How to Make a Wedding

by Cindy Kirk

  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 n
eed 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.”

  Jack barely won a battle with a smile struggling to break free. Barely. This wasn’t the time for lightheartedness, and he still had something to tell her. Something he didn’t want to say, but he had to get this girl on his good side somehow.

  “April, I’m sorry. Really, I am.” There, he’d apologized. She had no choice but to get over it now. “I really don’t know what else to say.”

  It was silent so long that he looked up. Her gaze met his with a sad, wary smile. “Thanks, Jack. But honestly, sometimes sorry isn’t enough.”

  She didn’t mean to say those last words, except she did. Because even though sorry isn’t enough was in direct contrast to the forgiveness she had been raised to believe in, this time it was just the way she felt. She believed Jack was sorry. Sort of. From her earliest memory, she’d had an unusual talent for reading people—and she could read Jack. The man had remorse invisibly tattooed inside the worry lines on his well-scrunched forehead. He also wore cockiness like a pair of expensive new shoes, and that wasn’t going away anytime soon.

  She just didn’t know if she could bring herself to forgive him.

  “Did you really not know the lyrics belonged to me?” She didn’t know why, but suddenly she thought his answer might contain the key to this whole forgiveness thing.

  Might.

  Jack pinched the space between his eyebrows. “I didn’t. Not until I heard your first message. And then . . . I don’t know, I just—”

  “Didn’t know how to stop it?”

  Jack studied his feet as though searching for a way to disagree. But she knew he couldn’t, just like she knew there wasn’t a way to answer it that would satisfy either of them. April didn’t know if there ever would be. The only thing she knew right then was that her shift had just ended. She tore off her apron and rolled it into a ball, then looked up at Jack with what felt like a weak smile.

  “This is it for me. I think I’m going to head home and pretend this day never happened.”

  He finally looked up at her. “Come on, it couldn’t have been that bad. You got to see me again, after all.”

  She made a face before she could stop it. It just figured that she would be the only woman in America less than thrilled at the chance to talk to Jack Vaughn, especially considering her dream of making it big in Nashville. Oh, the irony.

  She sighed. “From what I’ve heard, you talked to my sister the other day. Otherwise known as Bridezilla. Otherwise known as the bane of my existence. Otherwise known as the woman who makes more demands than Paris Hilton at a sample sale. Otherwise known as—”

  Jack gave a soft laugh, and something about the sound wreaked a weird sort of havoc on her heart. “You lost me at Paris Hilton, but I did talk to your sister. She seemed a little stressed.”

  April didn’t know if she detected sarcasm or not, but she went with it anyway. “Yes, I’m sure she’s stressed. Because what bride wouldn’t be going crazy when she’s busy ordering her sister to call the caterer, take care of decorations, rewrite wedding vows, pick out a negligé for the wedding night, make plans for—”

  “Wait—she expects you to write the vows?”

  April didn’t consider this the most outlandish item on the to-do list she’d just recited, especially considering the fact that wedding night shopping had forced her into three Victoria’s Secrets, one Fredrick’s of Hollywood, and another store that she would never speak of again, ever. Not even under the threat of the torture chamber or being forced to give up ice cream for a month. Both pretty much equaled the same thing.

  She nodded. “Among other things. I think I’ve rewritten those vows a hundred times, and each time she nixes them based on a couple of words. Sometimes only one. I’ve recited them in my head so much that I’m a little afraid I’m accidentally already married to her fiancé.”

  This time Jack threw his head back and laughed. He had a nice jawline. Chisled. Slightly unshaven. She liked unshaven.

  April hated herself for noticing.

  “I don’t think it works that way, but I could be wrong.”

  “Let’s hope you aren’t. Sam’s a great guy and all, but he’s a little shorter than I like. Not to mention he’s been dating my sister for three years. I believe in a lot of things, but sharing boyfriends isn’t one of them.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow and glanced down at himself. “You like your men tall, do you?”

  April wanted to punch herself right in the middle of her big mouth. Of course she would say that out loud. And of course Jack was over six feet tall. “Not super tall, definitely not as tall as you.” She raked her gaze over his features to communicate her displeasure. There. That should do it.

  Maybe.

  “April, I’m thinking . . .” With a hesitant smile, he dragged in a slow breath and all she could think was please quit thinking, please quit thinking. But as her usual luck would have it, Jack’s mind was in full working order. “You’re off work, I’m finished performing. Do you want to get coffee or something? I’d like to find out more about how you got talked into wedding-night shopping. Interested?”

  April gave a little laugh. No, she wasn’t interested. No, she couldn’t care less what he wanted to find out about her. No, she didn’t want to talk to him. She didn’t even like coffee.

  Which was why she couldn’t believe it when her brain seemed to forget their earlier altercation and her mouth opened completely without any help from her and said, “Sure. Coffee sounds great.”

  “That isn’t true. Just because a person is
famous doesn’t mean he’s shallow. Not all of us like full-body massages and seaweed wraps.”

  “You’re telling me that if a girl showed up at your house on Monday morning with a table, essential oils, and a jar of mud, you wouldn’t lie down then and there and let her get to work?” April took a sip of her chai green tea latte—something she had never ordered before but made herself choose under some weird sort of coffee shop duress—and set it on the table between them.

  “Well, of course I would if it was free and she had nothing better to do. I just wouldn’t let her show up every morning for the same reason.” Jack folded his hands in front of him and looked around the room before settling his gaze back on April. “I would, however, draw the line at the mud. Seems like such a strange thing to spread over a person’s body, and I’m not buying the stupid health benefits.”

  April raised an eyebrow. “So you’ve heard of them?”

  “Of course I’ve heard of them. I just wouldn’t pay for it, not when this entire state is made of red clay. That works just as well. And it, my friend, is free.”

  Once again, April’s stupid heart gave a stupid flip in her chest. This was Jack Vaughn. So why was it getting harder and harder to remember all the reasons she was mad at him? It was time to give her brain a little refresher course. Time to step up the put-downs.

  “At least we’ve established that you’re cheap.”

  “Sweetheart, I grew up in a single-wide trailer. You have no idea.”

  Again with the flip, and this time it added a little thud. The term sweetheart certainly wasn’t helping matters. She picked up her mug just to have something to do with her hands. “I forgot about that. Does your mom still live there?”

  Jack picked up his napkin and tore a piece from the end. He smiled, a small amount of wonderment filling his expression.