Good Girl (Love Unexpectedly 2)

Dolly wakes me up at the crack of dawn.

Apparently the bone I gave her last night was a bit too much, and the poor thing yacks up all sorts of nastiness all over the floor before I can get her outside.

By the time I clean up Pomeranian puke and get back into bed, my brain is already awake, and my thoughts are…

Odd.

This is going to sound nuts, but something about my unabashed seduction of Noah Maxwell last night fixed something inside me, and I decide it’s time.

For a lot of things.

I’m on the road before six and am in a Baton Rouge Starbucks by seven, armed with my laptop and a venti caramel macchiato.

The first order of business is a no-brainer. I haven’t seen Preston Walcott since that first day at the house, haven’t had any contact with him at all except through Noah for maintenance things relating to the house. New wallpaper in the bedroom, it would seem, is apparently a bit outside the realm of what’s considered “standard maintenance.”

As I impatiently start up my inbox and wait for it to load the hundreds of neglected messages from the past couple of weeks, I debate the wisdom of what I’m about to do, only to realize that there’s really not much risk in it.

You’ve probably gathered this by now, but I’m not hurting for money. I mean, I’m not Oprah or anything, but I have enough money to buy a house. A couple of houses.

Especially one that’s in the middle of nowhere in Louisiana and that the owner clearly has no attachment to.

I want this house. Not to live in full-time, I don’t think. Although maybe someday.

But I want a place where I can go to be off the grid. A place that’s all mine. A place that maybe someday I can open up to be a quiet retreat for young musicians, just the way it was for me all those years ago.

I know the younger Preston Walcott’s not a patron of the arts the way his father was, but maybe that’ll work in my favor. The guy can’t possibly have strong ties to a property he didn’t know he owned. And based on the fact that he hasn’t been out to the house once since that first day, I can’t imagine that he’s somehow grown attached to the place.

Plus, I think as I draft an email, the worst he can say is no.

But please don’t say no.

I send the email and take a deep breath. That was the easy part of my day.

Here comes the brave part.

I check my email, knowing full well it will have messages from my label, my publicist, my agent, and, most important, from Amber, who promised to give me honest but summarized versions of what’s happening with the Shawn Bates scandal, to be read when I’m ready.

And I’m ready.

Thirty minutes later I slump back in my chair, exhausted and liberated at the same time. The bad news: Shawn’s wife is continuing to scream victim to anyone who will listen, with me as her number one villain.

The good news…

Not that many people are listening anymore.

She’s had her moment in the spotlight, and while the general consensus is that I’m still a home-wrecking whore, at least I’m no longer a front-page home-wrecking whore.

The best news of all is that nobody has a clue where I am. My poor publicist has been a broken record with the statement I provided: Jenny Dawson is taking some time away from the spotlight to work on her upcoming album. She thanks you in advance for respecting her privacy.

All bullshit, of course. Nobody gives a crap about my privacy. Nor does anyone likely believe that I’m working on my album so much as hiding away in my shame.

But that’s their problem.

I have bigger, more important problems.

Name: Noah Maxwell.

It’s occurred to me that I’ve been more intimate with him than I have with any other guy, and yet I hardly know him. I don’t know where he comes from, how it came about that he has this job, his favorite food, or what he watches on TV.