I've just made it through the door of my hotel room when my cell rings.

"Hey stranger," I answer.

"I'm no stranger to you Emma." Bo laughs quietly and I smile. "Are you here yet?"

"Room 115."

"I'll be there in a sec, I'm only a few doors down."

"Got it," I say, ending the call.

Tossing my luggage aside I quickly check myself over in the mirror feeling a rise of nerves.

Being a PR, working with celebrities is much like attempting to herd cats. The last thing they want to do is deal with the media. This is particularly true with Bo, who's the reason I'm in Boston this week, gearing up for a round of press revolving around his recent release of "Inside."

I first met Bo, seven years ago when I began interning for the company I work for. It was a nightmarish three week stent for his 'WHAT.' tour and he was my first job going solo. He was also the reason I almost quit immediately. Being the same age, we we're both only 23 at the time. So while I was trying to prove myself in the threshold of my career, Bo, who was worn from months of touring alone, simply saw me as a cure for his boredom, sending me on a wild goose chase in Manhattan trying to avoid the media blitz. My carefully laid schedule for interviews, press conferences and guest spots on late night talk shows nearly going up in smoke.

First it was the emergency pit stop for wings. A few days later it was the sudden dire need to find and purchase a slinky. But it had to be one of the metal ones. Not one the colorful plastic ones. I still have no clue what the hell that was about. But he did find one, eventually. This went on and on for weeks, ending in a dramatic standoff over an air hockey table in an arcade two blocks from his scheduled press conference.

"Alright Emma. If you win, I'll go," he said, loading in quarters. "But if I win, you have to tell them I died or something and then we're hitting up Central Park." He tossed the puck onto the table, as it whirred to life.

Rubbing my temples, I sighed. "What deranged activity could you possibly want to do in Central Park?"

Leaning over the table, he raised his eyes from his grip on the striker and shrugged. "Feed squirrels."

I opened my mouth to protest but it was interrupted by the puck rattling into the slot on my unguarded side. Gazing from under his lashes, his blue and humored eyes were on me.

"One to zero, Emm," he warned.

"Cut it out" I snapped, grabbing my striker. "We have to be there in like ten minutes."

"Better make it quick then."

Grabbing the puck from the return and slamming it on the table, I sent it sailing straight into the slot on his side.

Somehow, even after all the vicious torture he'd put me through over those several weeks, the worst part was the pathetic little crush I'd developed. How? I have no fucking clue. But in a god awful mix of wanting to punch his lights out, while trying not to imagine his hands on me, it was a tough gig.

In the end, I beat him fair and square. Followed by hours of repetitive questions from the press. His oddly subdued demeanor in the public eye was elevated due to the recent defeat. So, in my needless cloud of guilt, I canceled the small magazine interview the next morning and instead, stood with Bo in Central Park with a pack of sunflower seeds, surrounded by overweight squirrels.

Since that time, I've worked with him many times through the years, doing PR for the show Zach Stone, his Make Happy tour, and when he quit touring for a while, I was there for the movie projects he did in the meantime. Sometimes he's just as much of a pain in the ass as the first time. Other times not so much.

With Bo, it's really just a matter of rolling the dice and now, with several states and countless cities for us to cover in the next month, it's only moments before I find out which Bo I'm dealing with this time around.

Turning the tv on, I hear a knock at the door.

"I swear to god you're somehow taller," I say, after swinging the door open. A smirk stretches on his newly bearded face.

"Nah, same height. You're just short as shit."

"Come in," I laugh, moving aside.

Striding into the room he tucks his hands in his pockets as he stands in front of the tv getting immediately sucked into a scene from American Dad.

"How've you been?" He asks without looking away from the screen.

"Good I guess," I say, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Obviously the last year's been crazy."

Turning towards me, he nods. "Yes it has."

"Oh yeah, did you see what Rolling Stones said? About Inside?" I pull out my phone, simply finding a reason to look away, feeling annoyingly intimidated by the pretty way his hair now hangs around his eyes.

"Hadn't looked."

Navigating through my phone I find the quote I saved on the flight over and read, "Mastermind of intellect and wit, Bo Burnham is brilliant in his craft, turning comedy into fine art."

"Nice," he says.

"Really? Nice?" I laugh, shaking my head.

He shrugs. "What? I'm glad they liked it. Cool."

"Alright…fine. It's just Rolling Stones magazine…it's whatevs," I grin.

"You must be a big fan."

"No, not necessarily."

"Well then who cares," he says flippantly.

"I do…it's my job to care."

"Well it's not my fault your childhood dream of becoming a drug lord didn't work out."

"Yeah you're right, my heart was in it for the wrong reasons."

"It was for the risky sex right?" He flashes a smile. "A little walk on the wild side?"

"What? No!" I laughed, feeling heat in my face. "It was for the violence obviously."

"Oh, well that's no fun," he says. The subtle smile on his lips stirs me and I'm forced once more to find another outlet.

Rising from the bed I cross the room to my luggage I abandoned by the door. "We've got a busy few weeks ahead of us," I say, tossing my luggage on the bed, pulling out my lap top. "Do you want to go over the schedule?"

"Actually, I have a better idea."

Spinning around to face him, I'm suddenly on high alert when I see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he folds his arms over his chest.

"Bo….do not even start this," I point at him. "We haven't even gotten through the first interview."

"I know for a fact we don't have anything scheduled for a couple of days."

"No, we don't. Because we need to use those two days to go over weeks worth of information. Inside is like super high demand right now."

He laughs, sweeping his hair back. "And..we can go over all of that information in Salem."

"Excuse me?"

"It's like forty minutes from here."

"Ok? So? Why the hell do we need to go to Salem?"

His brows lower. He's judging me super hard right now.

"Because Salem is fucking kick ass Emma and I've got plans. And it starts with you chilling the fuck out and trusting me."

I sigh up to the ceiling. "My god, Burnham—why do you do this?"

"I get bored. Now get your shit and let's go."

"Now?"

"Yes," he says, starting a series of finger snaps. "Get all your shit, we'll come back here tomorrow. At least..maybe." He crosses over to the door, looking back over his shoulder as I stare at him wide eyed.

"We're staying in Salem?"

"Hell yeah we're staying in Salem."

The wide smile appearing on his face is causing me to short circuit between rising anger and melting into a puddle. So, I grab my luggage and head out behind him.