Chapter 57
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Alyssa
Seattle glows like it’s been waiting for tonight.
The skyline hums beneath a gauzy mist, each window pulsing with stories that don’t belong to us—and still, it feels like the city’s leaning in to listen.
I spent the afternoon pretending I wasn’t nervous—answering calls, checking invoices, rearranging centerpieces that didn’t need rearranging.
Anything to keep from thinking about him.
About what it means to see Dexter again.
Not as the man who stumbled into my chaos or the one who made everything too complicated too fast—but as the one who asked me on a first date.
Now I’m standing before of a sleek black car idling outside my building, exhaust curling into the night. The driver steps out, opens the door, and says my name like it’s part of his job description. “Ms. Stone?”
“That’s me,” I manage, smiling as I slide inside.
The city passes in soft motion—neon reflected on wet pavement, silhouettes caught between traffic lights and fog.
The Space Needle glows faintly through the mist, a ghostly lighthouse watching us drift through the night.
My hands won’t stay still. I keep adjusting my clutch, smoothing my dress, pretending it’s about fabric and not the way my pulse keeps stuttering.
We turn down a private drive, glass walls glinting on either side, fairy lights dangling like constellations hung too low. And there, at the end of it all, sits Canlis. Every planner in Seattle knows it—the view, the food, the impossible reservation list.
Inside, the lighting is soft and forgiving, golden enough to make every stranger look like they belong in someone’s story. A jazz trio plays in the corner—upright bass, brushed drums, a piano carrying something tender enough to ache.
Then I see him.
Dexter Vaughn.
Black suit. Crisp white shirt. His hair tied back neatly, jaw freshly shaved, posture far too confident for someone who once crashed a wedding. But the smile—God, that smile—is exactly the same: boyish, dangerous, and too easy to fall for.
I almost forgot how to walk.
He moves first, meeting me halfway, and suddenly it feels like that ballroom all over again—the rest of the world dimming just enough for us to exist.
“Wow,” he says softly, eyes tracing over me, pausing in the places that make my heart trip. “You clean up okay.”
I laugh, trying to find air. “You say that like I just crawled out of a floral disaster zone.”
He smirks. “You’ve had a few of those. Somehow made them look good.”
He offers his arm, and I take it. His warmth seeps through the fine black fabric, too real, too close. As he leads me to the table by the window, the city unfolds below us—boats glimmering like scattered stars across the dark water.
There’s already champagne waiting, two glasses catching the light. His is filled with water. Mine bubbles like it’s impatient to be touched.
“Trying to impress me?” I ask, sliding into my seat.
His mouth curves, almost shyly. “No. Trying to deserve you.”
My breath stumbles. He shouldn’t say things like that—not in that voice, not while looking at me like I’m something worth keeping.
The waiter appears, polite and quiet, all linen and practiced timing. I don’t even read the menu. Dexter orders for both of us—seared scallops, truffle risotto, a vintage Riesling for me. He says it with the same confidence he uses when he sings, and I swear I could drown in the sound.
When the waiter leaves, the jazz trio slows. The pianist drifts into “At Last.” It’s not subtle. It’s perfectly, painfully him.
“You planned this,” I accuse, failing to hide the smile tugging at my lips.
“Maybe,” he says, raising his glass of water. “To new beginnings.”
I hesitate, then lift mine.
“To finally getting our chance,” I whisper, clinking glass to glass.
The bubbles sting my tongue. He doesn’t look away.
There’s a pull in his gaze—something molten and magnetic.
His eyes linger on me like he’s memorizing every reaction, every shallow breath, every shift in my expression.
It’s not just attraction—it’s intent. It coils low, unhurried and certain, threading through me until the rest of the room dissolves into blur and hush.
And for a breath, everything around us disappears. There’s just him. Me. The space between us thinning until even the music seems to wait for permission to move again.
Conversation flows easily—like we’ve been doing this for years instead of starting over.
We talk about music, the madness of wedding season, how Jules left him a voicemail gushing with enthusiasm and dramatics after the legal team finally untangled the vow-renewal-turned-shotgun-wedding mess.
He teases me for overplanning. I tease him for pretending he doesn’t care as much as he obviously does.
We laugh.
We share bites of food and little stories from our past. At some point, the trio shifts into something softer—a song from the 1970s, half-forgotten and bittersweet. The melody winds through the air like nostalgia wearing silk.
Dexter leans back in his chair, eyes still on me. “Dance with me.”
I blink. “Here?”
He stands, extending his hand. “Here.”
It’s absurd. People glance over, some smiling, some pretending not to watch. The narrow space between tables isn’t meant for dancing, but he doesn’t seem to care. When his fingers brush mine, the noise around us dulls to a hum.
He draws me close, one hand at my waist, the other folding around my fingers. His touch isn’t tentative—it’s grounding. We move slowly, barely swaying, caught in the rhythm between music and heartbeat. His cheek grazes mine, and the world feels aligned again.
“This song,” I whisper. “It’s—”
“Us,” he finishes, voice low enough to melt the distance.
I close my eyes. “Feels like it.”
We don’t talk for a while. The air between us hums with everything we’re not saying. The notes rise and fall, circling back like a confession we’re both afraid to name. When I finally meet his gaze, it’s molten and unguarded—his expression equal parts devotion and danger.
He leans in, his breath brushing my ear. “You know,” he murmurs, “Rosie’s a little jealous of you.”
I pull back just enough to see his face. “Rosie?”
“My guitar,” he says, smiling. “She doesn’t like anyone who makes me sing without strings.”
My laugh catches, halfway between disbelief and something that hurts in a good way. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe.” His tone softens. “But I’m yours, if you’ll take me.”
For a second, I forget how to breathe.
When the song ends, gentle applause ripples through the restaurant—private, indulgent, almost amused. Dexter bows dramatically, and I laugh against his shoulder, feeling something I haven’t felt in years: lightness.
Outside, Seattle smells like rain again. The night feels alive, charged, threaded with possibility. He walks me to the car, our hands brushing but not quite touching. There’s patience in him tonight—the kind that speaks louder than any confession could.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asks, voice dipping low as the driver opens the door.
“You assume I’ll say yes.”
“I’m hoping you will.”
I lean against the car door, caught between defiance and temptation. “You planning to top this?”
His grin curves slowly and sinfully. “Oh, I’ve barely started.”
I shake my head, pretending not to smile. “Goodnight, Mr. Vaughn.”
He steps closer, the streetlight catching the gold in his eyes. “Goodnight, Ms. Stone.”
The door closes. The car glides forward. The city blurs into streaks of amber and glass, and somewhere between the hum of the tires and the fading music, I realize—
This isn’t a new beginning.
It’s the continuation of a story that paused mid-sentence, only to pick up again with an intensity that might take my breath away but give me life.