Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Alyssa
Something is going to go wrong. I can feel it.
It’s a sixth sense at this point—one I’ve earned from too many sleepless nights and crisis calls that start with, “Don’t panic, but—”
Weddings are never perfect. They pretend to be, sure, but behind every flawless photo op, there’s at least one disaster waiting in the wings. I’m just bracing for which one this will be.
I take another glance around the ballroom.
Soft amber light spills from the chandeliers, gilding the crystal glassware and the edges of sequined dresses.
The string section hums through a familiar melody—“Clair de Lune,” of course—and the bride glows under it, her gown catching the light like it was stitched from sighs and wishful thinking.
Guests laugh over candlelit tables. Champagne pours freely, catching the light like liquid celebration.
No one here has a clue how close this night came to unraveling.
They don’t know the original quartet canceled three days ago.
They don’t know I drove to Portland half-asleep, bribed a jazz trio with espresso and leftover cake samples, and begged them to rearrange their entire weekend for me.
And they’ll never know. That’s the job.
I smooth a napkin that’s already perfectly placed, then another. “Everything’s fine,” I murmur to the linen, pretending it believes me. “Completely fine.”
It’s not.
“Boss?”
Nadia materializes at my side, clutching her clipboard like a flotation device. Her lipstick’s faded, her hair’s escaping its bun, and she’s sweating through professionalism.
“What now?” I ask, afraid to hear the answer.
“The cake’s late.” She winces. “The pastry chef said—and I quote—the tiers are ‘reconsidering their structural integrity.’”
I stare at her in horror.
“His words, not mine,” Nadia states.
I close my eyes. “Tell him to freeze its integrity for ten minutes and get it here. If I don’t see him soon, I’ll stab him with a plastic knife.”
She snorts. “Copy that.” And disappears into the crowd.
I exhale, glance toward the bar—and stop breathing altogether.
He’s here.
Rafe stands near the edge of the room, half in shadow, half bathed in golden light.
Charcoal suit. Tie loosened. Hair slicked back like he just pushed his fingers through it one too many times.
He looks expensive and undone all at once—the kind of contradiction that shouldn’t work but does. Effortlessly.
He’s holding a glass, condensation running down his fingers. Our eyes meet, and something electric hums beneath my ribs. He nods, faintly. Casual. Controlled.
I should look away.
I don’t.
The din of dinner carries on—laughter, cutlery, music drifting overhead—but the second he starts walking toward me, it all blurs. Like the air bends around him. My pulse ticks up, matching his pace. I shouldn’t be this aware of him, but I am.
“I thought you weren’t going to show up,” I say, my voice low enough that it doesn’t carry.
He smirks, tipping his head toward the stage. “Just in time to set up. Brought a couple of friends to help. Won’t take long.”
He raises the glass slightly, as if in a toast.
“Vodka?” I ask. “For courage?”
“Water,” he says. “Tequila used to be courage. Now it’s trouble.”
He takes a sip, his throat moving with it. “After my last trip to rehab, I switched to caffeine and sugar. Safer addictions.”
“Oh.” It’s all I can manage. I wasn’t expecting that.
He doesn’t look like someone who’s been to rehab—whatever that’s supposed to look like. He looks alive, alert, too self-aware for someone still trying to drown himself.
His gaze drops briefly to my clipboard, to the earpiece hooked behind my ear. “You run this room like it’s an orchestra,” he says, his tone soft but certain.
“That’s the goal.”
“You ever stop conducting?”
I let out a breath that almost passes for a laugh. “Not if I can help it. The moment I put the baton down, everything collapses.”
He tilts his head, studying me like he’s tuning to a frequency I didn’t know I was giving off. His eyes linger long enough that I feel it. “You look tired,” he murmurs.
“Wow.” I raise an eyebrow. “You really know how to flatter a girl.”
His mouth curves, slow and sure. “You didn’t let me finish.”
“Oh?”
“I was going to say tired . . . but still the most alive person in this room.”
The words hang between us. They shouldn’t mean anything. They shouldn’t feel like anything. But they do. The air shifts—just slightly—and I forget how to breathe for a second.
“Save the charm for your set,” I manage.
He chuckles, low and rough, and for a heartbeat, I want to hear that sound again.
Then, softer—“You’re good at this. You make everything look easy.”
“It’s not.”
“I know,” he says. “That’s why it’s impressive.”
I look down at my clipboard to keep from meeting his gaze again. “You should get ready. Dinner’s almost over.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he teases. But he doesn’t move.
Instead, he watches me for a few more seconds—too long, really—before walking toward the stage.
I force myself to focus on anything else. The bride’s mother’s perfume. The servers passing champagne. The silverware catching light like tiny mirrors.
But my pulse doesn’t calm.
When the lights dim for his set, my stomach twists. Then he plays.
It’s “At Last” again—but different this time. Slower. More stripped down. He rebuilds it from the ground up, replacing Etta’s grandeur with something raw and intimate. His voice fills the space like a confession meant only for one person, and it takes me too long to realize it might be me.
Every note feels alive, like it’s been waiting for air. People stop talking. Even the servers pause mid-step. It’s just his voice and the heartbeat it leaves behind.
I don’t move. I barely breathe.
When he finishes, the applause is loud but feels far away. He glances across the room—right at me—and smiles. It’s small, almost invisible, but it lands.
Something in me does, too.
I’m not sure what happens next.
But I know something already has.