He grabs a microphone. “Hey, Maya Henry. What’re you doin’ here? And who’s watching my cat?”

Water Runs Dry

It sounds like a swarm of angry bees were released in Radio City Music Hall.

“She should be disqualified!” a guy yells, holding up his iPhone. “Here’s the video of her singing with him!”

Another girl calls out, “I saw them in People magazine together! It’s a setup.”

“They talk on Twitter all the time!” another girl yells.

I’m waiting for somebody to lunge at me with a pitchfork.

Jesse leaps off the stage with the finesse of a cowboy dismounting a horse and hustles up the aisle to my row of seats. I stumble past people to reach him, and when I do, he picks me up in a hug and twirls me around. I haven’t seen him in more than three weeks, and being in his arms feels like spring becoming summer.

“I missed you so much,” he whispers.

“Me too.”

He brushes his lips against mine. His soft kiss drowns out the ruckus around us. A cameraman gets right up in our faces. I bury my head in Jesse’s white button-down shirt.

“I thought you were in Philly,” I say.

“I popped over this morning.” He pulls away and sets his hands on my shoulders, smiling. “I can’t believe you tried out for the show. This is big-time! I’m so, so proud.”

The shouting gets louder and louder—it’s like I’m in the ring at a boxing match.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I whisper.

He raises an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to do this on my own. I didn’t want you to think I was taking advantage of you by asking for help.” I say the words quietly, and his face falls. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“Well, you did. I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone I was judging. Only Mark knew.”

“I thought you blew it when you fell off that yacht.”

Jesse laughs. “These people love drama. Nearly any news is good news.”

“But I thought you’re retiring,” I whisper.

“I made a deal,” he whispers back. “Judge the show for one season, and I can get out of my three-year contract with Rêve.”

That’s when Mr. Logan comes rushing up with the executive producer Mr. Tyson and two men wearing suits and shiny shoes. They must be producers or something.

One of them says, “Jesse, Mark, how could you not tell us about this?”

Mr. Logan smiles and shakes his head at me. “I’m as surprised as you are. I couldn’t get her to play around in a recording booth, and now she tries out for a TV show.”

The second guy says, “We have a situation here. Perhaps we should talk someplace private?”

So that’s how I find myself with Jesse, my mom and brother, Mr. Logan, and the producers in the Roxy Suite. It pimps the socks off Jesse’s dressing room at the Opry. It’s full of sparkly crystal china and a rainbow of artwork, not to mention flat-screen TVs and leather furniture.

Even though they’ve only met once—before Jesse took me on our date to the Spaghetti Factory—Mom gives Jesse a hug. I’m glad he doesn’t wince or freak out or anything. He acts like a perfect gentleman. Sam gives him a nod, but my brother isn’t happy.

“I don’t like it when people threaten my sister,” he says with a growl. “I was about to kick some asses in that crowd out there.”

“Later, dear,” Mom says, patting Sam’s arm. “Right now, let’s hear what the producers have to say.”

We take seats on the couches. I wipe my palms on my black dress and sit close to Jesse so our thighs touch. Mr. Logan paces, talking into his cell. “Tell Charles to get on the next plane to New York…I don’t care what he says about his golf game, just get him here.”

“Who’s Charles?” I ask Jesse.

“My attorney. But it’s fine—I’ll quit so you can perform.”

Mr. Tyson and the other two producers exchange freaked-out looks.

With the phone still pressed to his ear, Mr. Logan snaps his fingers and points at Jesse. “You’ll do nothing until Charles gets here. You signed a contract.”

Jesse crosses his legs, shaking his red cowboy boot, and leans back against the leather sofa like he owns the place. “This is no big deal, right? I mean, I’ll treat Maya like I’ll treat every other singer.”

“I was under the impression Maya is your girlfriend,” Mr. Tyson says, folding his arms across his chest.