Layla blew her whistle and waited for the marching band to stop playing. The trumpets were the last to get the message, as usual. There always had to be that final note that petered out like a squeaky balloon after everyone else had fallen silent.
She stood on a ladder overlooking the practice field behind the school, her legs braced against the top couple rungs. From here she could see and hear everything, and now she could see that the tubas had finally pivoted in the correct direction so the star formation they'd been working on all week actually looked like a star.
Layla tilted her head. Sort of.
She glanced up at the low-slung blanket of gray overhead, then yelled into her megaphone. "One more time. If you get it right, we're through. If you don't...looks like you'll all be taking a shower soon."
She blew her whistle again to silence the chorus of groans that arose from her edict. She'd already told them the last run through was it for the day, but hey, they should know better than to believe her by now.
Layla signaled for the drum major to start again, trying to ignore the queasy slosh of her stomach as she climbed down from the ladder, her whistle between her lips. She wouldn't be able to see if the formation was correct from the ground, but it didn't matter.
The kids needed to get in before the rain hit, and she needed to admit to herself that she was getting sick. She'd been battling alternating bouts of nausea and lightheadedness all afternoon, though she'd been trying to pretend as if it were all in her imagination.
As she turned around toward the school to make sure the band door was still propped open, a gust of wind whipped her hair into her eyes. She brushed it away, pausing with her fingers behind her ear. Her gaze fell on a car at the edge of the parking lot, removed from the smattering of student vehicles yet at a perfect angle so the man leaning against it could watch her band practice.
The whistle fell from between her lips, dropping on its cord to thud her chest. What was he doing here?
Her stomach fluttered in a very non-queasy way when she saw that sexy-lazy slouch of his, one long leg propped against the car door. His pants weren't red today, not that it mattered. They were navy, the color of a deep denim, but so obviously not denim.
Damn him and his soft pants.
She narrowed her eyes at him and gripped the handle of her megaphone. She didn't care how sexy he was or that he had that whole, delicious bad boy thing nailed. The softness of his pants meant nothing to her.
He'd trashed Cody, and he hadn't even had the guts to look her in the eye when she'd called him out on it.
As if reading her mind, he removed his sunglasses and hooked them in his pocket, lifting his gaze to hers.
Her face flushed, but it had to be because she'd been feeling feverish for the last half hour. She shoved her whistle between her lips and skewered him with a glare before turning back to the band.
While she'd been distracted by a pair of pants yet again, the clarinets had fallen a full measure behind, and from the sound of it, the brass section had decided to play a different song entirely. She blew into her whistle with as much force as she could muster.
"You're killing me. Stop. That means you, trumpets." Her voice though the megaphone sounded tired. A fat drop of rain landed right on the top of her head. "Everyone inside. Forget marching back...just run. Go, go, go. You're dismissed."
She stood there while forty three teenagers sprinted past her with their instruments, their shouts and laughter ringing across the parking lot. A couple of trumpet players folded up her ladder and carried it inside with them.
Good kids. They were all good kids. That's why what Mr. Sexy Pants over there had done was unforgivable. She was glad Cody was out sick today--he'd probably gifted her with her impending illness now that she thought about it--so that he wouldn't have to see the jerk and relive his humiliation all over again.
He'd tried to act like it was no big deal during the few days since the diner incident, but she could tell it had really hurt. Though he did seem to cheer up a little more every time he told her how awesome it was when she "lost it."
"You don't look good, Ms. M.," one of the boys said as they walked by. "You're not going to puke, are you?"
"I'm fine," she said as another drop of rain splattered on her clipboard. "Get out of here and enjoy your weekend."
"Hey, is that...?"
"Go." She pointed at the door.
The boys obeyed, but they kept glancing at Derek over their shoulders as they went.
Layla strode across the field to where Derek still leaned against his car. Waiting for her. He'd lit a cigarette, and as she approached, he put it to his lips and took a drag.
She despised cigarettes--it had taken her years to put her life back together after a single cigarette had ripped it apart--but damn if he didn't look good smoking one.
"No smoking on school property," she yelled from halfway across the field.
He tilted his head, the cigarette dangling from his fingers. She could tell by the stubborn press of his lips he was resisting taking another drag just to show her he could.
She put the megaphone to her mouth. "No. Smoking."
Okay, the megaphone was a bit much since she was close enough now that she could speak in a normal voice and he'd hear her, but she didn't care.
She didn't like the way he was studying her with those icy blue eyes or the way one corner of his mouth quirked when she lowered the megaphone.
Layla came to a stop in front of him. Megaphone in hand, she folded her arms across her chest and stared pointedly at the cigarette.
He dropped it on the pavement and ground it under his heel. "Yes, ma'am." There was that lip quirk again.
Before she could yell at him through her megaphone that the school had a no tolerance littering policy, he picked up the butt, pulled a plastic baggie from his pocket, and put it inside.
Not at all what she expected, but it didn't matter.
She would not be swayed by his soft pants or his conscientious approach to discarding the remains of his disgusting habit. "What do you want?"
His eyes held hers for a moment, and her heart fluttered in her chest, making her almost forget that she really didn't care what the guy wanted. She was sick, she reminded herself. Without thinking, she held the back of her hand to her forehead.
Feverish. Just as she suspected.
Her body wouldn't be reacting like this if she didn't have a fever. And even if it did, she was standing face to face with Derek freakin' Taylor. She was pissed as hell with him, but that didn't mean her eyes didn't work. If she'd have known that the man was this gorgeous, maybe she would have listened to his music a little more.
Maybe.
Bach and Beethoven were really more her thing. And show tunes. You could never go wrong with a classic show tune.
"Hey. Are you alright?" Derek took a step away from the car, his hand out as if to steady her.
Her eyes snapped to his long fingers--piano player fingers--before she realized she was still holding her hand to her forehead.
She dropped her hand and took a deep breath to calm her stomach. It didn't work. "I'm fine. I asked you why you're here."
He studied his shoes for a moment before lifting his eyes to hers. "I came to apologize."
She made a sound of derision. "Right. Why would someone as important as you feel the need to apologize for anything? What does it matter if you hurt some nobody's feelings, even if he's just a kid? There's a million other nobodies out there to stroke your ego and pad your bank account. And none of them know what kind of person you really are."
"I deserve that," he said.
He leaned back against the car again, those long legs stretched out as if he wanted her to ogle his pants again. Well, she wasn't looking. Not this time.
"Damn right you do. Now, just leave before any of the kids figure out who you are. You're hot gossip around here." She glanced over her shoulder at the open band door.
Two girls stood in the doorway watching their exchange, but as soon as Layla looked at them, they turned and ran inside.
"Please...let me apologize first."
His tone was so soft, so sincere. So...unexpected.
Layla looked down at her clipboard, studying the big, wet spot left by the raindrop. She knew if she didn't concentrate on something besides the way his velvet-smooth voice tugged on her insides, she'd look in his eyes again. She had a feeling if she did that too often, her resolve to dislike him would crumble without her permission.
"Wait a minute." She narrowed her gaze at him, careful not to remain locked on those icy blue zappers of willpower for too long. "How did you know where to find me?"