Chapter 58
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Alyssa
This is going to be the worst event ever.
The sound system is sputtering like it’s choking on static.
Half the staff is either late or on the verge of a breakdown.
And one of the centerpieces just caught fire.
So, you know, a typical Saturday—just dialed up to eleven.
“Extinguishers,” I call out, trying to sound calm. Trying not to panic yet. “Now would be good.”
Dexter’s already moving before anyone else reacts.
Black shirt rolled to his elbows, barefoot like it’s normal to ignore hotel policy and fire code, he tosses his suit jacket aside and grabs a kitchen towel from the catering station. One hand muffles the small flame; the other cups the smoking vase like he’s done this in another life.
“They asked for ‘romantic candlelight,’ not ‘ritual sacrifice,’ right?”
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” he says with a grin that’s too bright for ballroom drama. The flame fizzles. The vase sizzles. The flower—hydrangea, not a peony, thank God—somehow survives.
“There. Your hydrangea lives to bloom another night. We just need to change the tablecloth.”
My clipboard lands on the table with a soft thud. I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath since sunrise. “You’re supposed to be charming the guests, not playing firefighter.”
“I’m multitalented,” he replies, brushing ash off his arm. “Also, your team’s two servers short and down one AV tech. Someone had to keep this ship from sinking.”
“Someone,” I mutter, “has a Grammy and shouldn’t be schlepping floral arrangements.”
“Correction—someone has two Grammys, and apparently a flair for crowd control and pyrotechnics.”
He’s impossible.
Barefoot. Bare-forearmed. Grinning like this isn’t an event unraveling, but an adventure he’s been waiting for all week.
He looks wildly out of place in the best way—surrounded by sage linens and fairy lights, standing in the middle of what should be a disaster, somehow turning it into charm. Behind him, the band warms up with a smoky jazz riff, and it’s like the universe is laughing in rhythm.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Why do I feel like you’re enjoying this?”
“Because I am.” He steps closer, eyes bright with that infuriating spark. One hand curves around my waist, casual like it belongs there. “You’re beautiful when you boss people around.”
“I’m sweaty.”
“Beautifully sweaty.”
I laugh despite myself, pressing my palm to his chest and pushing him lightly away—just enough to create space. Not enough to mean it.
He doesn’t go far. He never does.
“You’re ridiculous.”
His gaze sweeps the room, and for once, there’s no teasing in it. Just quiet admiration. The kind that doesn’t need to be loud to be heard.
“You’ve built something incredible here,” he says, voice low. “You move everyone like music. You don’t just run a room—you conduct it.”
I freeze.
That shouldn’t hit as hard as it does. But it does.
“That’s the nicest way anyone’s described my micromanaging.”
“It’s not micromanaging.” His fingers brush mine, warm and grounding. “It’s art.”
The words don’t sound like flattery. They sound like the truth. And somehow, that sincerity cuts through the tension buzzing in my chest better than caffeine or calming pills ever could.
“Dex, we have an event in twenty minutes,” I murmur, even as my fingers fold into his.
“I know.” He gives my hand the softest squeeze. “And it’s going to be perfect.”
And somehow—he’s right.
Twenty minutes later, the guests arrive.
The lights dim.
The ballroom hushes like it’s catching its breath. And the band eases into a low, velvet-draped version of “Dream a Little Dream of Me.” The candles dance on every table, but none of them set anything on fire this time.
Every detail—the substitute linens, the last-minute place cards, the reprinted menus—just works.
It’s not seamless. But it’s beautiful.
And maybe that’s enough.
I catch Dexter watching me across the room while guests mingle and servers glide by with trays of champagne.
He’s still barefoot, a little disheveled, laughing with someone in a tux who has no idea he’s talking to a man with two platinum records and a past thick enough to write an entire album about.
His gaze finds mine. He doesn’t smile right away. Just looks at me like I’m something worth watching—something he doesn’t want to miss.
My stomach flips. When the first toasts begin, Dexter appears beside me again. I don’t see him approach—I just feel the shift in the air. The way things slow when he’s near.
“You were right,” I say, keeping my voice low so it doesn’t carry past the champagne tower.
“I usually am.” He nudges his shoulder into mine, a quiet tease under the noise of clinking glasses and laughter. “But you did the hard part.”
“Still doesn’t explain why you’re barefoot.”
He shrugs like it's obvious. “Shoes slowed me down.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m useful.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“I’ve been cocky since the day I was born.”
Before I can fire back, the band slips into something slower. It starts with a wistful piano and threads into an aching melody that feels like memory. The lyrics hit a few seconds later—soft, nostalgic, the kind of song that only lives on vinyl and in people’s hearts.
Dexter glances toward the dance floor, then back at me.
“Dance with me.”
I blink. “Now?” I glance around the room, roll my eyes. “I’m working.”
“Sure,” he says, his voice dipped in mischief, “but no one will notice. Promise.”
The ballroom’s still buzzing—plates clinking, the bride’s grandmother quietly sobbing into a linen napkin over her third glass of champagne. Staff moves like background noise, carrying dessert trays and refilling glasses.
But none of it registers. Not when Dexter Vaughn is standing here, holding out his hand with that look that always makes breathing hard. Something in me answers before my brain even joins the conversation.
I slip my fingers into his.
He leads me off to the side, just far enough that we’re out of the spotlight. We aren’t on the dance floor. We don’t need to be. This moment doesn’t belong to the room—it belongs to us.
His hand finds my waist, his palm warm through the silk of my dress. His other hand cradles mine, thumb brushing across my knuckles like he’s learning the shape of my quiet.
We start to move.
Slow. Unhurried. This moment is ours. His chest grazes mine with every sway, and the rest of the night dissolves into something far away and irrelevant.
It’s not about the timeline or the toast order or the vendor invoice I still need to sign.
It’s this. This borrowed sliver of calm where it’s just him and me, breathing in sync.
His fingers tighten around mine—enough to say I’m here. Don’t let go.
This is his favorite part. The moment in the night where the noise dips, the tension lifts, and we find each other in the middle of everything.
We’ve done this every night since our first date.
Doesn’t matter where we are—at an event, in his living room, barefoot on the hardwood floor of his penthouse with the stereo humming low.
There’s always a dance. Always this quiet ritual.
And then he kisses me.
Not rushed. Not for show. But deep and sure and impossibly tender.
His lips part mine like a vow, and I melt into him. The music swells. My fingers curl into the back of his shirt, holding on like it’s the only real thing left in the room.
He pulls back just enough to whisper, forehead resting against mine. “You want to know when I fell in love with you?”
My breath catches.
“It wasn’t during some big moment. Not the night we kissed.
It was later—watching you fix place cards while chewing on a pen cap and muttering about the seating chart like it was a war strategy.
” His voice roughens at the edges, like he's balancing on the edge of something unspoken. “It was how you cared about every detail like it mattered. Like people deserved for things to be beautiful, even when they didn’t notice. That’s what did it. ”
My throat burns. “Dex . . .”
He cups my jaw, eyes burning through every shield I’ve ever built. Like he’s seeing the truth I’ve spent years pretending isn’t there—the cracks, the guarded edges, the parts of me I keep hidden even from myself.
“I fell in love with you because you make rooms come alive,” he says quietly, his thumb tracing the corner of my mouth. “And then somehow forget that you’re the most captivating part of them.”
He leans in, kisses the tip of my nose—a soft, unguarded thing that feels like a confession in motion.
“I love you,” he whispers, his voice rough, breaking just enough to sound real. “Every shattered note of you. Every shattered note you rebuild inside me. I fucking love you, my Alybear.”
Fuck.
That’s not fair.
That he says it like that.
That he means it.
That somehow, in the space between his words and the pulse in my throat, all the noise inside me starts to make sense.
I press my mouth to his again, slower this time. Deeper. More certain. One of those kisses that’s more than just a kiss—it’s a confession wrapped in skin and breath and the aching fear that we might break it if we speak too loudly.
“I love you too,” I whisper against his lips. “It happened gradually. Then all at once. Like I looked up one day and couldn’t remember what it felt like not to have you in my life.”
He exhales a soft curse, then kisses me again, this time rougher—like he can’t quite believe I said it out loud.
“Say it again,” he breathes.
“I love you.”
His arms fold around me like he’s bracing himself for the reality of it. And I get it. We’re not built for easy. There’s a dozen reasons why we shouldn’t work. But right now, I don’t care. This feels like the thing we were always meant to find—just not too soon. Not before we were ready.
Around us, the music fades. The last note drifts, and the room picks up its rhythm again—silverware clinks, laughter returns, and someone drops a tray somewhere. But none of it touches us.
Not yet.
He leans in close, brushing his lips along my temple. “Tomorrow night,” he murmurs, “we dance again.”
“Always.”
His hand finds mine again as we step back into the current of the night.
He might’ve mentioned my shattered notes, but I think it’s his that are now falling into place—one by one, in the quiet between us—until the song finally becomes ours.
And it’s so wildly imperfect, and so perfectly us.