Chapter 54
Chapter Fifty-Four
Alyssa
The wedding of doom has officially ended.
No one died.
No one fainted.
And—miraculously—no one sued.
Which, considering the coral-and-yellow apocalypse that nearly swallowed the Waterfront Hotel whole, it feels like divine intervention.
The bride cried tears of joy instead of despair.
The groom stopped scanning the exits like he was plotting a prison break.
Jules didn’t strangle anyone with a satin sash.
The cake stayed upright. The quartet showed up, miraculously in tune.
And every guest left convinced it had been “magical.”
If only they knew.
Now that the ballroom’s cleared and the last crates have been hauled away, I’m standing outside in heels that feel like medieval torture devices and a dress I don’t remember putting on right before the ceremony started.
The night air brushes against my skin, cool and unforgiving after hours drenched in perfume and panic.
Dex is beside me.
He never left.
Which is both ridiculous and dreamy in equal measure—because who stays through a seven-hour meltdown of color changes, crying brides, and floral casualties?
He leans against a sleek black SUV, sleeves rolled, shirt unbuttoned dangerously, looking like he belongs in another world—or maybe like he’s the only part of mine that finally stopped spinning.
His hair’s tied back loosely, a few strands escaping to brush his temple.
The top buttons of his charcoal shirt are undone, revealing just enough skin to make my pulse stutter.
A faint trace of cologne clings to the air—something woodsy, warm, and unfairly grounding.
When he looks at me, his smile is soft, quiet, worn around the edges.
“You survived, wedding planner.”
“Barely, wedding crasher,” I manage, my voice hoarse from a day spent holding everyone else together. “No one ever told me coral had the power to ruin lives.”
“You can’t deny it added character,” he teases. “And I didn’t know brides could cry in four different octaves.”
That earns him a laugh—a real one. It slips out before I can stop it, fragile but free. I thought I’d used up every bit of energy hours ago. Turns out he’s still capable of wringing something human out of me.
“You have no idea what you walked into,” I say. “That might teach you not to crash another one of my events.”
“Oh, I knew,” he says, stepping closer, his voice low, amused. “I just didn’t care. What mattered was seeing you again.”
My breath stutters. For a second, everything narrows—the traffic hum, the hotel lights, even the ache in my feet. Just him, looking at me like I’m something he’s been trying to find for too long.
He opens the car door with a small gesture, his palm brushing my back as I climb in. The leather seats are soft and cool, and the faint scent of cedar and ocean air wraps around me. He slides in beside me, the door shutting with a muted thud that seals the world out.
Dex leans back, giving a quiet nod to the driver. The car pulls away from the curb, city lights streaking past like a half-forgotten dream. He exhales, long and low, like he’s finally letting the day drain out of him.
“While we’re on the way to my place,” he says softly, “you should sleep.”
“I can’t.” I tilt my head against the seat, watching his reflection in the window. “I’m too wired. Adrenaline. Or trauma.”
His mouth curves slightly. “Yellow-coral trauma,” he murmurs. “It’s real. You’ll need counseling.”
I snort. “Maybe you can recommend a therapist.”
“I already did.” His gaze meets mine, steady and warm. “Me.”
“Terrible idea.”
“Probably.” His voice drops, quieter now, almost tender. “But I’m not leaving you to recover alone.”
The car hums beneath us, the world outside reduced to blurred light and distant noise. He doesn’t reach for me, doesn’t crowd the space—but his closeness hums like a song I know too well. It’s been too long since someone’s silence felt this safe.
I close my eyes, pretending I’m not about to fall asleep to the sound of his breathing.
Pretending I don’t already feel at home.
The city slips past the window—blurred lights, wet streets, a streak of neon reflected on glass. It’s quiet in the car, but it’s a comfortable quiet. Every few seconds, I feel him glance at me, as if he’s checking that I’m still real, still here, still breathing beside him.
“Where are we going?” I ask eventually.
“Barret’s old place,” he says, his gaze on the road. “He moved out a few months ago. Told me I could stay there while they fix my place—or we buy a new one.”
I blink. “We?”
“You and me,” he answers, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
I laugh, a startled sound that gets caught somewhere between disbelief and panic. “Whoa. First date’s tomorrow, remember?”
He scoffs softly. “You really freaked out over that, huh?”
“I’m not freaking out,” I lie. “I’m just . . . acknowledging that you’re skipping a few steps. Big steps.”
“Listen,” he says, leaning back like this is just casual conversation and not an emotional ambush. “I’m thinking about buying a lot and building. That’s a year-long process—maybe more. By then, we’ll be on a second date. Maybe married. Who knows?”
I turn toward him, half glaring, half melting. “Wow. That’s a very open timeline.”
He grins, eyes on the road but voice low. “The point is, I want you to help me choose everything. Make it our dream home.”
The car slows at a light. Raindrops tap against the windshield, soft percussion over the quiet between us. I can’t tell if he’s joking or if this is Dexter Vaughn’s version of a confession—straightforward, slightly unhinged, and far too open for someone who used to hide behind a spotlight.
“What if we don’t work out after the first date?” I ask as I finally find my voice. “What if this . . . whatever this is, falls apart before it starts?”
He leans closer, his breath grazing my ear, voice low enough to melt through the quiet.
“Baby,” he murmurs, “I’m going to try my fucking best to make you fall in love with me soon. I want forever with you.”
The words sink in slowly—warm, terrifying, too much. My throat tightens, and not in a bad way. It’s just that everything inside me is suddenly louder. My pulse. My breath. My disbelief that this man, who is sitting next to me saying forever like it’s a promise he already plans to keep.
I look at him, and his hand is already reaching for mine—tentative, but sure once I don’t pull away. His fingers slip between mine like they’ve been waiting for that space.
“You don’t have to promise me forever,” I whisper, though my voice shakes with something I can’t name.
He smiles, eyes still on the road. “I already did, in a dream.”
I should tell him to slow down.
I should tell him that this isn’t how people rebuild their lives—that you don’t create futures out of second chances and midnight drives through half-empty streets.
But I don’t, because with him, the future doesn’t sound like a curse.
It sounds like him.
The car eases to a stop in front of a glass tower overlooking the water. Seattle stretches around us in muted, silver tones—wet streets reflecting streetlights, the bay below glinting under the last thin trace of moonlight.
A doorman steps forward, umbrella in hand, greeting Dexter with the kind of deference that says he’s been here before.
Raindrops slide from the umbrella as Dexter exchanges a few words I barely catch—something about the weather, something polite and easy.
Then his hand finds the small of my back, guiding me through the marble lobby.
The air smells faintly of rain and expensive polish. My shoes click against the floor until we reach the elevator, its brass doors gleaming beneath soft golden light. He presses the top button, and the doors slide shut with a quiet sigh after we step inside.
The hum begins as we rise. The city drops away beneath us, floor numbers blinking one by one. The mirrored walls reflect everything—the pulse in my throat, the tension I pretend not to feel, the way his reflection keeps drifting toward mine.
Dexter stands beside me, his shoulders squared, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket. His jaw is tight, focused on the numbers climbing higher, but his gaze flicks toward me—toward my hand clutching my purse like a lifeline, toward my reflection standing too close to his.
Neither of us speaks. We don’t have to. The silence carries enough between us to fill the whole ascent.
When the doors open, the penthouse takes my breath away.
Warm light spills across sleek floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows reveal the skyline unfurling like a dream—the Space Needle glowing in the distance, ferries tracing soft lines across Elliott Bay.
The world below feels far away, muffled and small.
“This isn’t a friend’s place,” I murmur, stepping inside. “This is an architectural masterpiece.”
“Same thing,” he says, his voice low, a grin ghosting across his lips as he unlocks the front door. “Come on.”
Inside, it smells faintly of cedar and clean linen. The Pacific hums below, endless, alive.
I toe off my shoes at the entrance while Dexter tosses his keys on the marble counter with an ease that betrays familiarity.
“You want something to drink?” he asks, opening the stainless-steel fridge. “There’s water, juice, or ginger ale.”
“Water’s good,” I say, setting my purse on the sofa.
He pours two glasses, condensation forming instantly against his fingers. When he passes one to me, our hands brush. The touch barely lasts a second, but it lingers like a thought I shouldn’t have.
He drops down beside me on the couch. The cushion shifts under his weight, pulling us closer than I expect. His thigh brushes mine—warm, solid, real.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For today. For everything you did.”
He shakes his head, eyes fixed on the skyline. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do.” I turn toward him, my voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t just help. You fixed things I didn’t even know how to ask for.”
“I didn’t fix them,” he says softly. “You did. I just made a few phone calls.”
“Don’t downplay it.” My throat tightens. “You saved the day.”
He lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh but isn’t. Tilts his head back against the couch, eyes closed. “Then we’re even.”
“Even?”
“You saved me first.”
The words hang there—fragile, electric.
Before I can respond, he opens his eyes and looks at me. Really looks. The distance between us collapses like it was never meant to exist.
He reaches for me, and I don’t stop him. His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, and then, his mouth finds mine.
It’s not gentle. It’s desperate. A kiss that feels like catching your breath after almost drowning.
He pulls me closer until I’m pressed against him, my pulse tripping against his chest. The city blurs behind us, lights streaking through glass as his hand slides down my back.
“Dex—” I start, but he swallows the word with another kiss—rougher this time, real.
It’s been so long since the last time we kissed, but right now it feels like we never stopped. Like all those weeks were just the space between one breath and the next. Like we’ve been orbiting this moment, waiting for the courage to collide.
His forehead rests against mine, both of us breathing hard, his thumb brushing my jaw like he’s memorizing the shape of me all over again.
“What about our first date?” I whisper, the words trembling against his mouth.
He smiles, small and dangerous. “Tomorrow,” he murmurs, voice rough with everything he’s holding back. “Tomorrow I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
His fingers trail down my neck, over my pulse, and I swear the room tilts.
“But tonight,” he breathes, brushing a kiss against the corner of my mouth, then another, deeper, hungrier, “I need you, Aly.”
Another kiss—slow, lingering, reverent, and sinful all at once.
“My Aly,” he whispers against my lips, like a confession he’s no longer afraid to make.