By Thanksgiving, Landon had written almost an entire album.
Not because his parents had forced him to.
Not because Walker had lined up producers or meetings or whatever terrifying music-industry nonsense he was always trying to shove down Landon’s throat.
But because Landon wanted to.
And because I kept pushing him.
“Play me the one you were working on last night,” I said one evening, dropping my bag by the door.
He was at the kitchen island, notebook open, hair falling in his face.
He looked up and smiled like I was the best part of his day.
Which, unfortunately for my emotional stability, was becoming a regular occurrence.
“It’s not done.”
“You’ve played me worse.”
He pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. “That is so unbelievably hurtful.”
“And yet?”
He sighed, then reac
