Toss the Bouquet (14 page)

In Tune with Love

AMY MATAYO

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my Nana—Aileen Millsap Longfellow—because I think she's pretty happy I turned out to be a writer.

“You really are obsessive, you know that?”

April stifled a sigh. She was so tired of people saying that same thing to her—from Brenda the waitress to Daniel the night manager and now Jack the bartender—and that was only tonight. She'd heard this line at least a hundred times since she moved from Chattanooga into her sister's Nashville apartment last month and started working here.

Besides, who cared if she liked to write? Was it really
that
strange a hobby?

True, not everyone wrote lyrics on gum wrappers and bar napkins like she was currently doing. And then maybe there was the occasional roll of toilet paper she pilfered from the men's room because the women's room was always out when she needed it most, and what was up with that? And maybe it was a bit weird when she ripped the tags off new bar aprons and used them to jot down notes, but when a girl was out of toilet paper and napkins and gum wrappers, what was she supposed to do?

But obsessive? That was ridiculous.

“I am not obsessive. Just thorough.”

“Last Friday you wrote eight words in Sharpie on my arm.”

April rolled her eyes. Jack could be so petty with details. “They were the perfect rhyme, and I didn't want to forget them.”

“Then next time write on your own arm.”

“I was wearing a white sweater with really tight sleeves.”

“I was wearing a white shirt too! I had just gotten in from performing in a wedding!”

“Who gets married in the morning, anyway?” April sighed. “Besides, you're a guy and it washed off, so what's the big deal?”

“The big deal is I had a date later that night before I had a chance to even attempt to wash it off—which took a mix of rubbing alcohol and baking soda to remove, by the way—and no girl likes a guy she just met that shows up with the words
I'll pay you a dime for a good time
written on his arm.”

“Some girls do.” She winked, fully aware it was a lame attempt at flirting. Jack was . . .
Jack
. Dark hair, well-built, and . . . and . . . okay, sexy.
Sexy
is the word she would use to describe him. But he would never be interested in her. “Besides, she went out with you again, didn't she?”

“After a lot of explaining from me that the words were written by my psycho coworker and weren't the worst pickup line ever in history.”

Psycho coworker. More proof that she didn't stand a—
wait
. Did he just insult her writing?

“It wasn't a pickup line!” As if her songs could be compared to a pickup line. Those sorts of lines were cheesy.
Classless. In contrast, her art was high quality, intellectual. Even if no one had signed her yet. April frowned and put her pen down. “I guess my break's over. What table do you want me to take this to?” she asked.

Jack set a tray in front of her. “Take this round of drinks to table seven, and then you're up. Make it a good one. You never know who might be watching.” He smiled at her.

In only a few weeks, Jack had become a friend. All he would ever be.

April frowned, grabbed the tray, and headed to the table, not the least bit concerned when she saw Jack pick up the napkin and read what she had written on it. After she dispensed drinks to the waiting customers, she grabbed the microphone and headed toward the stage. This song would be a good one. Her best one yet.

She felt her confidence level swell, until she glanced over at Jack from his spot behind the bar. He held up the napkin . . . then proceeded to make gagging gestures with his finger and tongue. She actually heard herself laugh mid-note.

“You're late,” Jack said, producing a sign-in sheet and a pen while Daniel pulled up a barstool.

“No, I'm not. I'm not supposed to start work for . . .” Daniel checked his watch, then shrugged. “I guess I'm late.”

And that was the great thing about Daniel. He never had a problem admitting when he was wrong. In Jack's opinion, the world would be a better place if more people were like him.

“No matter,” Jack said. “We're not that busy tonight. The most pressing thing I need you to do is refill the toilet paper in the men's bathroom. Looks like we're out again.”

“April?”

Jack drummed his fingers on the counter. “That girl has a problem. Every time I see her she has pieces of it stuffed in her pocket, tucked under her arm, probably even inside her bra.” Both men took a second to reflect on that. Finally, Jack took a breath. “Did you know she even wrote with a Sharpie on my—”

“Yes, you told me a couple of times. Or twelve, but I think I lost count sometime before closing last Tuesday night.”

“Point taken. But seriously, that girl . . .” April was a little on the obsessive-compulsive side; still, she was cute. And in his twenty-six-year-old opinion, cute trumped crazy any day of the week. “Where is she, anyway?” Jack looked around but didn't see her anywhere.

“Her shift is over. I saw her in the parking lot on my way in. She said she started laughing during her last performance and couldn't stop. Had to walk off the stage. Can you believe that?”

Jack couldn't help the grin that worked its way across his face. “That might have been my fault.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow. “What did you do?”

“Made fun of something she wrote right before going onstage. And I might have acted like I was vomiting while she was up there trying to sing.”

Both men laughed. It was mean, but it was funny.

“Okay,” Jack said. “Go fix the bathroom problem, and then come take over for me. I'm up in five minutes.” Jack
shoved a mug under the Coke dispenser and pulled the lever, mentally reciting upcoming lyrics in his head. He handed the filled glass to a customer.

“That reminds me,” Daniel said, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Bill Jenkins called after you left last night. He's coming in tomorrow night, so be ready with something.”

Jack's head snapped up at that.
Bill Jenkins?
Bill Jenkins, who had personally signed every third singer in Nashville this past decade
and
gotten them all record deals? Okay, except the ones who shot to fame because of that stupid television singing show. That Bill Jenkins? His face must have registered his thoughts.

“Yes, that Bill Jenkins,” Daniel said, standing from his seat. “So have something ready.”

Jack swallowed, because that was the problem. He had nothing ready. Nothing at all. Dread shot down his spine and landed inside his legs. Feeling the weight of a thousand rejections resting on his shoulders, he grabbed a cloth and began wiping down counters, intent on finishing the mundane part of his job before the entire purpose for his existence began. He worked here for one reason and one reason only: because this place was where many of Nashville's heavy hitters had worked before fame came knocking. Jack figured it was only a matter of time before the same thing happened to him. At least he hoped time would be that kind. Then again, he knew of many who'd spent entire lives waiting tables and passing out beer only to find twenty years had passed without a single nod of encouragement by anyone who mattered.

Jack often prayed he wouldn't be relegated to the same fate.

But now that Bill Jenkins was showing up, he feared he just might be.

Two hours and three songs later, Jack tossed his apron on a hook by the back entrance and walked into the stale night air. Even outside, the area smelled of cheap alcohol and day-old urine. A sad state of affairs considering this was one of the nicest bars in town, situated in an upscale neighborhood and catering to Nashville's finest. Then again, a bar's a bar. Some just didn't know when to stop. Jack stepped around a particularly disturbing patch of wetness and opened the door to his Honda Accord.

That's when he spotted the paper plastered against his windshield.

He frowned, then leaned forward and grabbed it. He turned the bar napkin over in his hand, studying the way the black words written on it bled through to the other side. He scanned them and scanned them again, his pulse picking up speed as realization dawned.

Lyrics. They were lyrics. Only four lines, but some of the best four lines he'd ever had the privilege of reading. For a split second he thought of April; wondered if they could be hers. But the words were clever. Engaging. Definitely the start of something that could be a hit. He'd read plenty of April's lyrics. These definitely weren't hers.

Jack looked over his shoulder and stuffed the napkin in his pocket.
Have something ready
, Daniel had said. And like
an answer to prayer, these words practically fell from heaven and landed on his car. Jack wasn't the kind to reject small favors, so as soon as he got home, he would get started.

He'd come up with something if it took all night.

Three years later

“I just don't see why it matters,” April said, trying to
remain diplomatic. Trying not to unleash a torrent of words all over her sister's head. “The dresses are yellow, Kristin. Yellow. It's not like pink clashes with it, so who cares?”

Her sister's almond-shaped eyes narrowed to resemble hot, burned pumpkin seeds. April had never seen eyes shrink and change that fast. Clearly one of them cared.

“Who
cares
? Doesn't
matter
?” Her sister's arms flew upward, automatically tossing the volume of her voice higher with it. “I asked the wedding coordinator to keep the color pink out of this wedding, and I meant
out of it
. It's so cliché. It's so overdone. It's so generic.”

April didn't think now was the time to point out that all those words meant exactly the same thing. She bit her lip and commanded the grammar nerd inside her to shut up.

“When we were little, pink was your favorite color, so maybe it's a sign.”