Just One Reason Read online

  He’s more than she bargained for…

  As far as Declan Waterford is concerned, women are off limits—at least until he can earn enough money for his brother’s surgery. The dueling piano gig at Vegas’s Masquerade hotel barely pays enough…but if Declan can convince his boss to promote him, he’ll be set. And the Senior VP of the hotel’s gorgeous daughter might just be the “in” Declan needs.

  Between drowning in mistakes at her editorial internship and fighting off her father’s demands that she relocate to Vegas and join his hotel empire, Melody Sumner doesn’t have time for love—or one-night stands with sexy Irish piano players—no matter how appetizing Declan is. But even though she knows he’s only interested in her for one reason, the intense chemistry between them has her thinking dangerous thoughts...

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover the What Happens in Vegas series… Tempting Her Best Friend

  The Makeover Mistake

  A Change of Plans

  Masquerading with the CEO

  Tamed by the Outlaw

  Fragile Line

  Find love in unexpected places with these satisfying Lovestruck reads… Masquerading with the CEO

  Drunk on You

  Five Things I Love About You

  Neighbors with Benefits

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Brooklyn Skye. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Lovestruck is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Alycia Tornetta

  Cover design by Heather Howland

  Cover art from iStock

  ISBN 978-1-63375-414-0

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition August 2015

  For April.

  Not sure what I would do without you in my life.

  Chapter One

  Melody Sumner stared at the tablet’s screen, letters and words scrambling like a dizzying carnival ride. Not really moving, Mel. You know this. Just focus! She glanced up to the circle of women around the table, blinked once, twice, and tried again to read the email.

  Dear Karri, I am deeply confused by your intern’s respon—

  The tablet disappeared. Karri Wood, the well-known and highly coveted senior editor Melody interned for, cleared her throat, waving the device in front of her. Well? her blue eyes seemed to say.

  Melody’s hands fidgeted in her lap. “I…um…didn’t finish reading it?” A question. Why had she made it sound like a question? Maybe it was the face-to-face contact she’d had with her mentor and publishing team the past few days during the Romance Lovers Convention, the meetings, workshops, and lunches that all involved discussing this year’s releases and marketing strategies. The way these women stared at her when she was asked to read something quickly. Yeah, working remotely from home, where no one could witness that was much preferred.

  Karri took a sip of her sangria and smiled stiffly. “Stop twiddling, for goodness’ sake. I only meant to show you that when responding to agents and authors, you need to be clearer. We’re interested. We’re not. Give a reason and be done. Don’t feel bad about rejecting their work. Lord knows we don’t have time for that.” She chuckled, her thick brown hair dancing with the movement, then patted Melody’s shoulder. “And proofread before sending, dear. That way we won’t have any problems.” The punch to Karri’s words elicited a bilious fizz in her stomach. Would this trip be it for her? The moment her mentor realized Melody wasn’t cut out to be the successful editor she’d expected her to be?

  “I’m sorry. I will,” Melody said, then shoved her straw into her mouth and gulped her iced tea to keep from begging for mercy or making promises she couldn’t keep, like saying mistakes as stupid as this one wouldn’t ever happen again.

  It’s out of my control.

  Across the table, Heather, the team’s publicist, scrunched her nose at Melody, dipping her chin in an understanding nod, then barrel-rolled the women into conversation about the cover design on next month’s lead title. Melody sighed and relaxed into her chair, silently thanking Heather with a smile. Becoming a romance editor was everything to Melody—a dream she’d had since she’d first discovered her mother’s stacks of curled paperbacks years ago in high school. A guilty pleasure turned to passion, despite the difficulty she had with reading. Losing this internship would mean starting from square one, only with a black cloud of failure hanging over her head.

  Melody tried to focus on the discussion at the table, but inside that niggling voice wouldn’t leave her alone. The one that whispered she wasn’t good enough, that her reading disability would keep her from following her dreams. College had been a melee of textbooks thrown across the room and ugly tears, and that insistent voice didn’t want to let her forget it.

  Melody sat up tall, planting her elbows on the linen-covered table, and shoved back her shoulders. No. I can do this. I will do this.

  But could she? With errors like the email she sent to that agent?

  Across the walkway, a hotel employee bent over a trash can and yanked out the bag, the collar of his red-and-purple uniform poking into his neck. Prickles built in her belly, the same as they always did when she thought of her father’s words: The Masquerade would suit you well.

  But she didn’t want to live in Vegas, didn’t want anything to do with hotel or casino life at all. She liked her quiet life in Southern California. Cute townhome, remote internship that would hopefully soon lead to a paycheck…that’s what suited her. Just being at the Masquerade, with its Bourbon Street architecture and gaudy, jester-like decor, had her appetite disappearing faster than a magic act. Why had the convention been set here? Why not New York? Chicago? Plenty of locations would’ve provided a great venue for this rally of publishing folk—

  A plate landed in front of her, the scent of tomatoes and basil hitting her at the same time. “Your basgetti and meatballs, ma’am,” the waitress said teasingly. The women at the table laughed, and Melody grew warm in the cheeks. She hadn’t meant to say that when ordering, but the rush to give her choice had tangled up her tongue.

  She squinted up at the leathery face above her and forced a smile. “Thank you.” At least everyone had thought it was a joke.

  Story of your life, right, Mel?

  Plates of lasagna, chicken parmesan, and a mound of garlic bread quickly filled the table. Melody lowered her hands beneath the table and shook them out—the hot burn of humiliation waning with the effort. Inhale. Exhale. Okay, time to eat.

  From beneath the silverware, she tugged out the cloth napkin, accidentally sending the trio of eating utensils crashing to the tiled floor. Seriously? Did everything have to be a freaking fiasco with her?

  Vegas… It had to be this despicable place throwing her senses—and coordination!—into a jumbled pile of doo-doo.

  She pinched a thin smile, pra
ying her cheeks weren’t as red as they felt, when a man crouched down beside her to retrieve the silverware.

  For a small second, she stared at the dark head of short-cropped hair beneath her. The square shoulders and the way they pressed against the sleeves of his T-shirt when he moved. Please don’t be one of the hundreds of cover models swarming this place. After the day she’d had, she wasn’t sure she could handle that kind of embarrassment in front of these women. The man’s fingers swooped under the silver, and as he stood, his eyes met hers.

  Forest green. A glint from the lighting above. Oh, those were not difficult to look into at all.

  One side of his mouth pulled into a grin. “The filth on this floor probably causes cancer,” he said, his voice lower than she expected and with a heavy—but not jumbled—Irish accent. “Better not use them.” Quickly, he slipped behind her chair and snatched a new set of utensils from an empty table. Setting them in front of her, he added, “Enjoy your lunch,” then crossed the walkway and entered Napoleon’s, the hotel’s renowned piano bar.

  “Holy Colin Farrell,” Heather whispered to the table. “That guy was dreamy!”

  “Do you think he’s a cover model?” Karri asked.

  “Wouldn’t doubt it. You know who he kind of looks like, though?”

  Collectively, everyone—including Melody—shook their heads.

  Heather tapped on her phone lightning fast, then held it up with a toothy grin, the screen displaying her favorite online magazine. “I should become a detective with how well I can recognize people. I was going to say he looks like Brendan Waterford, lead singer of Torn, this indie rock band in Ireland. But that’s because that guy is his little brother, Declan Waterford. The Pulse mentioned him in an article about his brother a while back, said he’d had a few small gigs over in Ireland before coming to the States, but…” A line formed between her brows as she scanned the sign across the way that announced a dueling pianos show at nine o’clock. “You think he’s performing here?”

  She wasn’t looking at Melody, but an answer came out anyway. “Yes,” Melody said, swallowing against the wave of attention from the table. “My father’s fiancée mentioned him not too long ago. Apparently, he can draw the crowds.” Melody hadn’t known who Declan Waterford was when her stepmother-to-be, Alexis, had talked of him. Didn’t much care, either, since Vegas would only ever be a place for romance conventions and perhaps the occasional bachelorette party—not a permanent residence—so she hadn’t paid considerable attention. Irish charm, she remembered Alexis saying. Amazing arms, too.

  Well, Melody couldn’t disagree with her there.

  “I think our little intern made an impression on him,” Karri said around the edge of her sangria glass. Discreetly, Melody grinned. Boss talking about men? Maybe a tad awkward.

  Heather clapped her hands, spearing Melody with a smile. “Maybe he could be the one to finally lube your tubes!”

  Lube my tubes?

  “How do you…” Melody couldn’t even say it, not in front of her boss. And how did Heather know about her Sahara-sized dry spell anyway?

  “Oh, honey, it’s written all over your face.”

  …

  Declan Waterford peered once more over his shoulder at the gorgeous blonde sitting outside the Italian eatery. Not that he could see past those warm hazel eyes and the roundness of her tits in that fitted tank top—but both were pure flawlessness.

  The door to Nap’s shut behind him, and with it thoughts of the girl, too. Priorities, man. Savage as it is, you have no choice.

  Declan slipped a small radio from his bag, set it atop the piano, and lowered onto the bench. His fingers warmed up the keys in his routine series of chords before he switched on the radio and began to practice, matching the melody of the piano to the songs. He didn’t care much about the lyrics—the audience loved when he ad-libbed those. But 90 percent of the songs he played in his shows were audience requests, so he had to stay up on all the American pop songs. And he prided himself on the little fact that he hadn’t ever turned away a song for not knowing it.

  Sam Smith turned to Rihanna to Katy Perry. Being some of the most-requested songs, he knew them already, but he played on, letting his mind drift as he did. Over the blonde outside, the strange rattle his car had made on the drive to work, and then to a conversation he’d had with his brother, Brendan. Not the last one. Just the one he’d forced himself never to forget.

  What does this surgery involve, B?

  Rerouting the nerves that no longer work to functioning nerves. It’ll restore lost movement in my upper limbs. In spanner terms, brother, I’ll be able to use my hands again. Need ’em to stroke the salami.

  That was his big brother, forced into quadriplegia at the young age of twenty-six—his dreams stripped away with his ability to move all his limbs—and still making jokes about beating off. And to the very dickbrain who’d convinced him the water was deep enough. No doubt, had Declan been the one to jump first into the too-shallow water, he’d resent his brother fiercely. Blame him with every ounce he had in his body.

  But that was the difference between him and his brother. Because if it had been the other way around, Brendan would’ve raised enough money by now.

  The door behind the bar slammed, and Duey’s voice echoed through the dimly lit lounge, over the sea of empty chairs. “Payday, bitch!”

  Declan’s fingers paused, drawing out the last note. “Pretty sure at my last job, my boss didn’t call me ‘bitch.’ Is that legal here in the States?”

  “If you work in Vegas, it is.” Duey grinned, then slapped a white envelope in front of Declan. “Less than last month’s because we had to deduct for last night’s bar fight.”

  Less. Declan’s mind stumbled over the word. “What?” he said, quieting the radio. “You can’t charge me for that. I’m not the one who fought.”

  Duey scraped his hand over his pale face. “The fight you caused. Do I really have to explain this?”

  “Did you see me once get off this bench?” Less, less, less. Growing antsy with nowhere to move, Declan stood, his insides exploding and crumbling at the same time. Brendan doesn’t have time for less!

  Duey stepped back as Declan marched past him. “Your words, bro. They get into people’s heads, make them act”—he extended a finger to his temple and spun it in a circle—“like lunatics.”

  Hands clenched at Declan’s sides. “My lyrics bring in good tips.”

  “With the ladies, yes. I’ve witnessed it, I know. But the dudes that come in here? They don’t want to be threatened. By you or each other. Pit bulls, man. They’re all just pit bulls in their own cages. Open one, and…well, you saw what happens.”

  Two grown men throwing themselves around the bar like idiots. Stools breaking. A few glasses, too. Yeah, he saw. Declan rolled his eyes. “Not my fault if ’roided-out tools come in here with beef already between them. Those guys probably spent all day at the pool, staring each other down. It would’ve happened wherever they landed.”

  Duey’s mouth opened and closed, then he tucked his stringy black hair behind his ear—something he did when he was nervous, Declan had noticed. “Maybe,” Duey said. “But insulting them?”

  Like lightning, Declan’s hands shot up, palms out. “Insults were never part of the show. I may kid, but I’m not stupid enough to risk my job.”

  “Neither am I, and after two episodes of this the boss now has his eye on me. Very closely. No more damage, you understand?”

  Staring at the wall behind his supervisor’s head, Declan nodded.

  Duey pressed on, as if he knew he was pushing Declan’s sanity button. “There are hundreds of performers waiting for this slot to open. One more screwup and you’re out.”

  He hated the power trip this douche bag had over him, but he had to play it cool. Letting him dig under his nails like a splinter would only result in the guy receiving a face full of Declan’s fist. Declan sucked in a slow breath, pictured his brother, and said, “There won’t
be another screwup.”

  “Good.” Duey spun on his heels and started for the door. Declan knew this wasn’t the time to ask but called out anyway.

  “Hey, man, that opening at the Parrot Lounge? You think I have a shot at it?”

  His supervisor didn’t bother turning around as he spouted out over his shoulder, “Time, Waterford. It takes time to show you’re deserving of that slot.”

  Yeah, and time is the only thing I don’t have.

  …

  Melody scanned the table of chocolate-and-whipped-cream-smeared plates, her belly aching from the ungodly number of calories she’d just consumed. Dinner and dessert had passed with continuous—and exhausting—talk of her team’s releases, an unending list it seemed would take them well into the following year.

  She rubbed her head and caught Heather smiling at her. “I could use a stiffer drink,” she said to the table.

  Karri agreed with a nod. “And maybe some music?” Her eyes pointed to the door of Napoleon’s, swung wide open now, with sounds of hit songs and laughter escaping. “Anyone up for a little break?”

  Melody had to admit…she was spent. And a touch curious what that singing Irish accent sounded like up close. Quickly, she stood, smoothing the material of her skirt. “I’m in.” She smiled. “And I heard Napoleon’s makes a killer Manhattan.”

  The group of women sauntered into the lounge, beelining for the bar. The heaviness of the air, thick with heat and the stench of nicotine, had Melody rubbing her eyes instantaneously. I don’t know how Dad can call a place like this home.

  Drinks in hand, a few of the women headed straight for the dance floor. Melody hung back with Heather, watching as Declan Waterford skated his fingers over the piano keys. Graceful, yet steady. And assured. Almost as if the ivory was an extension of his own body. The man opposite him sifted through a handful of small white paper slips atop his piano. Song requests—what the entire show was based off. Salty-white strands of hair trickled down his sideburns and into a wild beard. Nice-looking, if you liked the Duck Dynasty look, but older and definitely not who she would have imagined onstage with an Irish performer. Only in Vegas, she thought with a giggle.