Toss the Bouquet (21 page)

“That's him, and he's here to sing on a favor to Kristin. So go sing, Jack. It'll be interesting to hear what lovely songs she has picked out for you.” Sarcasm. April used it well.

With a half smile, Jack picked up his guitar case and
microphone stand and gestured for his bandmates—his pared-down bandmates because only his keyboardist and drummer agreed to join him, the other two losers claiming they were still owed vacation time and shouldn't have to give the days up just because Jack was an idiot—to pick up equipment and follow him.

Jack wasn't too far away to hear Gloria Quinn's whispered words. “Kristin, you can't be serious. After what he did? I would like to think you care about your sister's feelings a little more than that.”

“I do. It's just that—”

“Now, who picked out this awful fabric for the rice bags? And what are they supposed to be? They look like very poorly designed lollipops, and the construction . . . just shabby. A complete disappointment. Amateur.” She clicked her tongue and tossed one in a nearby wastebasket. Jack didn't miss the way April's face bloomed red; she was angry, that much was obvious. But there was something else. April almost looked weary. Maybe . . . defeated? She reached up to rub her eyebrows, and that's when he had an idea.

April had told him to figure out a way to make it up to her, and Jack had the feeling he'd just discovered a way to do it.

Jack sighed and set his guitar on the stand. Rehearsal
hadn't gone well. Not because they were out of practice or the band wasn't in tune, but because Jack had developed a sudden inability to sing in front of people. An odd bout of stage fright. He hadn't suffered from it in recent memory, not even at the bar two nights ago. Then again, it seemed to only involve those people whose well-known personal dislike of him ran deep.

And April's parents hadn't stopped glaring at him all afternoon.

Jack shut off the microphone and jumped off the makeshift stage, rubbing his hands together because really, he had no idea what to do. Torn between wanting to see April and wanting to flee this pit of tension and hostility—funny, considering a happy, supposedly joyful wedding would take place in this room tomorrow night—he stood back and waited for a decision to fall from the sky and smack him in the face. But
like always, he waited for no reason because nothing happened. April continued filling miniature shot glasses with birdseed and yellow drink umbrellas because her mother had deemed all her previous work worthless and tossed those sucker-looking things into the trash. A small collection of gold balls lay heaped in a mound inside the trash can—like a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, if the pot of gold lay on top of a collection of discarded coffee cups and yesterday's Chinese takeout.

The trash smelled awful. Someone needed to take it out.

Jack's eyes drifted away from April as he took in Kristin placing and replacing name cards around white linen-topped tables. Her mother reassembled gigantic arrangements of cream-colored lilies and white roses, proclaiming that the local flower shop was inept and completely without taste and for the love of God could they not tell the difference between a freshly cut flower and one that had clearly been refrigerated for more than a day? The level of outrage on this particular point left Jack perplexed, but then again he wasn't a chick and maybe this is what women worried about.

For maybe the millionth time in his life, he silently thanked God for making him a man.

He also silently begged his Maker for a little grace. In about four seconds, he would need it.

“So did everything sound okay to you? Because if you had something different in mind we could always change things up a bit.” Kristin hovered over a pile of multiple types of ribbon mounded on one of the round tables. She chewed her lip, heavy on the concentration, as she glanced up for the briefest second.

“It sounded great.” Her enthusiasm equaled a disappointed meteorologist's pronouncement on the perfectly normal weather during non-hurricane season.
It's pretty. Not a cloud in the sky. Nothing to report here. Not even a single death.
“The only thing I didn't hear you play was ‘Open Arms.' It's on your set list, right? That's the song we were listening to when Sam first asked me to be exclusive. You have to sing it.”

“Open Arms”? By Journey?
The “Open Arms” that was about thirty years old and had probably been played more at weddings than even “Wind Beneath My Wings”—which he drew the line at and would continue to draw the line at until the end of time? Or until the end of this particular wedding since this was the last and final time anyone would refer to him as a wedding singer ever again.

But . . . “Open Arms”? Surely she was kidding.

“Um, no. I didn't see that one on the list I was given. Maybe somehow it got left off.”

“Well, make sure you add it. Sam would be so disappointed.”

From a few yards back, April laughed. She tried to cover it with a sudden hacking cough—one that Kristin bought but Jack could spot as fake even if he hadn't been standing ten feet away from her. Right then, Jack decided to close the distance. Maybe it was a small kinship he'd felt with her since their little date last night. Maybe it was because she felt like the only familiar person in the room. Maybe it was just that at this particular moment in time they shared a private exasperation with Kristin. Whatever the reason, he felt like being around her. Even if her parents flung imaginary daggers at his chest as he approached.

He picked up a birdseed cup. “Now, are people supposed to drink those or hand them out to the birds? Which, if you want my opinion, seems to skirt the line of encouraging alcoholism among God's winged creatures.”

“Thank you for sharing.”

“And then another thing—”

“Put that down, Jack. The last thing I need is for you to spill it. Then I'd have to clean it up and start over.” April looked up at him, a look of pure exhaustion on her face. Still, he didn't miss the edge of a smile. “Except for your lovely rendition of ‘Open Arms' that I simply can't wait to hear tomorrow night, you're finished with rehearsals. So why are you still hanging around? A sudden need to fill birdseed cups?” Before he knew what had happened, she grabbed a stack of twenty-five or so and shoved them in his hands. “I'll take that as a yes, so here you go. Finish these in the next fifteen minutes and I'll buy you some ice cream.” As soon as the words left her lips, her eyes widened as though she couldn't believe her impulsively bad idea.

“I haven't been bribed with ice cream since I was seven, but I guess I'll agree to anything if it means you're taking me out on another date.”

She pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen in her face. The move was cute, the slightly disheveled look suddenly doing all sorts of good things for her. Something inside his chest gave a little twist, something he tried to ignore as best he could. It didn't work all that well, not even when she took the opportunity to throw out another insult.

“You asked
me
last night, and going out for coffee doesn't count as a date. Neither does ice cream. And besides, we're
only going if you finish on time.” She glanced at everything he still held in his hands. “And right now, it's not looking real good for you.”

He looked down, then back up at her. If he calculated right, he had nearly thirteen minutes left before time ran out. And he was Jack Vaughn.

Jack Vaughn never backed down from a challenge, especially not one thrown down by the most interesting girl he'd been around in years.

Nine minutes. Nine minutes, and he'd finished filling every last cup. Meanwhile, she had managed to complete less than half his total and still had to return to the reception hall to finish them before the rehearsal started in three hours. Not to mention she still wore the gym shorts and the tank she'd pulled on in a rush first thing this morning, her hair was still knotted at the back of her head, and she wasn't wearing a stitch of makeup. She was a mess walking next to Jack in his perfectly manicured wedding rehearsal outfit.

“You have ice cream on your chin.”

And this lovely observation only confirmed it. April frowned and rubbed the ice cream away.

“Did I get it all?” she asked.

He tilted his head and studied her. “The vanilla, yes. But you still have a chocolate chip stuck to your cheek.” Before she knew what was happening, Jack reached out and brushed it away, the warmth of his fingertip staying behind long after contact had been broken. April willed her heart to settle and
stared straight ahead, reminding herself to take one step and then another, one step and then another. It was the only way to make sure she wouldn't trip and fall over her own feet, which currently felt like unset Jell-O shaking in a bowl of mixed-up nerves.

“I shouldn't be allowed to go out in public,” she said. Beside her, Jack laughed.

“Every time I wear a white shirt—every single time, I'm not kidding—I drop something on it. Coffee. Chocolate cake. Once even a Sharpie when I was trying to write my own name. So I know what you mean. The affliction affects me too. Has since I was a kid.”

April couldn't help the grin that stole over her face. “You know, you'll be wearing a white shirt tomorrow night at the wedding. I'll hate to see what you look like at the end of the night.”

Jack opened the car door for her and she climbed inside. For just a moment, he rested one arm on the passenger door and peered down at her. “Something tells me you wouldn't hate it at all. Something tells me you're secretly hoping I'll be covered in filth before I even climb up onstage.”

“Busted. Although in my defense, seeing you a complete mess might be a good way to get Kristin to loosen up a little. Maybe I'll do the same with my dress. Smear a little chocolate on it. Add a few rips to the hem. Who knows? We could start a hot new trend.” April smiled at her lap. “And then, of course, seeing you that way might ultimately help make me feel better.”

Jack stepped back. “Come on, April. You told me to get creative. To think of something to make everything up to
you. Surely you think I can do better than that. And speaking of what we're wearing, what color is your dress?”

It was the way he said it. It was the way he said it coupled with the excited gleam in his eye. That's what began April's unraveling, one tiny thread at a time. Jack had something planned. Jack had taken her words to heart and had actually begun to work on them. And as he stepped back and closed the car door, then took his time walking around to the driver's side, the feeling stayed with her.

Jack Vaughn had a plan. Which could only mean one thing. Jack cared about her. At least a little.

“It's yellow. My dress is yellow.”

April couldn't keep the smile off her face the whole way home.

Jack slipped his arms through his tuxedo jacket and
studied himself in the mirror. He hadn't worn one of these straightjackets since prom, foregoing them even at awards ceremonies and other friends' weddings in favor of tailored jackets, expensive tees, and black Converse. He was a musician; he could get away with anything and call it artistic expression.