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She tilts her head, bites her lip, and the gesture sends a shock of heat through me.
My view of her is blocked by Joe as he sits next to me, startling me back into focus.
“Tired of sports?” I ask. For the day and a half we’ve been on the road, with Melissa up front, Joe has spent most of his time in the back; as likable as Rusty generally is, I’m sure the prospect of all-day beers and sports on TV has quickly lost some of its appeal.
Joe looks nervously over to where Melissa has dozed off, and then to Carey, who still doesn’t seem to register that we’re looking at her.
“They’re different than they seem on TV,” he says confidentially.
Mild dread feels like a tiny weight in my abdomen, sinking. Of course I know what he means, but—as much as I hate the role I’ve been given, I should probably chase down his meaning a little. “How so?”
Joe shifts, hesitating. “Nothing specific. They’re just not as … happy as I imagined.”
I close my book and set it on the couch. “It’s the travel,” I explain, leaning back and draping an arm over the back of the seat, going for unconcerned. “The stress of the road. They miss their kids.”
“How old are their kids?”
“Twenty and twenty-four.” I clear my throat when his brow lifts in surprise. I’m sure he was imagining toddlers or—at most—middle-school-aged children. “But they’re all very close.”
This … may or may not be true. In the short time I’ve been working for the Tripps, I’ve heard Rusty talking to TJ once.
“Plus,” I say, “everything is happening so fast for them, I think they’re both a little overwhelmed.”
“Right.” Joe’s smile looks a little forced. The Tripps have been megastars for a few years now, but he kindly leaves this unsaid. “Sometimes it takes a few days to adjust to the tour. It can make anyone a little tense.”
“They’ll get into a groove.” I pause. “They were great last night.”
Joe nods.
I’m trying to get a better read on him. He doesn’t seem all that enthusiastic about last night’s event. “Nothing they did last night set off alarm bells, right?”
He shrugs, distracted by a small spot on the couch that bears a striking resemblance to the color of Melissa’s trademark pink lipstick. “No, they were fine.”
“Seemed to really charm the crowd,” I press.
But Joe is oblivious. Motioning to the spot like he wants to get something to fix it, he stands and moves to crouch in front of one of the utility cabinets up front.
When I look up, I realize Carey is gazing with amusement at me.
She leans in, whispering, “Bravo, Jim, brav-o. That was a study in espionage.”
“What are you talking about?”
She stands, moving to sit where Joe had been, and, looking around first, quietly asks, “Were you trained in the CIA?” She glances over my shoulder and then back to me. “It’s okay. You can tell me.”
I give her a lingering, flat look, but inside, I’m fighting a smile. I like her playful like this. “I was just trying to get a read on what he thought about the blogger event.”
Carey leans back, pulling her phone out and swiping her screen open. “Everything I’ve seen has been pretty positive so far.” She smiles, turning her phone screen to face me. “In addition to Joe, various social sites on the interweb provide a great window into the impression the Tripps give at events.”
“Okay, Duncan.” I look back down to my notebook, hoping she hears my deep breath as exasperation and not that I’m taking a deeper hit of her. “I’m happy to leave all sleuthing to you.”
Carey laughs, and then startles a little when Melissa stirs awake up front. It’s an immediate shift in mood, like a tiger has just entered the arena.
“Where’s my phone?” Melissa asks, voice groggy.
“I plugged it in, hold on.” Carey jumps up, running to grab the phone from the small kitchen counter. Before she hands it to Melissa, she says, “Just no reviews.”
“I’m not going to read reviews,” Melissa snaps.
Carey walks back toward me with a roll of her eyes. She does not look convinced.
As expected, Melissa spends the three hours leading up to our arrival into the Bay Area reading reviews. From what I’ve seen, most have been good, but a few are downright nasty. No matter how much Joe tries to lighten the mood and explain that every author he’s ever taken on tour finds bad reviews, and how much Carey pipes in that books are subjective and not everyone will love them all, Melissa isn’t hearing it. By the time we’re pulling into the parking lot of the Palo Alto bookstore, Melissa is in a mood.
She’s tiny, but her energy isn’t. The bus door opens, and she sweeps past us, barely stopping long enough for the smiling event coordinator to lead her into the greenroom.
