“He’s awful big,” I note.
“He’ll get bigger,” she says. “Probably a hundred and fifty pounds or so.”
I give a whistle through my teeth as I look back to her. “That’s a lot of dog.”
“That I refuse to leave,” she enunciates very clearly to make her point with arms crossed over her chest.
I glance back to Sirius, then back to Emma, and make a command decision. “He can come with us.”
Emma’s eyes round in surprise and her head sort of hangs forward as her jaw drops. “Bring him on tour with you?”
“Well, with you,” I clarify. “He’s your dog and you have to take care of him.”
I can see those gears starting to whirl in her head again as she tries to figure out another excuse to lob my way, so I cut her off before she can think of something, “Come on, Emma. Remember your dream job awaits you at the end of this little odyssey you’re getting ready to take. How about be adventurous for once, get this job over for me, and then you can come back and play around with contracts and other boring shit for the rest of your life?”
“It’s not boring,” she snaps at me. “It takes a keen intelligence and ability to interpret—”
“Fine, it’s not boring,” I rush to reassure her. “And it can all be waiting for you once you fulfill this tiny little obligation to me.”
“I want a time limit and I want it in writing,” she says sternly. “I’ll agree to one month only with you on the tour. That should be plenty of time to field the initial media interest in the lawsuit and plenty of time for me to review those label contracts and give you advice. Then I want to come back home and I can do any remaining work from Raleigh.”
“Fine,” I say quickly, because the time doesn’t matter. I’ll either have her figured out and my attraction to her well fulfilled by then—because fuck if I’m going to wait thirty days to get in her pants—or I’ll be gladly sending her back to Raleigh because the attraction I was imagining was really nothing to begin with.
“I can’t believe I’m even entertaining this notion, but what about my cat?” she adds on. “I’m not leaving her either.”
I haven’t seen this cat yet, and frankly, I don’t want to. “No can do on that. I’m allergic to cats.”
“It’s what they make Zyrtec for,” she throws at me stubbornly.
“Seriously, Emma,” I tell her truthfully. “I can’t be around cats. They get within five feet of me, and my eyes swell shut and my throat closes off. Do you want me to die on that tour bus?”
I’m disappointed to see a bit of light shine in her eyes at the prospect, but she finally says, “Fine. I’m sure my dad will watch her.”
“Perfect,” I say enthusiastically as I swing my legs off the couch and plant my feet on the floor. “We’ll be by to pick you up tomorrow around six PM.”
Emma’s face pinches with stress over the prospect. “You mean… you’re just going to pull a big bus up to my house to get me?”
I chuckle, pleased she’s a little off balance right now because she needs a little disruption in her orderly little life.
“It’s a bit more than just a bus,” I tell her vaguely. “Just be ready to go by then.”
She nods but doesn’t say anything, turning away from me to stare at her dog’s kennel in contemplation. I’ve already been dismissed from her mind, and she’s trying to figure out how to deal with everything she needs to handle before tomorrow afternoon.
I head toward her front door, intent on letting myself out. But when I pull it open, I look back at Emma, still staring at her dog.
“Oh, and Emma?” I say, and she startles, turning to look at me with wide eyes. “You might want to bring ear plugs. Lots of stuff goes on while we’re traveling on the bus that you might not want to hear.”
“Like what?” she asks with naivety, her brow furrowing with worry.
“You’ll figure it out,” I say slyly, and then I step out of her house, shutting the door behind me.
I think Miss Emma Peterson’s ordered little world is going to be shaken up soon, and I can’t wait to see how she handles it.
CHAPTER 6
Emma
There’s a freaking huge bus parked in front of my house. Massive and colored metallic brown with sweeps of light bronze and gold on the diagonal with the name “Evan Scott” written in graffiti-style letters, and under it in small letters “The Come Again Tour”.
Pulling my blinds open just a bit more, I angle my head to the left to see better, and I can’t contain the gasp that comes out when I see the rest of the spectacle lining the street.
“What?” my dad asks from behind.
“No words,” I whisper, shaking my head. “There are just no words.”