11. Emerson
EMERSON
My stomach twists as the elevator doors slide open.
The entire flight here, I've been rehearsing this conversation—every excuse Mateo might throw at me, every reason he'd have to refuse my help. I'd built an answer for each one, convinced that if I prepared enough, I could talk him into seeing things my way.
Standing here now, I'm realizing how little any of that matters.
He can still say no.
I'm not someone who gets nervous. I don't waste time imagining how things could go wrong.
Life already taught me that it's a losing game.
You can prepare for the worst, and the universe will still find a way to blindside you.
So I stopped trying to control what happens to me.
Instead, I learned to control what I could.
Power has always belonged to me.
Until now.
What if Mateo tells me he doesn't need me? What if he sends me home before I even get the chance to prove I belong here?
I've never—not once in my life—been afraid of some man not wanting me.
It fucking sucks.
My suitcase rattles behind me as I follow the room numbers down the hallway.
Getting here was almost insultingly easy.
Mateo not only reimbursed me for my flight but somehow got me upgraded to business class.
And even though he texted me the hotel information, when I landed, a driver was already waiting at baggage claim holding a sign with my name.
But I thought actually getting here would quiet the panic.
Instead, every step toward his door feeds it, the dread settling heavier in my chest, whispering that I've come all this way just to hear the one answer I can't talk my way out of.
Lifting my hand to knock, I close my eyes, breathing in through my nose in an attempt to fill my lungs with air.
I need this.
Lightly rapping my knuckles against the door, I knock twice, careful not to wake Mateo’s son. It’s probably well past the kid’s bedtime.
Footsteps sound on the other side, each one ticking down the seconds until the inevitable.
No backing out now.
The door swings open, revealing a far more disheveled version of the man I ran into a few nights ago. His dark hair is messy, exhaustion etched into the lines of his face.
I’ve known who he was this entire time.
Judging by the look on Mateo’s face when his brown eyes meet mine, he can’t say the same.
“You’re the girl from the bar.”
The words come out sharper than he probably intends, edged with accusation but tangled with confusion—maybe even disbelief. Like my showing up here is the last thing he expected.
The realization seems to hit him the moment the words leave his mouth. His eyes widen, and for a second he looks like he wishes he could shove them right back in.
I’ve thought about that night at Lenny’s one too many times over these last few days, but I pushed the whole interaction with Mateo to the back of my mind, especially considering that he was my one shot of getting out of Milwaukee, at least for a little while.
A guy like him, a world-renowned rockstar—even with my confidence, I didn’t think I made much of an impression.
At least not one that warranted this type of reaction to seeing me again.
But I did learn something about Mateo Lane that night—watching him stumble over his words and ramble through an explanation I hadn’t asked for.
There is more to him than what he presents on stage.
And the man standing in front of me is infinitely more compelling than the one the rest of the world thinks they know.
“Sorry,” he says quickly, pushing the door the rest of the way open and stepping aside. “Come in.” His voice is a little steadier this time, though the surprise on his face hasn’t gone anywhere.
He reaches for my suitcase before I have a chance to grab it, wheeling it into the hotel room as the door closes behind us.
The suite is huge, bigger than my apartment back home.
The soft glow of lamps spill into the living area, littered with what looks like the aftermath of a long evening.
There’s a pair of tiny sneakers kicked beneath the coffee table, a few children’s books fanned open across the couch, and a black cat stuffed animal lying on its side beside a half-full sippy cup.
Walking past the couch, careful not to step on the small, opened suitcase spilling with what I assume are Mateo’s son’s clothes, I set my backpack down at the small dining table.
There are two doors just beyond the kitchen, one cracked open enough for me to hear subtle rain sounds and soft crackles of thunder, the other still closed.
“Sorry about the mess,” Mateo says from behind me, placing my suitcase next to the closed door.
“Looks like an eventful bedtime,” I say, looking around the quiet chaos, the hotel room a perfect depiction of a night spent trying to get a little boy to go to sleep.
Mateo sighs. “You could say that.” He closes some of the space between us, and the temperature in the room instantly feels like it went up a few degrees. “I’m Mateo, by the way.” He holds out a hand, his lips pursed to one side.
“Emerson.” I take his hand in mine, the cool sting of his rings a stark contrast against the warmth of his palm.
His eyes bore into mine, and there’s something enticing about the way he looks at me, like he doesn’t want to look away. It has me staring back at him, my hand still in his, stepping up to the challenge.
A few moments pass before he must realize he hasn’t said anything, his gaze going to our hands before he quickly lets go, squeezing his hand into a fist a few times before motioning for me to sit.
I roll my lips together, trying to hold in a smile.
The memories from a few nights ago at Lenny’s come back to me—how I thought to myself how fun it would be to make this man’s life a living hell in the best way possible.
Add in how easily flustered he gets, and I truly could have a new lease on life.
Sitting down across from Mateo, I push the thought away, reminding myself that I’m here for one reason and one reason only.
A distraction.
A distraction in the form of a job. Being needed. Taking care of someone.
It’s what I do best. The kind of caring you can clock in and out of. The practical kind.
Making meals, remembering schedules, anticipating needs before they're spoken.
Keeping someone else's life from falling apart. Not the kind that asks for pieces of your heart. A series of tasks that keep another person fed, safe, comforted, and on schedule.
Feelings complicate things. Responsibilities don't.
Caring for someone else means I don’t have to care about myself.
That’s what I’m here for.
“I’m sure you have a few questions for me,” I start, filling the silence between us. The stillness of the room is starting to make me feel uncomfortable.
There’s something about the dark hotel room that has me feeling like it would be easy to hide in it. Like whatever happens here stays here. And that’s a dangerous thought.
Mateo nods, clearing his throat. “I did,” he says slowly, “but I’m going to be honest with you.”
I sit up in my chair, pressing my forearms against the wooden table.
Mateo interlaces his fingers, the ink swirling over his skin, disappearing under the sleeve of his hoodie, momentarily distracting me from the conversation at hand.
I’ve seen Mateo’s tattoos from afar when I’ve been to Cross My Heart’s concerts, and I can’t lie and say I haven’t fantasized once or twice about our tattooed bodies tangled up in each other—it’s a thought I’m sure everyone has had from the crowd.
How could you not when he’s a literal sex icon—like every person’s rockstar fantasy come to life.
“So I don’t really have much of a choice,” I hear Mateo say, and I realize I’ve been staring at his hands so hard that I missed everything he just said.
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head, forcing myself to look up at him.
“Full disclosure. I was distracted thinking of you naked and missed all of that.” I lean back in my chair, pulling the sleeves of my sweater into my palms before crossing my arms. “For the final time. I promise. Especially since you’re going to be my boss. ”
I don’t know if anything he just said was about hiring me, or maybe it was him trying to let me down easily. Either way, I’m not going down without a fight.
Mateo’s eyes are wide, his body completely frozen. “You—” he starts, but it’s like the words get caught in his throat. He swallows, his lips parting, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Anyway,” I start, changing the subject, even though I know I could spend the foreseeable future pulling this reaction from him again and again. “Can you repeat all of that? I promise I’m listening this time.”
Mateo swallows again, rolling his lips together. “Sure,” he manages to say, and I resist the urge to react to the little voice crack I hear. “I know we discussed on the phone that you could meet Crew, and we could talk about the possibility of a job.”
The more he talks, the more he seems to find his voice again. There’s a sureness to him now, but it isn’t like the confidence he portrays when he’s on stage—the dynamic so intriguing to me, and I don’t know why
“But circumstances have changed, and I really don’t know how I’ll be able to make sure he’s taken care of while not letting down everyone counting on me for this tour,” he explains, and I can hear in his voice how much he’s being pulled in opposite directions.
I don’t know Mateo Lane, at least this version of him. I know his voice, his songs, his sound, intimately well, but as a dad? Not so much.
But the way he goes on to explain how having Crew on this tour means a lot to him—and how he knows he can’t be in two places at once and give his all to both his son and the tour—has me thinking he’s doing the absolute best he can.
Which is what has me saying, “Like I said on the phone, I’m available, and I’m happy to help.”
Mateo brings his hands to his lap, tapping lightly against his thighs.
The table shifts subtly, over and over again, and I see out of the corner of my eye that he’s bouncing his legs.
“Crew is a super laid-back kid, always has been. And a great helper. He loves Halloween and his black cat named Pepper—I’m sure he’ll tell you all about her.
” He loses himself as he tells me more and more about what sounds to be the coolest kid on the planet, and, for a moment, I can’t think of a better way to spend my time than watching Mateo talk about his kid.
“Anyway,” he finally says, looking a little embarrassed at his rambling, “we don’t need to be on the road until the day after, so I figured you could meet him tomorrow, and then I can introduce you to the rest of the band and the crew we travel with. ”
“Works for me,” I say, stifling a yawn, covering my mouth with my fist.
“We can talk about compensation tomorrow too, since I’m sure you’re exhausted from your flight.
And don’t worry about traveling or hotels or food or anything.
I got you covered.” He offers me a small smile, and it’s like a shock to my system, a foreign sensation I feel through my entire body.
“The three of us will usually be in the same room, depending on the hotel, but I made sure to get at least two bedrooms for all the suites. And you’ll have your own space on the tour bus for travel days. ”
I nod along as he continues explaining a quick gist of the tour’s schedule.
“And if you text me your email, I’ll forward you the schedule from our tour manager.”
“Sounds good.” My voice is a mask of indifference, but it’s all for show. The more he talks, the more I start to realize that maybe this was a bad idea.
Close quarters with Mateo Lane?
For eight months?
The job was supposed to be the distraction—that’s the safest option, for me and everyone else involved.
But now, sitting here in the low light of the hotel room, listening to the melodic voice I’ve been falling asleep to every night, watching the way he can’t quite keep his body still, tracing the tattoos covering his skin…
This is a horrible idea.
His voice sounds like it’s underwater. I think he’s explaining the upcoming travel schedule. An extra day in Atlanta. St. Louis. Kansas City. Who knows.
Because my mind is too focused on the way his mouth moves and the bare, uncovered spot of skin on his neck—just big enough to sink my teeth into, hard enough to leave a mark, one that would fill the space perfectly.
“Thanks,” I quickly interject, standing up from my chair, needing to get some sleep—and distance. I don’t know if anything he just said requires a “thank you,” but they’re the only respectable words I think I can manage right now. “I’m going to try to get some sleep.”
“Oh.” Mateo stands, and I have to squint my eyes to make out his features. I swear I see disappointment on his face, but that can’t be right. He coughs into his fist. “Sure thing,” he says with a nod of his head.
I run a hand through my hair, pushing back my bangs just for them to fall back over my forehead. “What time does your son usually wake up?” I ask.
“His routine is a little off, so I’m sure he’ll be up early. Six, maybe?” he offers.
“Sounds good,” I say, making a mental note of the time. The sooner the kid is in the picture, the easier it will be to ignore these inappropriate thoughts I’m having of my new boss. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, see you tomorrow, Emerson.”
I replay the way his voice sounds saying my name until my head hits the pillow, like a lovesick teenager who actually did get picked out of the crowd by her favorite rockstar.
Exhaustion hits me like a tidal wave the second I pull the hotel comforter up to my chin, tucking my headphones into my ears and turning Cross My Heart’s newest album on.
It's ridiculous. And I feel stupid, embarrassed even, hiding in this bedroom with just a wall separating me from the owner of the voice that has spent more nights in my headphones than I care to admit, pulling me to sleep when my own thoughts refused to.
Tomorrow, it won't belong to the lead singer of Cross My Heart. It'll belong to the man signing my paychecks—and, more importantly, Crew's dad.
The city keeps glowing outside the window, the lights blurring into soft spots of color as I stare too long, until my vision blurs and my eyelids start to give way.
Then, I just listen instead, letting the lyrics carry everything I refuse to name, until even that fades and my mind finally goes quiet.