Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Alyssa
“This guy is too pretty and too elegant to be a musician,” Jules murmurs beside me, her voice pitched just loud enough to be a problem.
We’re standing near the back of the Ravensworth’s smaller ballroom—a space that smells faintly of polish, nostalgia, and stale champagne.
The carpet’s worn thin in places, and someone tried to disguise it with a borrowed Persian rug that’s seen too many parties.
Still, this place is perfect for what we need it for.
Let’s not forget that I’ve pulled miracles from worse spaces.
And right now, I might need another one.
Jules nudges me with her elbow. “Look at him. He’s like a J.Crew ad. Even his hair has discipline.”
She’s not wrong. He looks well put together. Maybe too much so.
There’s a calm confidence in the way he moves, his sleeves rolled, collar open just enough to seem casual. His hair—dark blonde, slicked back like he’s got a plan for every strand—probably smells expensive. And his jawline . . . yeah, I shouldn’t be noticing that.
Or his shoulders. Or how his shirt strains slightly when he reaches for the mic stand.
And now I’m wondering what’s under that shirt.
Bad Aly. Bad. Bad Aly.
It’s not my fault. No one told me the guy I’d nearly fired last week for being unprepared would show up looking like that. The glasses make him look smarter than he probably is, but the faint stubble on his jaw ruins any chance at innocence. It’s frustrating how well it works.
Jules tilts her head. “You know I’m right.”
“Why are you like this?” I whisper, pressing my thumb and forefinger to the bridge of my nose like that might save me from her commentary—or from myself.
“Because someone has to tell the truth.” She gestures toward the two guys crouched near the front of the stage, taping cables with practiced ease.
“And those two don’t match him. Where did he find them?
Look at the setup—new gear, quality amps, expensive mics.
That’s not the kind of equipment a guy crashing in his parents’ basement brings to an audition.
These men look like they just rolled off a tour bus. ”
“Which tour?”
She squints, thinking hard, lips pursed in mock concentration. “Hmm . . . U2? Dave Matthews? Maybe ‘NSYNC’s older, moodier cousins?”
“That’d be New Kids on the Block,” I say dryly.
Jules snorts. “Same energy.”
I laugh under my breath, unwillingly amused. “Or maybe they’re just roadies. Friends, maybe.”
“Uh-huh.” She crosses her arms. “Or maybe your boy Rafe got kicked out of The Seattle Philharmonic for playing too many love songs in rehearsals.”
“Jules.”
“What? You’re the one who told him to show up. I’m just saying—ask for his credentials before he serenades us into financial ruin.”
Before I can roll my eyes, the air shifts. A low, honeyed vibration hums through the room—just a few simple strums, soft but deliberate enough to pull attention like a string.
It’s him.
We both turn at once.
Rafe’s standing center stage, fingers tracing across the strings like he’s not just tuning but coaxing something to life. The sound fills the room—gentle, warm, but edged with something raw underneath. Every note feels precise, yet easy, like breathing for him.
It’s ridiculous how fast my pulse answers.
There’s no showmanship—no big entrance, no flourish. Just the unhurried rhythm of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing. Each note hums through the space and into me, threading through my skin until I’m half-afraid he can tell what it’s doing to me.
It shouldn’t feel intimate. It’s a sound check.
But it does.
The noise from the staff fades, replaced by the soft drag of his thumb along the strings. He looks up, almost absentmindedly, gaze sweeping the room. And when it finds me—just for a heartbeat—it’s enough to pin me in place.
There’s no smile. Not really. Just the brief pull of something across his face—recognition, maybe. Or challenge.
My throat goes dry. I look away first, pretending to jot something on my clipboard. The pen doesn’t even touch the paper.
Pull yourself together, Stone. It’s an audition, not a confession.
He adjusts the mic, tests it once with a quiet “check” that hums lower than it should, and even that sounds good—too good.
Jules whispers, “Oh, this is going to be trouble.”
I’m not sure if she’s talking about the audition or the way I can’t stop staring—like someone who wants to be the microphone just to hear his voice up close, let it slide through my ears and settle somewhere deep in my bones. Maybe even lower. Maybe even worse.
He interrupts the very, very dirty thoughts I was starting to have. “We took the liberty of rearranging the list a bit,” he says, tone low, even. “But bear with me—I think it should flow better.”
Jules leans toward me. “He took the liberty?” she whispers. “He’s either a genius or a menace.”
I ignore her. Barely.
He starts strumming the guitar and I’m almost hypnotized, which should be completely wrong, but here we are.
The two men who were helping him step offstage quietly, exchanging looks that say they know exactly what’s about to happen. It’s just him now—center stage, bathed in the faint glow of an old spotlight that hums faintly overhead.
I cross my arms. “Where’s your band?”
“You said it was okay if I was my own band.” He shrugs, adjusting his mic. “So here we are.”
Of course I said that. And of course, he remembered.
“Right,” I murmur. “Then show me.”
His lips twitch, like he’s fighting back a smile. “You got it, wedding planner.”
The first note hits, and I feel it before I register it.
It’s “At Last” again—but it doesn’t sound like a cover.
It’s slower, darker around the edges. He’s pulled it apart, stripped it clean, and rebuilt it in his voice—less Etta, more velvet laced with smoke and longing.
It should feel sacrilegious. It doesn’t.
It feels like warm hands on bare skin. Like something stolen and whispered back.
Romantic in a way that ruins you a little.
This should be illegal. I mean, what happens if the bride falls at his feet and ruins the entire wedding? I can’t have that, right?
Pay attention and stop fantasizing, I order myself.
The melody moves through the room like smoke curling through candlelight, wrapping around every chair, every corner. Even Jules stops talking. That’s a miracle in itself.
This time, his voice—rougher than I expected, like he’s sanded the edges down from something that once shined too bright. There’s heartbreak in it. It’s like whatever arrangement he did is to fit his voice in an unexpected way.
For a split second, I forget that this is supposed to be work. I’m just being serenaded by a man who I thought wouldn’t be able to keep up with the band last week and now . . .
He’s good. Infuriatingly good.
Jules mutters something that sounds suspiciously like holy shit under her breath.
Rafe closes his eyes mid-verse, and it hits me—that tiny pull in my chest I haven’t felt since . . .
Since before I decided feelings were a liability in this business. Since before everything became a checklist.
He finishes the song with a small exhale, like it cost him something.
Silence fills the space after the last note fades, thick enough to feel tangible. Even the chandeliers seem to hum with it.
When he looks up again, it’s right at me.
That same half-smile. Knowing. Quietly arrogant.
It’s not even a smile, really. More like an acknowledgment.
You hear it too, don’t you?
I hate that I do.
“Thoughts?” he asks, breaking the spell.
I clear my throat, force my voice to stay businesslike. “That was . . . decent.”
Jules chokes on her coffee beside me. “Decent? Alyssa, he just made Etta James roll over in her grave—in a good way.”
“Don’t encourage him,” I hiss. “He already thinks he’s auditioning for something bigger.”
He laughs softly from the stage, catching every word. “You wound me, Ms. Stone.”
“Professional feedback only,” I call out, crossing my arms tighter. “Let’s try something more upbeat.”
He nods, the hint of challenge lighting his expression. “Sure thing.”
He strums twice—and there it is. The unmistakable riff of “Maneater.”
Jules elbows me so hard I almost drop my clipboard. “You asked for upbeat.”
Rafe’s grin widens as he leans into the mic, voice dipping low. “This one’s for you.”
It shouldn’t work. It’s Hall & Oates. It’s cliché.
But somehow, it does.
He doesn’t play it like a joke. He plays it like the music is smirking at me, but also tempting me. Is that even possible?
By the time he hits the chorus, my pulse does this ridiculous thing it hasn’t done since college—back when I still believed people meant what they sang in love songs. Back when music felt like truth instead of background noise at someone else’s happy ending.
The last note fades, and silence rushes in. It’s not awkward—it’s electric.
No one moves.
Then Jules claps once, the sound slicing through the stillness. “Okay,” she declares, eyes bright. “I don’t care if he’s secretly a serial killer. We should hire him.”
I shoot her a glare, but my voice doesn’t match the conviction. “We’ll see.”
Rafe doesn’t even flinch. He shifts, adjusts Rosie against his shoulder, and dives right into the next song like he’s got something to prove—or maybe he already knows he doesn’t need to.
He skips around my list, choosing what fits his rhythm, not mine.
It should piss me off. Instead, I find myself leaning forward, clipboard forgotten, watching the way his hands move.
He even nails “The Chicken Dance.”
It’s ridiculous. It’s supposed to be campy, awkward, a throwaway crowd pleaser. Yet somehow he makes it sound like it belongs in a stadium—bigger, fuller, alive.
Who is this guy?
Every chord, every note is too polished for someone who claims to be a one-man band desperate for wedding gigs.
Jules was right—he’s not just some musician down on his luck.
There’s history in the way he plays. Precision.
Maybe his grandfather was someone famous—legendary.
Perhaps he’s famous in the classical music world and this is all some elaborate punishment.
I should dig. I will dig.
By the time he’s done, he’s drenched in sweat and glowing like the stage lights bent toward him on purpose. He unstraps his guitar and steps offstage, his shoes clicking against the parquet floor, the sound echoing in the hollow ballroom. He doesn’t look at anyone else—just me.
He stops a few feet away, voice low. “So? Do I pass your test?” His mouth tips up, a lazy smirk tugging at one side. “Am I good enough to get the show going?”
My pulse flutters. I fold my arms to hide it. “That depends. Can you follow a schedule, or do you show up ten minutes before the ceremony and decide to improvise?”
His smile deepens. “Depends. Do you trust me to improvise?”
“Absolutely not.”
He laughs softly, his voice low and rough, like something meant for late nights and bad ideas. “Didn’t think so.”
The air shifts—nothing visible, nothing loud—but something tilts. That small stretch of space between us tightens, as if every word carries more charge than it should. I tell myself it’s nothing. It’s not attraction. It’s adrenaline, caffeine, curiosity. I tell myself a lot of things.
“Good,” he says finally, still watching me. “I like earning it.”
He nods toward the clipboard in my hand. “You’ll call me if you book another wedding?”
“I’ll call you when we’re ready to start auditions with our clients.”
He frowns, feigning confusion. “I thought this was the audition.”
Jules crosses her arms, jumping in. “These were just for us. We can’t show clients just anyone. Nobody’s hiring a band named—what was it again?—The Flaming Groomsmen?”
Rafe grins. “And you complained about my names?” He looks back at me teasingly.
“Oh, the name wasn’t the problem,” I say. “It was their sound. Their original covers came with . . . creative choices.”
“Creative?” he repeats, amused.
“They added a kazoo solo in the middle of ‘Unchained Melody,’” Jules says, deadpan.
“Ah.” Rafe nods, lips twitching. “A bold artistic decision.”
“Bold isn’t the word I’d use.” I exhale. “But yes, let’s call it that.”
He studies me, then tilts his head slightly. “So, this was your way of saying I’m good enough to make the cut?”
I lift my chin. “This was me saying you’re good enough to be considered.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Listen, I don’t want to sound like I think I’m a big deal, but . . . call me when there’s a real gig. I can’t keep showing up for auditions.”
“How will clients believe you’re as good as I say you are?”
“Email me your address.” His tone is lighter now, teasing again. “I’ll mail you a demo.”
He winks—infuriatingly casual—then turns and walks away with Rosie, shoulders relaxed, like none of this mattered as much as it clearly did.
“What about your stuff?” I call after him.
He doesn’t look back. “The guys will get it.”
And then he’s gone.
Jules watches the door close behind him. “There’s something fishy about him,” she says finally.
“Fishy how? Like it stinks and he’s a drug lord?”
She shakes her head. “More like he’s not comfortable with something.”
I stare at the empty stage. The mic’s still tilted toward where he stood. The air feels . . . changed.
“He’s an emergencies-only contact,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “We’re not sending his demo to clients until I know more. He could—”
“Make your panties wet while playing ‘The Chicken Dance’?” Jules interrupts, her grin spreading wickedly.
I glare at her. She bursts out laughing.
And I try—truly try—to roll my eyes, to match her tone, to shrug it off like it’s just another gig. But the laugh that slips out. It’s unsteady. Almost nervous.
Because she’s not wrong.
Not even a little.