Toss the Bouquet (18 page)

His eyes had been on her all night, but she had made it a
point not to look at him. Not when she served customers, being careful to hold the tray steady to avoid more accidents. Not when he walked by at the exact moment she dropped a pen while taking an order, nor when he picked it up and handed it back to her. Not when inspiration struck and she jotted new lyrics on a receipt a customer had left behind. And not when he took the stage just after nine o'clock to begin his scheduled performance.

Definitely not then.

Of course, by that point it was easy to avoid eye contact. The place was so crowded that April could barely see three feet in front of her, never mind the stage. Jack Vaughn was popular, it seemed. More popular than even she had guessed. So popular she suspected they broke the fire code one hundred people ago.

That made her even madder. Didn't the guy care that
they could all die in a fire if . . . if . . . something she couldn't think of went wrong? Didn't he care that people were sweating, that all this body heat had upped the temperature in here at least ten degrees? Didn't he care that it now smelled bad in here all because he had chosen tonight of all nights—the last night before her weeklong wedding vacation—to need an ego boost offered by nearly four hundred screaming fans, several of whom clearly forgot to wear deodorant?

And another thing, why was he so maddeningly good looking? Even
that
annoying fact was a thorn in her still-not-quite-small-enough side.

Seriously, she had been on a stupid low-carb diet for over a month now and only four pounds had come off. Which left her only three more days to take off the remaining ten. Math wasn't her strong suit, but the numbers weren't adding right. Something told her she might fall short by nine pounds or so, which made the cookie she'd eaten behind the counter an hour ago seem slightly more justified.

Unlike this whole performance Jack was currently in the middle of giving. Nothing about this entire situation felt justifiable. The whole thing was so incredibly unfair. So ridiculously—

“April, did you hear him?” Brenda, the only waitress who had worked here as long as April, jolted her out of her thoughts with a quick grab of her arm. “He just asked for you.”

April blinked. “Who asked for me?”

“Jack Vaughn! Do you not notice the whole place is staring at you? Answer him, April!”

She felt her mouth open, felt her breath growing thinner and thinner as she searched the room for something . . .
anything . . . that made sense. She still hadn't found it when Jack's voice finally registered in her ears.

“I'm not sure she heard me the first time, so I'd like to invite her onstage again to sing with me if she would. April, are you interested? You pick the song.”

In the three years she'd worked here, in all the times she had written lyrics on napkins and jotted notes on discarded name tags and even marked up her own palm when nothing else was available, this exact moment had always been in the back of her mind like a recycled dream from childhood. A talent scout, a well-known manager, and—most common of all—a famous musician would appear from nowhere and ask her to sing. Hear her voice and fall in love with it. Listen to her lyrics and give her a platform to share them with the world. Sign her on the spot and teach her to ride the wave of stardom. This dream happened so often she could recite every nuance, plot point, and disappointing ending.

“April, what do you say? I've heard you sing, and it's about time the rest of the world got to hear you too.”

And now she spotted him, almost like the crowd had parted in that brief moment just to give her a glimpse of the hopeful expression written on his guilt-ridden face. And he really did look hopeful. He really did look like he wanted her up there beside him. He really did look sincere.

It was just like her dream, in the flesh and incredibly true.

But there was one problem.

Not once—not in the hundred or so times this dream had played through her mind in the past three years since she had found the courage to take on this job and the hope that
came with it—did she ever imagine herself turning around, dropping everything in her hands, and running away.

Sometimes during a concert, Jack would pause the performance for a minute—a dramatic break that was made to appear spontaneous but in fact had been overly rehearsed—then scan the crowd looking for a woman to join him onstage. Screaming would ensue, followed by the shouting of names and the occasional attempt by a fan or two to mount the stage uninvited, until Jack finally picked the girl. She was always pretty. Always on the voluptuous side. Always standing next to a boyfriend because Jack liked to see them get mad. And—he would never admit it out loud—always blond.

But never, not once, had anyone refused to join him. Even more preposterous—never had one resorted to running away from him. To say he was mad was an understatement. To say he wanted to finish this stupid song he was stuck singing and punch something was dead-on accurate. But he had to keep performing, plus wrap up two more songs before he could jump down and leave this place. All because April Quinn had just rejected him in front of several hundred screaming fans.

He knew she was mad, but he still thought she would see the invitation as a compliment. The opportunity of a lifetime, even. An unbelievable chance to show the world what she was made of. And maybe he was also a little hopeful that his one simple act of kindness would get April to stand next to him in that tight little dress.

He was a man. Of course he'd noticed. He'd been staring all night.

Not that it mattered, because clearly her bitterness ran deeper than he thought. Well, her anger wasn't healthy, and it was time she realized it. And if he had to be the one to tell her . . . then fine. He would. As soon as this last song was over.

“We've got one more for you tonight,” he said into the microphone. The noise grew and swelled above the already ear-splitting roar he'd been listening to for the better part of an hour. “I hope you've had fun, and I hope to see all of you back here sometime soon.” They were customary platitudes and nothing more; Jack was never coming back here. “But until then, you've got one more chance to get a little crazy!”

And with that, his fingers grazed through the opening riff of “Crazy Little Thing”—his most recent release. They'd been waiting for it all night, and within seconds, the crowd jumped and roared. But all Jack could see was that feminine figure retreating into the back of the bar.

Only one more verse and two more choruses to go, and then he would retrace her footsteps.

It was time he and April Quinn reached an understanding.

“I said go away, Jack. And I meant go away.”

He banged his head once, twice, three times against the doorframe. It was the fourth time he'd done this, and—who knew?—it really could give a guy a headache. But he wasn't leaving until she opened the door. He just needed to figure out a way to get her to do it. So far begging, bribing with dinner, and offering to cowrite his next hit song with her hadn't worked. He'd reached the end of his creativity, and he was out of ideas. Unless a bolt of lightning struck or God himself reached down and zapped him with a sudden burst of inspiration, he would be standing in this hallway all night. And of all the places he could imagine pulling an all-nighter with a pretty girl, a narrow, dimly lit corridor lined with industrial-sized bottles of ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise wasn't it. He hated mayo; even the sight of it made him nauseous. Jack rolled his eyes toward the ceiling just to have something else to look at.

“I'm not leaving, April. Not until you talk to me.”

“Then you're going to be standing out there until the rapture hits, because I'm not talking to you before then.”

The rapture?
Whatever. The sound of her muffled voice had long since driven him crazy, and not in a good way. He could tell she'd been crying, could hear the wetness in her voice despite the fact that it was laced with the kind of anger that meant she wanted to kill him. The combination managed to soften his attitude toward her, while at the same time it gave him a stronger urge to see her.

“April, there's a crowd out there. Do you really want to cause a scene in a place like this?”

She made an exasperated noise. Even through the closed door, he could hear the murderous undertones. “Says the man who just created the biggest scene this place has seen all year. Nice try, Jack. Why don't you go sing some more? Maybe this time do a striptease or two to really drive your female fans wild? Oh! It could be your last chance to
get a little crazy
.” She laughed at her stupid joke.

And it was stupid for sure. He couldn't help it if that song had shot to number one overnight. The fans picked the hits, not him.

“I've never done a striptease in my life, and I'm sure not going to start now.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “April, open the door.”

“No.”

“Open the door.”

“Again, no.”

“I don't understand why you're being so difficult.”

“I don't understand why you're still standing out there.”

Jack pressed a fist to his forehead. Women. You couldn't deal with them, yet you couldn't kill them either. At least not unless you planned it really well and didn't get caught. And so far he hadn't been able to figure out how.

“April, we need to talk. Other than the last ten minutes I've been standing in this hallway, I've dealt with your silent treatment for three long years now, and frankly I'm getting pretty tired of it.”

He knew that would work. The door flew open with a bang, and before he could say
uncle
, a wild pair of eyes attached to the same body as a pair of fists emerged—one pair glaring a hole through him as the other pair shoved his chest and knocked him backward. He hit the wall, and a jar of mustard grazed his shoulder on its way toward the floor. Thankfully it didn't bust open; it did, however, land on his foot. Hard. He stopped himself from letting out a yelp. He would
not
look like the immature female in this weird situation.

“What the heck was that for?” he yelled.

“Are you kidding me with the three years of silent treatment?” In a complete unsurprise, she managed to yell even louder. She also used three fingers to jab him on the shoulder. Repeatedly. “I left you a million messages, and you ignored all of them. And before that, I seem to remember you snatching up my lyrics, writing yourself a whole little song around them, and never saying another word about it. If you were having to endure a silent treatment from me, you're the only one who knew it because you disappeared like the coward you are!” She jabbed him again.

He'd had more than enough. Nobody called him a coward and got away with it.

“First of all, I didn't know they were your lyrics until it was too late to do anything about it. The song was already on the radio, April. Second of all, I called you back, but you ignored my messages. And if you were so angry that you couldn't even talk to me, why didn't you sue? Or at least go to the press?” He backed up a step and ran a hand through his hair. “Some people interpret a lack of initiative as a lack of interest. And you did neither, so—”

“I hired a lawyer! I called the newspaper! I did a lot of things back then that I wish I'd followed through with.” Her wild eyes focused a bit, but she still looked slightly rabid—like the foaming-at-the-mouth thing was a real possibility.

“You really called a reporter? Then why didn't the news break? My career would have fizzled before it even had a chance to start.”

April sighed, long and slow. “I said I called the newspaper, not that I talked to a reporter.” She shook her head, clearly embarrassed by something in her memory. “I accidently got transferred to the classified section, where I remained on hold listening to really bad Muzak for fifteen minutes. Eventually I got sick of it and hung up.”