Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Alyssa
“What’s going on?”
My voice cuts through the low hum of post-wedding cleanup—silverware clinks, chairs scrape against marble, soft conversation from unfamiliar staff. People I didn’t hire are folding linens and dimming the lights, packing the night away like it never happened.
Rafe steps in close—closer than he should—and nods toward a woman I’ve never seen before. “Since we have to leave, I paid the hotel staff to finish tearing down. The events manager’ll handle everything the way you would.”
I blink, tightening my grip around the clipboard like it might still tether me to control. “That’s my job.”
“I know.” His voice dips, softer. “But you owe me, remember? In exchange for one favor, you’re going to let me take you away.”
That smile of his—the one that creeps in like he already knows I’m going to say yes—shouldn’t feel as familiar as it does. Shouldn’t unravel me like this. It shouldn’t feel like it’s been building since the second he stepped into the ballroom tonight.
“You brought your bag, yes?”
I hesitate, lips parted, but he cuts me off with the arch of one brow. “Don’t lie. You’re bad at it.”
I sigh. “Fine. I brought a small bag. Just in case. But I never said I’d go with you.”
“All I’m offering is that thing you want: Beach. Fruity drinks. No phones,” he says with a wink that punches right through my resolve. “Everything’s ready. We’re just waiting on you.”
I don’t get the chance to argue again because Jules strides through the ballroom doors, her heels hitting the floor in a rhythm that only she can make sound like a war drum.
She’s got that clipped efficiency of a woman who’s been running three events at once and still manage to keep her lipstick intact.
“I thought you two would be long gone by now,” she says, eyes turning toward the exit. “Her bag’s already in your car.”
“Thank you for all your help,” Rafe replies smoothly, like he hasn’t just orchestrated a full-blown extraction under my nose. He shrugs, casual as ever. “We’re still negotiating the actual departure.”
“I have things to do,” I snap, the words instinctive, defensive. My fingers tighten around the clipboard I haven’t let go of, eyes darting around the room for any sign of unfinished business.
Why is Jules even here?
She had another event tonight.
Nothing adds up.
But Jules just waves me off like I’m being dramatic. “He handled everything,” she says, tilting her chin toward Rafe as if he’s some kind of miracle I’m supposed to accept without question.
“You don’t even know him,” I murmur, lowering my voice, eyes still on him. “You’re the one who said he could be a serial killer.”
“That was you in a chat with zero originality,” Rafe cuts in, his grin infuriatingly smug. “At least come up with something more interesting. I was hoping for international jewel thief.”
Jules holds out a small envelope. “Here. You’re going to need this.”
My passport.
She smirks like she’s part of some secret I’m not yet privy to.
“He’s not a serial killer, Aly. Just . .
. let yourself have this. Trust me.” She leans in, her voice low.
“Also, if you don’t go with him, you’ll be sitting at home helping me rearrange centerpieces for tomorrow’s vow renewal.
Bride wants ‘second-chance symbolism’ but only in mauve. ”
“Ugh.”
“Exactly.” Then, louder, to her cousin, “No, Kyle, we don’t stack the votives like Legos.”
She’s already halfway across the room barking orders when Rafe tilts his head toward the hallway.
“Let’s go, Alybear.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t ‘Alybear’ me. I’m only going because Jules wouldn’t send me off unless she had at least two backup plans and a hit list. And you said beach.”
“And I meant it.” His voice shifts, low and inviting. “Let me take care of you for a couple of days. That’s all I’m asking.”
The words press through me, quiet and disarming—like it’s been a lifetime since someone offered care instead of asking what I could fix.
I should demand answers. Should ask why a guy who was scraping by for gigs a month ago now has staff at his beck and call. But I don’t. At least not here. My feet are already moving.
We slip out through a quiet hallway, past servers rolling linen carts.
He walks beside me, unhurried, like there’s nowhere else he needs to be.
His arm brushes mine—just once—and something tightens low in my spine.
I tell myself not to read into it, not to respond, but my body already has.
It’s the same quiet pull that’s been threading through me for weeks, no matter how carefully I try to ignore it.
Outside, the air bites with late February chill. A sleek black town car waits at the curb like it’s been summoned by fate instead of Rafe’s checkbook—which was in red last time he complained. The driver steps forward, tipping his hat.
“Mr. Vaughn,” he says, opening the door.
I freeze. I . . . I don’t think that’s his last name. “Mr. Vaughn?”
“I’ll explain,” Rafe says gently. “But we can’t linger out here.”
“You said your last name was . . .”
“I didn’t say anything,” he corrects. “You never asked.”
I cross my arms, refusing to move. “Where are we going?”
He smiles, that infuriating mix of mischief and calm. “A private tarmac. There’s a jet waiting.”
“A private airport?” I blink, trying to piece together how the hell this even makes sense.
“Kind of. It’s not Sea-Tac,” he says with a shrug, “but it’ll get us where we’re going.”
I hesitate, watching him. Trying to reconcile the version of him who played a beat-up guitar at a dive bar with this—this man who has a driver, a plane, and apparently a different last name.
“Tell me now,” I say, voice low but firm. “Or I’m not getting in that car.”
He exhales through his nose and glances around, jaw tight—like he’s scanning for something he’s been avoiding for years.
Then he steps closer—close enough that I catch the faint trace of something warm and citrusy on his skin.
It clings to him like sunlight pressed into fabric, softened by distance.
Something that feels like a memory and a warning all at once.
“I can’t. Not here,” he murmurs. “We’ll talk in the car. Last thing I need is for someone to recognize me.”
“You say that like it’d ruin everything.”
“Maybe not for me,” he says, filling his cheeks with air and letting it out slowly.
“I’ve lived through headlines. But you?” His voice softens.
“You still have time to walk away. I just need to explain this somewhere private. Preferably under the sun, but I’ll settle for leather seats and tinted windows. ”
I study him—really study him. The lines around his eyes look deeper, like they’ve been carved there by sleepless nights. His mouth is set, tense in a way that betrays the calm he's trying to hold together. And beneath it all, something brittle pulses just under the surface.
Fear—but it’s not rooted in self-preservation. It’s for me. I’ve seen it because I’ve reacted like that before. It’s as if he’s bracing for the moment I realize whatever truth he’s hiding . . . and walk away.
And that undoes something in my chest.
“Fine,” I say, slow and measured. “But you owe me the truth.”
“You’ll get it. Can you wait until we’re on the plane?”
The driver clears his throat softly. Still waiting. Still holding the door like we’re not in the middle of some invisible tug-of-war.
“Please,” Rafe says again, quieter this time. “Let me give you this. Just a few days. After that, you can tell me to fuck off if that’s what you want.”
Give me this.
Like it’s a gift. Like he’s handing me something breakable wrapped in secrecy and hope.
And that part about me telling him to fuck off—he says it like it’s inevitable. Like he’s already made peace with losing whatever this could become.
Would I?
I glance at the open car door, at the interior washed in soft gold lighting and stitched leather. It smells like citrus and possibility and something just out of reach. Like the kind of peace I haven’t let myself want in a long time.
Without another word, I slide in.
He follows, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft click that feels louder than it should. The car hums to life, and we ease away from the curb. The lights of the city stretch behind us, fading like an overture that’s played its last note.
Tonight, I don’t reach for my planner. I don’t check the time. I don’t scroll through imaginary to-dos or try to make myself useful in the silence.
I just breathe and let the unknown take the wheel.