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“I know, but—”
The flickering lights overhead stopped me midsentence. Landon’s jaw slackened, and he stepped backward, the moment and the spark of heat between us shattering against the framework of the party. “That’s my cue.”
“Yep,” I replied, even though I had no idea what was about to happen next.
“We’ll pick this up later.” He gestured with his thumb in the direction of the crowd. “After this.”
“What do you mean by... later?”
“You’ll see.”
Landon walked away without another word and threaded himself through the guests, speaking to a few along the way until he reached the small stage and the band. Once there, he took the wireless microphone off a nearby stand and greeted the crowd.
“This is a huge night for Chatter, and tomorrow will be even bigger,” he said. “I am so thrilled to have you all here to celebrate with me. Sometimes I forget to do that but having you all here tonight has given me the reminder. We need to acknowledge our wins. And Chatter is a win—not for us, but for free speech. It’s also a win for inclusivity. Anyone can be on our platform, and anyone can be heard. The answer to terrible speech is more speech. Chatter is the best place for it.”
The crowd broke into polite applause, and I used the moment to move closer, so I could get a better read on the people who’d been invited to enjoy the evening. I stopped next to a woman with a short gray bob, a silver gown, and a slash of red lipstick across her face. She seemed riveted as Landon spoke, as if she hung onto everything he had to say, as if his words were coated in gold.
During the next break of applause, I turned to her. “What a lovely evening.”
“Yes.” She sized me up. “My son has done a great job.”
I blinked at her, taken aback, embarrassment pulsing through me. Of course, this was Landon’s adopted mother—how stupid of me not to realize that.I’d seen plenty of photos of her online, and I knew what she looked like, but I hadn’t expected her to be so nonchalant, to be another face in the crowd of beautiful people there that night.
“I’m Rebecca.” I extended my hand and she shook it.Maybe I can get a few quotes from her for the article...“Pleased to meet you.”
“You’re withAmerican Profile.”
“Yes.”
She dropped my hand. “How are you finding things?”
“Great. Perfect.”
“I’m surprised.”
I started. “Why?”
“I’ve read your newsletter a few times. I know what you are all about.”
“And what’s that?”
“The typical stuff. I know you like to size people up based on a set of preconceived notions.” She regarded me. “An activist masquerading as a journalist. The kind who likes to put people in boxes.”
I recoiled a bit, surprised she was willing to speak to me so frankly after just meeting me. Most people weren’t that bold. They were polite, even fascinated by the work I did. But not her. “I wouldn’t say I’m an activist. Or that I put people in boxes.”
“You put Tanner Vance in a box.”
I gaped at her, stunned to hear a scathing critique of my profile on Tanner. Most of the feedback had been positive. “No, I didn’t.”
She laughed without humor. “Oh, I think you did. I got to know Tanner a few years ago when we toured Africa with a team from One World Charities. You didn’t mention any of his efforts there.”
“Well, I—”
“Just seemed to focus on how he was a leading man in Hollywood. Very surface, if you ask me.”
“I’m sorry it read that way to you.”
“And there was that disastrous profile on Governor Ortega you managed to put forward while you were at theTimes. Sparked that recall.”
