Page 26 of Rockstar's Accidental Marriage

“Okay,” Luke says grudgingly after a meeting one morning. “I’ll admit it. The Boss Lady knows what she’s doing.”

Emily raises an eyebrow at him, tablet in hand. “Was that a compliment, Luke?”

“Don’t get used to it,” he mutters, but there’s a hint of a smile on his face.

She smiles, turning back to her notes, and I catch myself grinning.

Later that day, I find myself sitting beside Emily on the bus, my phone in hand, as she walks me through setting up my social media accounts.

“You need to post more often,” she says, her tone patient but firm. “Your fans want to feel connected to you. Maybe post a picture of your guitar, or a behind-the-scenes shot, even a selfie occasionally—it doesn’t have to be perfect.”

“Selfies?” I groan, leaning back against the seat. “You’re killing me, Em.”

She rolls her eyes. “Stop being dramatic. It’s not that hard.”

“I play guitar, not Instagram,” I grumble, but I’m smiling.

She laughs, the sound soft and genuine, her blue eyes sparkling, and for a moment, it feels like the world has narrowed down to just the two of us.

Emily suddenly blinks and clears her throat. “Here,” she says, her voice professional, leaning over to tap a few buttons on my phone. But then her shoulder brushes mine, and I'm instantly transported back to our last night together—how that same soft skin felt under my lips. My chest tightens, and her breath catches, and I know she remembers it, too.

"There," she says, her voice slightly breathless as she hands the phone back. Our fingers brush, and the simple contact sends another zing of electricity through my body.

“Thanks, Boss Lady,” I say, my tone low and warm.

She gently shakes her head, but I see the flicker of a smile on her lips.

It’s Vince, of course, who ruins the moment.

“Do we really have to do this social media crap?” he whines from across the bus, his arms crossed like a petulant child.

Emily straightens, her professional mask slipping back into place. “Yes, Vince. You do. It’s part of the sponsorship agreement.”

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters. “We’re musicians, not influencers.”

“Vince,” I say, cutting him off before he can launch into a full-blown rant. “Cut her some slack. Emily’s busting her ass to make sure we’re not just surviving but thriving. The least you can do is post a damn photo once in a while.”

The bus goes quiet, all eyes on me. Even Emily looks surprised, her lips slightly parting as she stares at me.

“What?” I say, shrugging. “She’s right. And you know it.”

Vince grumbles something under his breath but doesn’t argue.

Emily’s eyes meet mine, and for a second, I see something in them that I can’t quite name. Gratitude, maybe. And something deeper, something that tells me she feels the same magnetic pull toward me.

That night, as the bus rumbles down the highway, I find myself replaying the day in my head. The easy laughter, the shared smiles, and the way Emily looked at me when I stood up for her.

I know this truce we’ve found could shatter at any moment. But for now, it feels like we’re building a solid foundation. Yet, I find myself wondering with some frustration when she’ll be ready for me to make my next move.

We finally pull into Jacksonville just as the sun is dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery shades of orange and red. The sight of home sends a wave of relief through the bus. After weeks of touring, there’s nothing like coming back to familiar ground.

Cass’s oceanfront house comes into view, its sprawling layout offering a welcome relief to the cramped quarters of the bus.

“Man, it’s good to be back,” Nate says, slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder. We all nod in agreement.

The next morning, the band gathers in Cass’s office—a bright, airy space where you can just hear the whisper of the waves as they crash softly in the distance.

Emily stands at the head of the table, all business in her pencil skirt and silk blouse, but I can't help but remember how that professional exterior crumbles under my touch. She's talking about venue capacity and ticket sales, but I'm distracted by the way she absently tilts her head, giving me a glimpse of that sensitive area right under her ear that, when touched, drives her wild. I struggle to pay attention.

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