“Watch your step here, Mr. Talford,” the fresh-faced publicist said helpfully. As if he were a doddering old man. He didn’t blame her. Lately, the weight of his thirty-eight years seemed to lie heavier than usual around his shoulders. Mick ascended the stairs and stepped into the wings, where his producer, Paul Peterson, was waiting for him. “Heeeeeey, my man,” Peterson drawled. He did a weird sort of shimmy, jutting out his lower jaw as if he’d grown up rough, was a guy-from-the-hood. Nothing could be further from the truth. He was a middle-aged man who had grown up in a goddamned mansion in Bel Air. Peterson yanked Mick into a bear hug, thumped him on the back. “You did it again! Knocked it out of the park! What did I tell you? We got a hit! A monsterfucking hit! Listen to them out there. They love us! They’re gonna come back to see this movie again and again and tell all their friends. And we’re gonna get even richer!” Peterson chortled gleefully, rubbing his hands together. “Best thing I ever did was hooking my wagon to you. You’re a fucking genius. A money-making machine, and I love it. Love being rich, rich, rich!” Peterson was right. The two of them had made money by the truckload, with more rolling in every day. “Listen to that,” Peterson said, cupping a hand around his ear. “Music to my ears.” The audience hadn’t quieted down as they usually did once the lights went up. If anything, the noise level had grown since Mick had exited his seat. Had gotten louder and louder as the crowd continued to roar their approval. It should have exhilarated him, but no. All Mick felt was slightly depressed as he watched Peterson dance around backstage like a gleeful, bald-headed elf high-fiving anyone within arm’s distance.

The president of the Academy was onstage, introducing them now.

“After this,” Peterson said, puffing his chest proudly, “we, my friend, are going to do some serious partying.” He opened his arms expansively, as if he were riding in the lead car of a ticker-tape parade. “And not to worry, I’ve set up everything! One hundred percent paid for! The entire tab is on me!”

Partying was the last thing Mick was in the mood for, but Peterson was so happy, looked so pleased with himself, that Mick slapped an answering smile on his face. “Sounds great.”

“Great?” Peterson squeaked, eyes bulging. “Are you kidding? What I have planned is going to blow your socks off!” Peterson leaned in with a grin and wiggled his bushy eyebrows. “Literally . . .”

Mick stifled a groan, hoping he had read Peterson’s innuendo incorrectly. A slight headache was taking up residence behind his eyes. He was contemplating the relief of begging off with the weight of guilt he would feel for raining on Peterson’s parade.