Just as he hoped would happen, the guy blinked at him, his jaw dropped just enough for Jack to know he’d been recognized. This was the best and worst part of fame—the worst when people wouldn’t leave you alone, the best when it could be used to help out a friend.
Although in this situation, he used the term friend in the loosest way possible.
“Are you Jack . . . ?”
“Sure am. And I need to get ready to sing.” He offered his hand, hoping it would seal an end to the situation. “So are we good here?”
The guy shook his hand and nodded, all traces of anger diminished to the point that Jack doubted he would even remember tomorrow. “We’re good. But I will take you up on that round.” And with that, the guy smiled.
Jack laughed and assured him he would place the order, then turned to face April. If he was being really honest, he was rather proud of himself. It wasn’t just anyone who could diffuse a situation like that. It took someone special to swoop in so quickly and rescue a woman. It wasn’t just any day that—
“I didn’t need your help, Jack, and I darn well don’t appreciate it.” If anyone had been standing behind him, they would see his self-congratulatory thought bubble leak, deflate, and float to the ground. “Next time you want to throw your weight around, do it at the expense of someone other than me. Got it?”
And with that, April snatched up her tray and marched away, leaving Jack Vaughn—the Jack Vaughn with the really cool career—wondering what the heck just happened.
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.