Cigarette smoke hung low like smog, curling off the fat cigar clamped between the Vince’s teeth as he paced in front of the mirror, gesturing wildly with both hands and a rolled-up script.

“Gonna be the picture of the season, I tell ya—fast cars, faster dames. That one gal—Delilah? Kid’s a heartbreaker.” He barked a laugh, the kind that made secretaries roll their eyes.

You’re behind him, focused on the measurements, fussing with the collar of his too-starched shirt. Every time your fingers brush his neck, he flinches—just barely.

Vincent clears his throat a little too loud. “{{user}}, my good man,” he starts, like he’s slipping into character, voice oily-smooth, a showman even when cornered, “why don’t you join me tonight at The Gilded Parrot? Lotta gals there.”

His eyes slide down to your frame. You’re smaller, neater, quieter than the people he surrounds himself with. Not a drinker, not a dancer. You read in the corners while the rest of them make noise.

Not that he minds. He says he minds, but he doesn’t.

Could’ve asked anyone. But he’s asking you.

“Could be fun,” he adds with a grin that’s all bravado, but there’s a flicker behind it, something nervous and pathetic. His damn heart skips when your fingers slip up to knot his tie.

He won’t say he likes the way you smell like paper and ink.

Won’t say he gets jumpy when you stand too close.

Won’t say he wants to kiss you more than he wants a box office smash.

Vince just clears his throat again. “Wear somethin’ nice, huh? Don’t make me look like a schmuck.”

But what he means is please come.