“Okay, but only if we can still go ghost hunting,” Annie conceded.
“Where do you think ghosts hang out? Libraries are prime ghost hunting territory,” Jo said.
“You're going ghost hunting?” Derek asked.
Jo grinned, the sparkle in her eyes hitting him square in the chest. “We sure are.”
Annie glanced at the Midnight Storm table. “Can I say hi to Nico first? I want to tell him about that brownie thing at the poison restaurant. He’s going to be so jealous.”
“I was just about to say hi myself,” Kat said, holding her hand out for Annie.
Derek and Jo watched as Annie and Kat made their way across the aisle to Midnight Storm. The excited bounce in Annie’s step turned to a full-on run when Nico waved at her. Jo chuckled, a low, throaty sound, like a secret. “She’s so excited to have something to hang over his head.”
He groaned. “I wish she was as excited to spend time with kids her own age. But Nico’s great with her. He has several younger sisters. I used to bring Annie to the studio with me when Nico was working on his solo album, and the only time she wouldn’t fuss was if he was paying attention to her.”
Jo's laughter bubbled over, like champagne spilling over the rim of the bottle. He wanted to keep making her laugh, to lap up every last drop of that champagne sound. “She’s going to be heartbroken the day he settles down.”
“Nico?” Derek scoffed. “He’s a bigger flirt than Jackson. But he knows how to keep it out of the press.”
“Speaking of the press,” Jo said, pulling her phone from her back pocket and holding it out to him. Midnight Storm’s social media profile filled the screen. “How come you don’t have someone from the label’s PR team updating their accounts? It’s all pre-made graphics. There haven’t been anyphotos or videos posted on their social media since the ones I took in the airport.”
“Are the graphics not good?”
“The graphics are fine, but people want to see their faces, hear their voices.” She opened her gallery app and scrolled through a dozen or more photos and videos she’d taken on the airplane and in the hotel lobby during check-in. She clicked on a video of Beckett and Zach in the van on the drive to the hotel, Beckett picking out a sparse melody on his guitar as Zach hummed along. “This is what people want. To feel like they’re here with them.”
“How did you get that on camera? That was only a few minutes and you’ve made it look like they’re deep in a songwriting session.”
Jo shrugged. “You only need a handful of moments to tell a story.” She switched to her own account, photo after perfect photo of her smiling face, videos of her dancing in her living room and singing into one of the high heels from her shoe bookcase, each with hundreds of comments, thousands of likes. “It has to feel like you’re talking directly to the person on the other side of the screen. Who’s running the account? I can send them the things I’ve taken. Or I can post them on my own profile and tag the band. My followers aren’t likely to be your target demographic, though, unless you’re after dude-bros who think negging a woman is the height of flirtation.”
“Negging?”
“Saying mean things,” she said with a flutter of her hand asthough people being rude to her on the internet was in any way acceptable. “Like when boys pull little girls’ ponytails because they like them.”
Something possessive, protective yawned to life in his chest, a wild animal waking from sleep. “Who the fuck is negging you?”
“Will you focus, please? You’ve got to get something good up on their account. How do you expect to get the fans excited enough to buy tickets to a new tour if you don’t give them something to be excited about?”
She had a point, and he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it. He cupped the back of his neck, pushing past the simmering rage that anyone was being mean to her online and the embarrassment that he hadn’t had someone in the marketing department come up with a better social media plan. He was supposed to be giving these guys their best shot at getting back out on the road, gathering all the necessary information to prove how big a Midnight Storm reunion tour would be, and he’d completely forgotten to consider a social media strategy that went beyond the graphic design intern still sitting in his cubicle in Manhattan.
“Would you take over the account?” At her startled expression, he hastened to add, “Just during this trip. You can post whatever you think is best.”
She folded her arms over her chest and frowned. “You want your daughter’s nanny to run the social media account for one of the biggest boy bands on the planet?”
“Why not? You could be the bestdamn bartender-slash-model-slash-nanny-slash-social media manager in the business,” he challenged.
Her lip quirked up. “I do enjoy being a multi-hyphenate, but I don’t know…” She trailed off, her eyes zeroing in on Annie where she talked animatedly with Nico and Zach.
“I’ll pay you double.”
Her attention snapped to him, her response breathless. “What?”
“Four thousand for watching Annie, and another four for managing the band’s social media accounts.”
She spluttered. “What, are you…madeof money?”
He wasn’t the richest guy in the industry—not by a long shot—but he made more than enough to keep him and his family living comfortably. Enough that he could take a step back after Midnight Storm’s next tour and never have to spend another month on the road away from his daughter.
But only if there was a tour to go on.