“Told you we’d get together soon to go over things,” I tell her nonchalantly as I walk into her living room and carefully study some photos she has sitting on a table.
“Well, I assumed you meant you’d make an appointment at the office to see me perhaps next week,” she says in exasperation.
“Don’t have time for that,” I say as I pick up one of the framed photos. I hold it out to her and ask, “Your mom?”
Her eyes flick to the photo and the annoyance melts, which is quickly replaced by a mixture of fondness and pain. “Yes. She died a little over a year ago.”
I actually knew this, as Midge had filled me in on a little bit about Emma’s background to appease my curiosity. Of course, Midge thought my interest in her adorable, and I, of course, think it’s adorable that Midge finds it adorable, because I know damn well she sent Emma Peterson over to that jailhouse because she figured I’d be interested in her. Not many would know Midge is an old romantic at heart, but I know her better than most.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her softly.
She nods with a slight smile of thanks, but then her eyes turn business-hard again. “What do you mean we don’t have time to meet next week?”
I turn to face her fully and jam my hands down into the pockets of my jeans. I give her my most charming smile, which I’ve been told has the power to incinerate panties, and tell her, “We leave tomorrow evening for my tour. Thought I’d give you some basic background today, especially since your publicist duties will start the minute you step foot on that bus with me.”
Emma’s face actually blanches. She sucks in a rasping breath through parted lips before practically choking out in a near-hysterical voice, “Tomorrow? You want me to leave with you on tour tomorrow?”
“Yup,” I say simply. “So you might want to get your laundry done.”
“I can’t just go with you on tour tomorrow,” she hisses at me. “I have a job you know.”
“Your job is to work for me full time on my issues,” I tell her. “Surely Midge made that clear.”
“Yes,” she says in confusion. “But I just assumed she meant from the comfort of my desk.”
“No can do, pretty lady,” I say with a grin, and then I take a seat on her couch, laying an arm over the back. “I need you with me to field reporters, and we also need to get cracking on those legal issues. Responses are due soon, so I’m going to need you with me so we can get this knocked out as efficiently as possible.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she stammers, and her voice starts to rise again. “I have bills to pay. I have freaking animals to take care of. You cannot expect me to just leave this all behind without any notice or planning.”
“I’m giving you notice now,” I tell her with a shrug. “I’ll have your bills covered, and you can board your animals or something, and speaking of which… what else do you have besides that hell beast in the cage there?”
I glance over at the puppy, which has long, shaggy hair with the cutest poof on top that looks slightly like Tina Turner’s hair.
“I have a cat too,” she mutters, and then starts to nibble on a fingernail. I can practically see the gears in her brain whirring.
“So find a kennel to take them, get your laundry done—although I’ll be the first to tell you that those prim little business suits are not allowed on a rocker’s bus—and you’ll be all set.”
“You are a certifiable nut job,” she grits out at me. “And I am not boarding my animals, nor am I leaving them for God knows how long.”
“The tour is three months,” I provide helpfully.
Emma growls at me under her breath, then squares her shoulders. Her eyes are blazing with anger and resolve. “I am not going on tour with you. I have a life and that wasn’t part of the deal.”
“Your life isn’t going to fall apart if you leave for a bit,” I chastise her. “This is the twenty-first century. The world is flat. We’re a mobile generation. You can run your household from your smartphone, Emma.”
She knows this is true, so she changes tactics. “I’m not leaving my animals in a strange kennel for months. It’s cruel.”
“I have to say,” I begin with thoughtful contemplation, kicking my legs up onto her couch although I politely let my Chucks dangle over the edge, “I didn’t take you as an animal person.”
She blinks at me. “Why not?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Just a feeling.”
Which isn’t true. What I’d like to tell her is that she seems like the type of woman who’s happiest with her face pressed close to a book, where she can play with words and written nuances, and not have to deal with people. That sort of applies to animals, I guess.
“Well, I am an animal person. I love mine, and Sirius is just a puppy and we’re bonding so I’m not leaving him,” she says adamantly.
My gaze cuts over to Sirius. He takes up most of the big kennel, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth as if he’s grinning at me. “What kind of dog is that?”
“A Newfoundland,” she replies, her voice still filled with annoyance.