Button Holed by Kylie Logan Read Free Book Online

it, and I wasn’t surprised to see the photo of Kate from the previous day’s paper. He waved it back and forth in front of my nose.
    “Once word gets out that you’re catering to the stars, you’re going to be one hot button dealer.”
    It was my turn to smile. Now that I thought of it, it was the first time I’d bothered since I ran into Kaz. “I’m counting on it,” I told him.
    “So you’ll have more customers than ever, and you’ll sell more buttons than ever, and the money will just keep rolling in.”
    “I’m counting on that, too.”
    “Which means all that royalty money is just gravy, and here’s this guy, this friend of mine, who can hardly afford to put groceries on the table, and it’s only a couple thousand lousy bucks, and—”
    This time, I didn’t even bother to answer, I just groaned.
    And I guess Kaz took pity on me, because he gave me a quick peck on the cheek and turned to walk away. Right before he disappeared around the corner, I heard his parting comment. “By the way.” He grinned and waved the newspaper. “Nice butt!”
     
    THE FACT THAT I was breathing hard had nothing to do with my walk down North Wells. Or the fact that the clock was ticking and Kate was scheduled to arrive in just a couple hours.
    It had everything to do with Kaz.
    Attraction or repulsion?
    I was so busy trying not to think about it so I didn’t have to decide that I wasn’t paying attention. That would explain why I jumped when I heard a man say, “Hey, you’re the button lady.”
    I turned just in time to see him round the corner of the alley that led between my brownstone and the one next door and back to the common courtyard shared by the nearby buildings. He was middle-aged, average height, and as bald as a baby’s backside. He had a camera slung over one shoulder. Just the hint I needed—paparazzi.
    He obviously recognized me.
    I hoped it wasn’t because my butt looked familiar.
    “So, she’s coming back, huh?” The man had a round face and heavy jowls. There was a single gold stud in his left earlobe. He couldn’t possibly have known I was busy rehashing the close encounter of the shake-my-resolve kind with my ex so he assumed I was either being coy or I was offended by his question. Covering his bases, he smiled an apology. “I can understand you don’t want to say anything. After all, you don’t know me from Adam.”
    “I don’t know Adam, either.”
    He laughed. “Hey, it’s like this . . .” He took a couple steps closer. Like it or not—and I didn’t like it one bit—I had an automatic and gut-wrenching flashback to the morning of the burglary; I took a couple steps back. He reached into his pocket and handed me a business card. “Mike Homolka,” he said, pointing to the name printed on it. “I’m a journalist.”
    “You’re one of the paparazzi.”
    “You say tomato ; I say tomahto .” He shrugged. “What matters is that I make my living getting the story. Get my drift? And I know you’ve got a story to tell. I’ve done my homework, see, and I know you worked with Hugh Weaver on Trolls .” He chuckled. “Whoever thought that goofy movie would make Weaver some sort of Hollywood god! And you were the one who did the costumes for that movie, right? From rags to riches! And all because of some cult hit. That makes you grist for the ol’ gossip mill. Know what I mean?”
    I didn’t, but then, Homolka didn’t give me time to tell him that. He was as fast-talking as he was loud. And he was plenty loud.
    “But hey, I’m not going to hassle you about the whole Trolls thing. Not today. We’ll talk about that another time. You know, when things are slower and I’m hard up for a story.”
    This was supposed to make me feel better?
    I had no plans to sit outside and eat my turkey sandwich, but I didn’t like the idea of Homolka hanging around outside my shop. Maybe if I headed to the courtyard and sat out there for a while, he’d get bored. And leave.
    No such