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A classic?
He loved it when he was a kid?
Vance Vibe was only a few years younger than him.
Was this tool making a dig at his age now? Christ, he was thirty-three, not ninety-three.
“If you want to work on something together, or if you need some help, I’m offering,” Vance eked out.
Help?
“I work alone, Vance.”
“Didn’t you collaborate with the other members of Heartthrob Warfare, or are you hiding something?” Vance asked, masking the question with a cluck of a laugh.
How dare this man bring up Trey and Leighton.
If he was going down in a blaze of pop-downfall glory, taking a swing at this prick wouldn’t impede his trajectory.
He hardened his expression. “The only thing I’m hiding,” he said, lowering his voice, “is a right hook that could really mess up that pretty Botox-laden face of yours.”
Vance Vibe couldn’t know his secret. There was no way. He was fishing again. He had to be.
“You’re kidding, right?” Vance stammered, dropping his douchey swagger. “You wouldn’t hit me, would you? We’re both from Denver. That’s a connection, and I heard you’ve been spending quite a bit of time there.”
“Look at that. You’re both from the Mile High City,” Mitzi intervened, trying to keep the peace.
“I might be back there soon,” Vance yammered. “We could meet up there and have a jam session.”
Who the hell said jam session?
He narrowed his gaze, giving nothing away, when a piercing trill ricocheted through the hallway.
“Landon, Landon Paige, I made this for you,” a woman shrieked.
He broke the staring contest and peered over Vance’s shoulder. A middle-aged woman, clad in a shirt with his face on it, barreled toward him with a large sack in her hands. She stopped and gasped for breath. Huffing and puffing, the woman reached into her bag, then thrust something soft into his hands.
“It’s a pillow,” she gushed.
He stared at a cushion embroidered with the cross-stitch version of his face.
It was creepy as hell, but it couldn’t have been easy to do.
He stared at the frighteningly accurate representation. “This is quite a gift.”
“I made two. One for me, and one for you,” the woman replied, drinking him in.
“Did you.”
“Yeah, I sit on your face every night at dinner. Last night, I ate a burrito while sitting on your face.”
“Uh-huh,” he uttered because what the hell did you say to a person who admitted that they enjoyed eating burritos while sitting on your face?
“Here, honey,” Mitzi said, swooping in. She took one of the photos from the PA. “Here’s an autographed picture of Landon Paige. You can hang it on the fridge—or sit on it. Whatever floats your boat,” she added and bit back a grin.
God help him.
The fan squealed with delight, then started digging in her sack of a purse. She held up a marker. “Landon Paige, can you write, to Norma Rae, my biggest fan and the best cross-stitcher in all the West?”
