“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.”
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.