Just One Reason Read online

  “You should request something,” Heather said as the Vance Joy song came to an end. Melody tore her eyes away from the singer and stared at her coworker.

  “I didn’t come in here to flirt with the performers.”

  Heather cocked her head to the side, her braided ponytail draping over her bare arm. “You didn’t?” she said playfully. “I thought for sure that’s why you jumped up from the table so fast.”

  Her brain had felt scrambled from the three-hour dinner meeting, that’s why she’d needed a break. But it wasn’t like she could blurt that out to Heather—she didn’t want anyone knowing, much less suspecting, that she struggled with all those words.

  Another song started up, Declan’s fingers racing over the keys. What had that study she’d recently read online said again about tying learning a musical instrument to the improvement in sound spelling? Dr. Mann, a well-known dyslexia specialist, often wrote about her theories on her blog, her latest relating to music.

  Declan’s fingers stiffened and jumped, the punch of sound vibrating in her chest. Seemed a bit far-fetched that learning to press a few notes could utilize both sides of the brain enough to cure her, but she had to be honest with herself. If someone back home had offered to teach her, she wouldn’t have turned them down.

  Poking her thoughts, the sound of Declan’s voice drew her attention back to the stage.

  Fingers off the piano, hand reaching for a glass of water, he looked down at the audience with a serious expression and said, “So my friend and I were walking down the Strip the other day and he’d a bag of doughnuts in his hand. He said to me, ‘If you can guess how many doughnuts are in my bag, you can have them both.’”

  The piano let out a bu-dump, the audience laughed, and then Declan glanced to the bearded man across from him.

  “That song was fun, Randy, but we need something to get people out of their seats. That dance floor is looking as dried up as a nun’s tit.”

  Someone gasped.

  A few laughed.

  Did he really just say that?

  The other performer—Randy, completely unfazed by Declan’s vulgarity—nodded and pushed a piece of paper to the side, then started into the tune of a familiar bar song.

  “C’mon, people. Let’s put some milk in this tit,” Declan added, pointing to the open floor space in front of the stage. “Get up and get moving!”

  At least half the audience crowded the dance floor, swaying, bobbing, jumping to the music. Any other time, “Don’t Stop Believin’” would’ve had Melody dancing, too, but Declan’s comment was still clinging to her. Was that really how the hotel wanted the show to run? Dueling piano performances were supposed to be classy, not offensive.

  Doesn’t matter, Mel, she scolded herself. It’s not like you work here. Even so, her feet remained planted.

  Declan’s eyebrows danced as he sang, and women giggled from the dance floor below him like teenagers smitten over a member of a boy band. If he really was an up-and-coming star like Heather had said, she could see why. He had the looks, the voice, and obviously the ability to lure women in, but—

  “Wow,” Heather said above the noise, scratching her head. “I don’t remember the lyrics being that…rough.”

  Melody nodded. “I was thinking that, too. Did he just say, ‘Some were born to sing the fecking blues’? Is ‘fecking’ even a word?”

  Heather giggled into her cocktail. “At least he didn’t use the American version.”

  Across the dance floor, the sight of Karri talking to Taylor Blankenship, one of the romance industry’s top-selling agents, caught Melody’s attention. The two women mirrored each other with their arms folded over their middles, pinched brows, and faces tightening. Uh-oh, they don’t look happy. Karri bobbed her chin and smiled tightly at Taylor, then scanned the room until her gaze landed on Melody. Speared her, just as Karri started her way. Double uh-oh!

  “Yikes,” Heather said over the song. “Did someone commit murder?”

  “Looks like Karri might…” Melody answered, but in her head she was trying to recall if she’d ever corresponded with the agent on behalf of her mentor. She didn’t think she had—couldn’t remember, anyway, with the number of agents she emailed daily—and waited the eternity of a second that it took Karri to reach her, twisting and untwisting her hair.

  An exaggerated sigh slipped from Karri’s lips as she approached, cords twanging in her neck. “Don’t get me wrong, I love coming to these events,” she said, her tone harsher than usual and lips drawing into an uncommitted smile. “But I hate that people in the industry use it as a time to complain face-to-face.”

  Melody swallowed hard. “Complain?” Hopefully not about me…

  Karri fingered the collar of her blouse, the other hand tightening around her cocktail glass. She gulped the fizzy liquid, then said, “A woman falling in love with a baboon, remember that manuscript?”

  How could Melody forget? It was the most absurdly erotic piece of writing she’d ever read—definitely not apt for Karri’s list, or their imprint in general—but Melody had to admit it’d been entertaining. So much so that she couldn’t resist mentioning it to her Twitter friends. “I remember,” Melody responded.

  “Well, Taylor Blankenship is pissed because that was her client. And apparently my intern”—her stare focused directly on Melody’s—“broke her nondisclosure agreement when she blabbed about it all over social media.”

  Silence. Even in a room blasting with music, Melody could hear her heart jump into her ears. Had her NDA stated no social media? Her insides sagged. She wouldn’t know, because she’d spared herself the agony by not reading it. And now you’re going to be let go for it. Good going, blabbermouth. Melody shook her head. “It wasn’t…I mean, I didn’t—”

  Karri held up her hand, her long cherry-red nails glistening in the murky lighting. “Spare me the excuses. I just need you to understand what being in this profession means. You are going to be in the spotlight, going to have writers who are desperate to have their work published hanging on your every word, so you need to be careful. The NDA is in place for a reason, and I need you to follow it to a T. Understand?”

  Quickly, Melody nodded. “I understand. I’m sorry; it won’t happen again.” And thank you, thank you, thank you for not firing me!

  “Well, then.” Karri held up her glass. “Looks like I need another drink.”

  Melody released a bottomless sigh once her boss was on her way to the bar, swearing to herself she was going to read that agreement as soon as she got back to her room.

  Beside her, Heather cleared her throat. “Cocktrough.”

  “What?” Melody snapped her gaze to her friend.

  “You missed Mr. Irish say ‘cocktrough,’ as in the request jar was a cocktrough and he wanted us to jizz our best pecker snot into it.” She laughed, crinkles branching out from her overly round eyes.

  “Oh my God. Is he allowed to say things like that?” Automatically, Melody scanned the crowded room. Where was the manager of this place? Did he know what was going on in his bar?

  Melody and Heather stayed planted at the edge of the dance floor as, song after song, the singer botched the lyrics with words like “ass juices” and “dingleberries.” Irish curses, Melody assumed. And song after song, a strange yet irritated itch scratched at her belly. Not that she talked to her father much about the hotel—typically they avoided the subject, because hearing how her father dropped everything to come to Vegas and risked his entire life’s savings to join the kitschy hotel business sent her stomach falling to her toes, just like that. She didn’t understand how he could have been so reckless. So rash—with his money and his life. But watching this man onstage behave like an utter fool, when he was likely hired to do nothing but sing popular songs to an audience, had her blood growing warmer.

  The song ended, and the bearded man said to Declan, “We’ve got an old-school request, D. You like Billy Idol?”

  Declan shrugged. “A bit of a neddy. Whi
ch song?”

  Randy passed an iPad over the pianos with a Cheshire-like grin, and after scanning the screen Declan belted out a laugh.

  “Someone in here sure has fecking on the brain. Easy to do with so many beautiful women in here. All right, here we go. ‘This is Dancing With Myself.’” Different from the other songs, Declan watched the tablet’s screen—reading the music, Melody assumed—as he started to sing about no one else in sight on a crowded lonely night, waiting so long for a love vibration—

  Suddenly, the music stopped. Declan looked at the audience. “Love vibration? What a lame phrase. Did you people really want me singing about a wanker pulling a skagdick?”

  Melody’s feet grew antsy. She felt like she needed to do something—anything—to stop this bad-mannered foreigner from offending people in the room. Setting her empty glass on a table, she said to Heather, “I’m going to request a song.”

  Her coworker bit her straw and winked. “Getting jealous of all the attention he’s receiving from the ladies?”

  Ha. “Something like that.” Melody pushed through the crowd to the stage, where a stack of paper sat at the edge. Her mind raced for the perfect song—one he could in no way add profanity to, Irish or not. And then it hit her, and she nearly laughed out loud.

  Quickly, she jotted down the name of the song, and just as she was about to drop it into the glass jar, a large hand swooped in and snatched the paper from her fingertips.

  Oh, she hadn’t noticed he’d stopped talking.

  Then an Irish accent followed. “Guessing the songs women choose for me to sing is quite entertaining, you know?”

  What will be entertaining is watching you sing it, you offensive yet ridiculously good-looking man. Melody tilted her head back and squared her shoulders, meeting his green gaze, fully aware that eyes all over the room were watching her. “Go ahead,” she said, “but this one won’t be so easy to guess.”

  The singer ran his tongue over his lips, a challenge in his eyes. Slowly he nodded and straightened. “Ladies and gentleman,” he said boldly into the microphone, “I believe the missus here has dared me to guess her song choice.”

  Dared? Melody opened her mouth. “That’s not—”

  Words cut short with Declan’s attention on her—his eyes brazenly taking in her every feature from head to toe. “Tanned skin, bleached hair…hundred bucks says she’s a Cali girl.”

  A few mmm-hmms behind her, and Melody bristled. Lucky guess. Plenty of California residents come to Vegas.

  “What d’ya say, friends. Is her song of choice going to be from Kelly Clarkson or Lady Gaga?”

  Shouts of both filled the room. Even Heather was in on it, hooting out “Kel-ly!” with a fist pump.

  For a split second Melody felt like she was standing naked in front of everyone. Until, that was, she thought of the song title she’d written. Until she eased back and watched the dirty-mouthed Declan Waterford unfold the paper square. His eyes only widened the slightest bit—not even enough to notice had she been any farther away.

  He didn’t look at Melody, but at the audience, and shouted, “We’re all wrong. Carrie Underwood!”

  Randy clapped.

  Heather clapped.

  Everybody in the freaking room clapped.

  Declan started to play a song that she hadn’t requested.

  What the heck just happened? No way was he going to swindle the room into thinking she’d chosen that song! He needed to pay, or learn his lesson, or…jeez, she didn’t even know why she felt so determined to get through to him. Maybe it was the comment her father had made yesterday—You’ve got executive blood, baby. We could be a great team. His constant badgering to get her to live the hotel life. But picking up and leaving everything she had in California to manage a hotel wasn’t what she wanted. Following her dreams into publishing was.

  Still, she couldn’t let this guy get away with ignoring her.

  Swiftly, she reached for the first thing she could find—the leg of his pants—and tugged. “Hold on. What about my song?”

  Declan’s fingers kept playing, but he leaned down. “‘Our God is an Awesome God’? No offense to the man above, but singing that would clear the room.”

  “So change it like you’ve been doing with the others,” she challenged, narrowing her stare. Then we’ll see how much the people in here like you.

  He merely shook his head and blurted into the microphone, “Can’t make chicken soup outta chicken shit. Ain’t that right, friends?”

  The audience laughed. Clapped. And fire erupted in Melody’s chest. How dare he embarrass her in front of everyone? Her boss, who was laughing along with everyone else. The room suddenly felt like it was shrinking, pressing in on her.

  “Listen, beautiful,” Declan continued, eyeing the thin set of her mouth, “there’s nothing in my contract that says I have to sing what’s requested.”

  Melody had no idea if that was true. Still she gathered herself and managed a shrug. “I could have that changed.”

  Declan belted out a hearty laugh. “Yeah, you go ahead and schedule an appointment with the spanner who runs this stingy-ass place. If you’re lucky, you won’t be conned into working here, too.”

  Too? Was that what had happened to him? Did she even care? Arms folded, she lifted a brow. “Not very smart to say about your boss. Or the hotel you work in.”

  He leaned closer, the spicy scent of his cologne working its way to her nose. “Have you met him?”

  The way he said it, disbelief and pure revulsion in his eyes, burned the tops of her ears. Her father wasn’t a bad person—a businessman, yes, with a cutthroat drive to make the Masquerade one of the top hotels in Vegas—but he would never con someone into working here.

  “Seeing as he’s my father,” she said, letting that last word hang in the air long enough to sink in, “yes, I have.”

  The music stopped. Declan’s mouth opened, closed. She smiled.

  He squinted down at her. “Michael Sumner—senior vice president of the Masquerade—is your father?”

  Melody extended her hand, biting her cheek against a smile. That oh, crap look on his face was priceless, a nice revenge for what he’d done to her. But still not enough, so she wiggled her fingers and added with a punch in her tone so everyone in the room could hear, “Melody Sumner. I’ll be sure to mention your name at breakfast with Daddy tomorrow.”

  Then she spun and headed for the exit.

  Chapter Two

  Shit, I just insulted the VP. To his daughter!

  “Randy,” Declan said, pushing away from the piano, “send us out on break.”

  “Not time, bro,” Randy said, but he smiled and jerked his chin toward the door. It wasn’t like he hadn’t just seen what happened. Seen Declan throw away his job at the Masquerade before he could work his way to the top slot and earn enough money to fix Brendan.

  Surely, Declan would be hearing about this after the show. Unless the boss man found him first. Or Duey.

  Shit, he’d forgotten about Duey.

  Declan sped up. He couldn’t let that happen, couldn’t lose this job. How long would it take him to find another? Unless…

  The idea hit him as he stumbled into the main hall. Blinding white lights, the sounds of the casino in the distance—he shook his head, letting the thought settle into something that made sense.

  If Melody Sumner had an in at the hotel…what if Declan used that to his advantage? Used her to get the most coveted show slot at the Parrot Lounge? Win her over, that’s all he’d have to do. And how hard could that be?

  Quickly, he searched the storefronts that lined the indoor footpath and spotted the blonde heading toward the lobby, room elevators just beyond. Jackpot.

  Declan closed the distance with jogging steps, flinging himself into the elevator just before the doors slid shut with a hiss.

  Only the two of them… Well, at least I won’t have an audience. Melody flinched, probably realizing that, too. Then the elevator started to move, and
a very silent and awkward five seconds followed. She looked at the doors. He looked at her. He was going to have to say something at some point—sooner rather than later, seeing as they only had a dozen more floors to travel. Instead he took that moment to soak her in. The waves of long hair down her back. The reflection of her face in the mirrored wall, revealing high cheekbones and full lips—more a product of natural beauty and not the gobs of makeup typical to Vegas girls.

  “Listen…” he started to say, turning her way. Finger extended, she reached for the button to open the doors, but he swiftly blocked her hand and hit the stop elevator button. Her eyes grew wide, face paling. He threw his hands up to his chest, palms out to show he wasn’t going to hurt her.

  She scowled at him. “I don’t want to listen to you,” she said, a bitter sting to her voice. “I just want to go to my room and accept the fact that a performer humiliated me in front of an entire room of people. Including my boss.”

  Humiliated her? “Pretty sure it was the other way around, Cali girl. An attempt, anyway. You’re lucky it was me who read that song request and not my partner. He looks friendly, but he’s been doing this for a long time and doesn’t take anyone’s shit.”

  She shrugged noncommittally. “It won’t matter by morning, anyhow. Not after I talk to my father.” And get your ass fired, her squinty eyes seemed to taunt. She tilted her head to the side, shiny blond hair spilling over her bare shoulder. “A ‘spanner,’ isn’t that what you called him?”

  A sick feeling washed through Declan’s core. If this girl talked to Michael Sumner, he’d be jobless by noon. And then what would he do? Look for another hotel gig? Sell himself on the street?

  Okay, clearly he wouldn’t go that far. But looking for a job took time, and…yeah, time was that thing that was definitely not on his damn side.

  “Please don’t tell your father.”

  She returned her eyes to his and folded her arms over her stomach. “You made me look like a fool in front of all those people.”