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But there was one not so tiny problem. He hadn’t written one new song.
Not one.
And time wasn’t on his side.
Not to mention, his lack of progress hadn’t gone unnoticed.
He’d catch snippets of Mitzi’s calls with the record execs whenever he was in Vegas.
They’d grown impatient with him.
He hadn’t put out anything new in eight years.
Eight years.
A knot formed in his belly. He couldn’t come up empty-handed. The last thing he wanted was for Heartthrob Warfare to be written off in the annals of music history.
That couldn’t be his legacy.
He couldn’t fail Trey and Leighton and be the one who let it go down the drain.
He had to figure out a way to create on his own.
This was his last chance.
With Tomàs and Bess leaving for Italy, he’d require a nanny to care for his niece while he tried to pull together the music—but this nanny couldn’t be Harper.
She’d be the ultimate distraction—a distraction he couldn’t afford.
It was bad enough that before he drifted to sleep, it was her voice that carried him into slumber.
“Landon Paige, I love you!” a fan cried, pulling him from his Harper-induced stupor.
Get it together and end this show.
He nodded to the crowd, thanked the musicians one last time, then walked off the stage as the roar of applause petered out.
Mitzi handed him a towel. “Jesus Christ, Landon, what were you doing out there? Meditating? These aren’t laced with magic mushrooms, are they?” she asked and handed him a small bakery box with three butterscotch-filled bonbons.
He huffed a little laugh, popped one of the sweet treats into his mouth, then handed off his guitar to a stagehand. “You don’t mince words. I’ll give you that, Mitz. And no to both. I wasn’t meditating or strung-out.”
He ate the second bonbon and savored the creamy texture.
These bonbons were delicious, but they weren’t like the ones he remembered from his childhood.
Still, they served their purpose.
“Well?” Mitzi pressed.
He stared at the last bonbon—the reminder of his childhood that pulled at his heartstrings. He pushed the thoughts away and donned his pop star facade. “I was basking in the glow of my fans’ elation,” he replied, then ate the last bonbon as a young production assistant with her blonde ponytail swishing from side to side scampered toward them. She stared at him through her lashes, took the empty box, then handed him a fresh black T-shirt. He shed his soaked top, and the assistant’s jaw dropped as all eyes fell on him.
And rightly so.
A pop god had to look the part, and he didn’t slack off when it came to maintaining his physique.
And what about the bonbons?
They weren’t exactly healthy, but they were a tradition, and he made an exception for them.
