Twisted Perfection (Rosemary Beach #5)(19)

“I think Tripp likes her. I think she’ll be the reason he comes home. He might not have thought it through when he sent her here but he had other reasons. He’s never let anyone live in his condo before. She’s different.”

I stopped. My chest ached and my stomach felt as if it were being twisted. Tripp liked Della? He was free to travel the world with her. He didn’t have responsibilities or goals in life. He just wanted to be. Just like Della.

I leaned against the wall and stared at the kitchen doors. What good would explaining this bullshit do? Nothing. It was still the same. I wasn’t the man she was looking for. We wanted two different things out of life and amazing sex didn’t last forever.

The doors to the kitchen swung open and my event coordinator, Macy Kemp, came walking out with her hand firmly clasped around Della’s wrist pulling her as she stalked toward me. I opened my mouth to tell her to let Della go but Macy was already talking.

“The lead singer is allergic to shellfish. No one told me this, Woods. No one. I would have warned him off the dips and salads if I’d known.” She shook her head and cursed. “He’s just left in an ambulance but the idiot will be fine. I’ve fixed it; so we should be good.” She began walking again and dragged Della behind her. The panicked look on Della’s face snapped me out of my confused tipsy state. I didn’t like seeing Della upset and why the hell was Macy pulling on her like that?

“What are you doing with Della?” I demanded.

Macy looked at Della and then smiled at me. “We needed a new lead singer. Band can’t play without one. I was in complete disaster mode when I walked in on this one singing in the bathroom while she was washing her hands. The girl can blow.”

Not a good choice of words. My slacks suddenly became tighter and Della’s face flushed. I couldn’t look away from her. “You’re singing?” I asked.

She shrugged.

“Yes, she’s singing. What part of I heard her singing and I need a lead singer didn’t you understand? First, I’ve got to get her changed into something more appropriate. No time. Let your father know the band will start up in ten minutes.” Macy continued on her way and Della followed quickly behind her.

“She’s singing at what is basically your engagement party,” Jace said from behind me. I’d forgotten he was standing there.

“It’s not my engagement party,” I growled.

“You just got engaged and the whole room is talking about your upcoming wedding. So it’s pretty damn close.”



“Shut up, Jace.”





Della




If there was any possible way I could get out of this without quitting I would. I had been singing all my life, in my house. But then that had been to escape my mother and my reality. Not in front of people. I loved to sing and the mirror and hairbrush had been my companions most of my life while I sang to my pretend audience. That had been fantasy.

I had never been sure my singing was even decent. My mother had loved to hear me sing but she had never been a good judge of anything.

I had opened my mouth to explain this to the lady who had introduced herself as “Macy Kemp, The Kerrington Club event coordinator” but she hadn’t let me say much. Instead, she informed the kitchen I was being used elsewhere and began dragging me behind her.

I had expected Woods to stop this insanity when he’d seen us but he hadn’t. He had appeared as confused as I felt but he hadn’t stopped this.

I looked down at the short, clingy, silver dress I was now wearing. The back was out and the neckline dipped low in the front. I felt bare. In more ways than one.

“They won’t be looking at you much. They are too busy in their little elitist herds. You just sing so they’ll have music and can dance if they want to,” Macy informed me as she shoved me up the steps toward the skeptical band members. I couldn’t say that I blamed them.

“You’re our replacement?” one asked with a hiss of annoyance in his voice.

“At least they’ll be looking at her body and won’t hear how bad we sound,” another grumbled and pulled his guitar strap over his head.

“What can you sing, sugar?” an older guy with a balding head asked.

I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t ask for this. I met each of their angry and annoyed glares with one of my own. I’d heard them earlier. They weren’t that good. Who did they think they were treating me like I was here to screw up their lives on purpose? If their lead singer had paid attention to his allergies this wouldn’t have happened.

I walked past each of them before turning to look at the one who had condescendingly asked me what I could sing. “I can sing anything you throw at me,” I replied then walked out on stage like the diva I was not.

The familiar tune of Adele’s “Someone Like You,” began to play and I was equally relieved I knew the words and sick at my stomach because the popularity of the song was drawing attention from the guests. I had been hoping to be ignored.

I joined the piano with the first melancholy lyrics.

Instead of looking out at the ballroom, I locked eyes with the piano player of the group. The approval in his eyes flashed with excitement and relief as I sang each line.

Just as I had in my room growing up, I blocked out everything else around me and I got lost in the lyrics and the music. This had been my way of coping with the craziness of my life. I used it now to deal with the reality of my life.