Jesse stifles a yawn. “Hi, Uncle Bob.” He turns and goes back into the house, leaving the front door wide open. A woman with a tight bun, plain black dress, and fingers clamped over her mouth is left standing in the wake of Jesse’s greet and run.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Salter,” the woman rushes to say. “I tried to get here first.”
My principal pats the lady’s elbow. “It’s okay, Grace.” He gives me a reassuring smile as we enter the sunlit foyer filled with leafy green plants. “Don’t mind him. Jesse’s not a morning person.”
“Based on how he treated me last week, he’s not an evening guy either,” I mutter.
The woman, Grace, disappears down a hallway, and Dr. Salter and I follow Jesse and his Celtic tattoo into the living room, where he flops down in a cushy brown armchair made of cowhide. I set my purse on the floor and take a seat on a leather sofa across from him. This room could be featured in the Pottery Barn catalog that Mom gets in the mail. I want to slip my boots off and dig my toes into the plush beige rug. Guitars of all makes and colors—including a double-neck Fender Stratocaster!—hang on the walls. Over by a huge picture window sits a gorgeous, walnut-colored Steinway grand piano covered by sheet music.
His Grammys are on the mantel, but I don’t see any pictures of family or friends like at my house. Instead there are tasteful black-and-white portraits of the countryside: horses, cows, trucks, and tractors.
The only evidence that a person actually lives here is a drained coffee mug sitting on a glass table and sections of today’s newspaper, the Tennessean, strewn across the couch.
“You didn’t forget about Maya, right?” Dr. Salter asks Jesse.
“Nope.” He leans back and closes his eyes. “How could I forget I’m giving up my day off to hang out with a groupie?”
“In your dreams I’m a groupie,” I snap, shocking my principal.
“Why aren’t you dressed?” Dr. Salter asks his nephew.
Jesse shrugs. “Maya wanted to shadow me, right? Well, this is what I do on Friday mornings. And Thursday. And Wednes—”
“Stop being rude.” Dr. Salter shakes his head at his nephew. His cell phone dings. “Don’t let him fool you, Maya. He works harder than anybody I’ve ever met and has a good heart too.”
Jesse keeps his eyes shut.
My principal looks at his phone. “I need to get back to the school. Mark Logan just texted to say he’s two minutes out. Mr. Logan will stay with you two the entire day, and Grace, Jesse’s housekeeper, will be here until Mark arrives. Call my office if something comes up. Otherwise, Jesse and Mr. Logan’ll make sure you get home. Okay, Maya?”
“Got it.”
“Put some clothes on, Jess.” Dr. Salter pats his nephew’s cheek before leaving. As soon as the door clicks shut, Jesse checks me out.
“Wanna have sex?”
I gasp and glance at his boxers. And that line of hair on his stomach that leads down to places I shouldn’t be thinking about.
“No, thanks. You’re not my type.”
Jesse looks surprised. “That’s a first.”
What the hell have I gotten myself into? I mean, someone who writes such sweet lyrics can’t actually be such an ass in real life. Right?
“Everything okay?” Jesse asks. I look up to find him raising an eyebrow at me.
I shrug.
“Sorry—I shouldn’t be talking about sex. We just met. Wanna get drunk?”
Why is he asking such weird questions? “Didn’t you learn your lesson after you fell off that yacht?” I ask snarkily.
“You don’t know anything about that,” he snaps.
Ugh, I knew shadow day would be a stupid waste of time. Jordan probably learned more about being an NFL player from the Athletic Superstore manager than I’ll learn about music from Jesse. I swipe my phone on and look up the Hundred Oaks phone number. Maybe Dr. Salter hasn’t left the neighborhood yet. I push dial, and the school receptionist answers. “This is Maya Henry. Can you please connect me to Dr. Salter?”
Jesse jumps to his feet, snatches my phone from my hand, and says, “Wrong number.”
I reach to get my phone back, but he holds it way above my head.
“Give me that!” I leap up at my phone. “I want to leave.”
“Already?”
“I didn’t know it was your day off. I don’t want to waste your time. Or mine.”
He gives me a withering look. “Your time?”
I glare at him. “You know, before we met last week, I was really excited about this.”