strap with calm precision, nods once to the drummer behind him.
Then it begins.
A low hum of strings, soft percussion, and—“At Last.”
Etta’s version. Slow. Velvet-wrapped. I know it before the first full note folds itself into the air like a secret.
The sound drapes across the ballroom, subtle and rich, pulling every conversation down to a hush.
It slides beneath skin and memory, slow-dancing with forgotten hopes.
Even the cynics pause. Even I—who’ve built entire walls out of structure and scheduling—feel something shift under my ribs.
It’s not just the melody—it’s what it stirs. Something from a far-off place I don’t let myself visit. Not during weddings. Especially not during weddings.
My heart skips, then taps an odd rhythm against my ribs.
He plays like he’s coaxing the music from some place deeper than just frets and strings.
Like each note is threaded from memory. He’s not just performing—he’s translating something only he can hear.
Every chord rings through the room, smooth and aching.
The sort of sound that fills the spaces between candlelight and champagne bubbles.
And then he sings.
Low. Unhurried. A voice with grit and silk in equal measure, warm in the throat and frayed around the edges. Like he’s been somewhere, done something, hurt someone—or maybe himself—and lived to turn it into melody.
It hits something in me I didn’t know was exposed.
Maybe Jules was right. Maybe this whole thing wasn’t a total disaster.
I hover near the corner of the ballroom, half-hidden behind a linen-draped table and a clipboard I haven’t looked at in ten minutes. I pretend to scan timelines, guest lists, catering notes. But really, I’m just watching him.
The bride is glowing. Her parents look like they might cry again. A few guests slow-dance at the edge of the parquet floor. And there I am—stuck between awe and disbelief—because the same man who blinked at me blankly when I referenced Hall & Oates now sounds like he’s been doing this since birth.
Like music is his native language, and this ballroom is fluent.
Jules drifts close, low enough to be discreet. “You said he was okay. That guy is more than okay.”
I glance sideways, resisting a comment.
She clears her throat dramatically. “He’s fucking fine. And not a wet disaster.”
“I’m trying not to notice,” I mutter, the clipboard clenched a little too tightly.
She arches a brow. “You’re failing spectacularly.”
“Go count the desserts.”
She grins like the smug menace she is and slips back into the crowd.
On stage, Rafe shifts again—just slightly—and the light slides across the shoulder of his jacket. He doesn’t look like someone trying to control attention. He just . . . has it. Without effort. Without trying to earn it.
The song ends in a breathless hush, followed by applause that swells and fades exactly how it should. Not flashy. Not awkward. Just . . . right.
The bride’s mother dabs at the corner of her eyes with a lace handkerchief. The photographer catches a perfect shot as the couple spins once on the dance floor. I inhale. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding it in.
“Maybe he’s not a total liability,” I mumble, mainly to the clipboard.
Then he looks up.
Right at me.
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.
It shouldn’t make my breath catch.
But it does.
He doesn’t just look like he belongs here.
He knows it.
Like the stage missed him. Like he’s not borrowing this moment but reclaiming it. He plays like someone who never should’ve been off the roster.
I press the clipboard closer to my chest and pull in a breath, trying to flatten the buzz under my skin.
I don’t know whether to be impressed, suspicious, or just plain pissed that he’s unraveling every rule I have about how these events are supposed to go. About professionalism. About trust. About whatever this tug in my stomach is every time he sings.
I close my eyes, grounding myself in the familiar noise of a wedding in full swing—cutlery clinking, laughter bubbling over from the champagne bar, the faint swoosh of satin gowns brushing past.
Back in control, Alyssa.
But then—I hear it.
The first few notes are unmistakable.
A bright, bouncy synth. Tight rhythm. A stutter of drums.
“You Make My Dreams (Come True).”
Hall & Oates.
My eyes snap open.
What the actual fuck. That song is not part of the playlist. I step out from behind the curtain just in time to see him step to the mic, one hand casually sliding along the fretboard of his guitar.
He lets it roll, effortless, confident. His voice rides the beat like he owns it.
Light, playful, toeing the line between homage and flirtation.
And somehow—somehow—he doesn’t butcher it.
He makes it work.
The crowd responds immediately. Heads turn. Feet tap. A few guests let out little whoops of recognition. The energy lifts, and I swear, the dance floor lights up like someone flipped a switch.
He meets my eyes again mid-verse. A split second. That smile again which is impossibly fucking charming and infuriating.
See? It says. I know them. I know you were watching. I fucking know it.
I glance down at my clipboard, but it’s useless now. The checklist might as well be written in a foreign language. None of it matters when he’s singing like that. When his voice carries across the ballroom with enough warmth to crack through every defense I’ve spent years perfecting.
His foot taps once. Twice. The drummer follows. The whole band falls into rhythm like they’ve been playing together forever. There’s a lightness in the air that wasn’t here before. A pull.
And I feel myself moving toward it.
Not physically. Not yet. But internally—there’s a shift. A surrender I didn’t authorize.
Stop it. This doesn’t mean anything.
It’s just a song.
Just a man.
Just a voice.
But my pulse has other ideas. My feet itch to move. My hands feel too empty. I clutch the clipboard tighter like it might ground me again.
It’s good.
It’s fucking good.
It shouldn’t matter. He’ll be gone by morning. And I’ll pretend that this never happened. That it doesn’t matter at all.