In Tune with Love: An April Wedding Story

By Amy Matayo

They’ve helped orchestrate the perfect day for countless couples. Now twelve new couples will find themselves in the wedding spotlight in the second Year of Weddings novella collection.

April knows her job as maid of honor is to fulfill her sister’s every wish—whatever the bride wants, she will have. Unless it involves Jack Vaughn.

April Quinn loves her sister and wants to make sure the week of her wedding is the happiest of her life, even if it means putting up with Kristin’s every crazy whim. But when Kristin hires Jack Vaughn as the wedding singer, all sisterly devotion flies out the window. No way will she work with Jack after what he stole from her.

Jack Vaughn is supposed be beyond these small gigs. After all, he’s on the cusp of launching his first headlining tour. But accepting the job was a spur-of-the-moment decision, and it will mean seeing April again. Surely she has forgiven him for that one lapse of judgment so long ago—the decision that shot him to stardom and left her behind, writing songs and waiting tables.

As April and Jack keep appearances for the sake of Kristen’s happiness, they rediscover a chemistry that never quite fizzled out. But will they be able to rewrite two solos into a timeless duet?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zondervan
• Release date: Mar 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9780310396116

Amy Matayo

Amy Matayo is the award-winning author of The Wedding Game, Love Gone Wild, Sway, In Tune with Love, A Painted Summer, and The End of the World. She graduated, with barely passing grades, from John Brown University, earning a degree in journalism. But don’t feel sorry for her—she’s superproud of that degree and all the ways she hasn’t put it to good use. Matayo laughs often, cries easily, feels deeply, and loves hard. She lives in Arkansas with her husband and four kids and is working on her next novel. Visit her website at www.amymatayo.com to find out more.

Book preview

9780310396116_In_

Thank you to my publisher—Harper Collins/Zondervan—for inviting me into your group. As an indie author who often finds herself flailing alone, it’s nice to have found a place to belong. I appreciate your entire team of sweet, encouraging people.

I would like to thank my readers for coming back again. It’s always a humbling and thrilling experience when someone buys my books, especially when you take the time to give a nice review or sweet face-to-face comment. I appreciate every single one of you, and I’m forever grateful.

A huge thank you to my fantastic agent, Jessica Kirkland. Without your guidance I would still be staring at a screen, wondering what the heck to do with all the finished manuscripts stored inside my computer. Thankfully you always know what comes next. You’re savvy when I am clueless, sharp when I am dull, excited when I am lifeless, a marketing genius when I am not (which is always since I hate marketing). I’m eternally blessed by you.

Thank you to my awesome editor—Jamie Chavez—for your willingness to read this book and for taking my very rough manuscript and turning it into something (hopefully) worth publishing. I learned so much about writing from you, and I appreciate your wisdom.

To Nicole Deese—my writer wife—for every encouraging word you’ve ever spoken. If words came to life and I tried to stack them in a room, all your kind ones wouldn’t fit inside. You cheer me up when I’m down and eagerly volunteer to slap me when I’m filled with self-doubt. Only a real friend would do something so sweet. God made a great person when He made you, and I am privileged to know you.

To Alec Stockton, for sharing my love of creating things from nothing but imagination and a computer. It’s nice to know someone who identifies with my weirdness. Or coolness, as I prefer to call it.

To my sisters, Tracy and Emily, for being my best friends and for not giving up on me when I’m under a deadline or going through last-minute freak outs. I love you both. Thank you for loving me.

To my parents—Hal and Jan Millsap—for raising three pretty awesome girls. At least I think we’re awesome. Other people might think differently, but whatever.

To my extended family—both the Millsap side and the Matayo side. I couldn’t ask for a better group of people to belong to.

To my kids—Jackson, Lilly, Landon, and Rowan—for being the loves of my life. You four sacrifice more than anyone so that I can achieve my dreams, and I’m grateful for each one of you. I’ll love you always.

To my husband, Doug, for loving me, sticking with me, and encouraging me through the craziness.

And to Jesus Christ, for saving my life. I’m messy and ridiculous and constantly screwing up, but your grace makes all the difference.

9780310396116_In_Tune_With_Love.

You really are obsessive, you know that?

April stifled a sigh. She was so tired of people saying that same thing to her—from Brenda the waitress to Daniel the night manager and now Jack the bartender—and that was only tonight. She’d heard this line at least a hundred times since she moved from Chattanooga into her sister’s Nashville apartment last month and started working here.

Besides, who cared if she liked to write? Was it really that strange a hobby?

True, not everyone wrote lyrics on gum wrappers and bar napkins like she was currently doing. And then maybe there was the occasional roll of toilet paper she pilfered from the men’s room because the women’s room was always out when she needed it most, and what was up with that? And maybe it was a bit weird when she ripped the tags off new bar aprons and used them to jot down notes, but when a girl was out of toilet paper and napkins and gum wrappers, what was she supposed to do?

But obsessive? That was ridiculous.

I am not obsessive. Just thorough.

Last Friday you wrote eight words in Sharpie on my arm.

April rolled her eyes. Jack could be so petty with details. They were the perfect rhyme, and I didn’t want to forget them.

Then next time write on your own arm.

I was wearing a white sweater with really tight sleeves.

I was wearing a white shirt too! I had just gotten in from performing in a wedding!

Who gets married in the morning, anyway? April sighed. Besides, you’re a guy and it washed off, so what’s the big deal?

"The big deal is I had a date later that night before I had a chance to even attempt to wash it off—which took a mix of rubbing alcohol and baking soda to remove, by the way—and no girl likes a guy she just met that shows up with the words I’ll pay you a dime for a good time written on his arm."

Some girls do. She winked, fully aware it was a lame attempt at flirting. Jack was . . . Jack. Dark hair, well-built, and . . . and . . . okay, sexy. Sexy is the word she would use to describe him. But he would never be interested in her. Besides, she went out with you again, didn’t she?

After a lot of explaining from me that the words were written by my psycho coworker and weren’t the worst pickup line ever in history.

Psycho coworker. More proof that she didn’t stand a—wait. Did he just insult her writing?

It wasn’t a pickup line! As if her songs could be compared to a pickup line. Those sorts of lines were cheesy. Classless. In contrast, her art was high quality, intellectual. Even if no one had signed her yet. April frowned and put her pen down. I guess my break’s over. What table do you want me to take this to? she asked.

Jack set a tray in front of her. Take this round of drinks to table seven, and then you’re up. Make it a good one. You never know who might be watching. He smiled at her.

In only a few weeks, Jack had become a friend. All he would ever be.

April frowned, grabbed the tray, and headed to the table, not the least bit concerned when she saw Jack pick up the napkin and read what she had written on it. After she dispensed drinks to the waiting customers, she grabbed the microphone and headed toward the stage. This song would be a good one. Her best one yet.

She felt her confidence level swell, until she glanced over at Jack from his spot behind the bar. He held up the napkin . . . then proceeded to make gagging gestures with his finger and tongue. She actually heard herself laugh mid-note.

97803103961_0011_002.jpg

You’re late, Jack said, producing a sign-in sheet and a pen while Daniel pulled up a barstool.

No, I’m not. I’m not supposed to start work for . . . Daniel checked his watch, then shrugged. I guess I’m late.

And that was the great thing about Daniel. He never had a problem admitting when he was wrong. In Jack’s opinion, the world would be a better place if more people were like him.

No matter, Jack said. We’re not that busy tonight. The most pressing thing I need you to do is refill the toilet paper in the men’s bathroom. Looks like we’re out again.

April?

Jack drummed his fingers on the counter. That girl has a problem. Every time I see her she has pieces of it stuffed in her pocket, tucked under her arm, probably even inside her bra. Both men took a second to reflect on that. Finally, Jack took a breath. "Did you