Chapter Five
Holy shit, this place was amazing.
The line stuck on repeat in his mind as Daphne drove down the wooded drive. Then the drive opened to the house and the lake and…
Holy shit.
This was Daphne’s house. She woke up to a view straight out of a wilderness resort brochure.
He had to stop gawking like an idiot. Chris Ainsworth would not gawk. Ainsworth was “something of an outdoorsman,” he’d told Daphne in that tone that said he was being modest. Like Zane, Ainsworth fancied himself a man of the natural world, as at home chopping wood as mixing dirty martinis for two. He was not going to get out of his vehicle gushing and gaping like a city mouse who rarely set foot outside Vancouver.
So Chris swung open his door and—keeping his gaze away from the vista—he got his luggage and followed Daphne inside.
As she explained, the second floor was actually the main level, to take full advantage of the view. Perhaps, but the view that knocked the mountains from his mind was the one provided while she led him up the stairs, Chris’s gaze on level with her ass.
“I didn’t show you the door code,” she said, stopping abruptly. “Do you want to do that now?”
He tried to get his brain to catch up with her words, but he could only make some incoherent noise she obviously took as no. She continued up the steps. He let her get two above him, just to give her space, not at all because he was a lech who wanted that view of her ass again.
“That’ll be your room,” she said, pointing once they reached the top of the stairs. “You can put your stuff in there.”
He walked into the room, and his gaze immediately fell on a king-size bed, the covers pulled so tight he couldn’t help imagining pulling her onto them, bouncing down onto the cool sheets as the midday sun shone in—
“This is your room,” he said.
“I’m taking the guest room downstairs.”
“What? No. I’m the guest. Just show me where—”
“You’re the homeowner, remember? This is the main bedroom.”
His mouth worked for a moment. “The film crew isn’t going to come in here.”
“I can’t take that chance. Nothing can suggest this isn’t your house, including the bedrooms.”
She walked out. Still carrying his duffel, he followed.
“This isn’t right,” he said. “It’s your home.”
“For the next two days, it’s yours. I’m the maid.”
“What?” He stepped into her path. “No, Daphne. Absolutely not. If you want to stick around, you can be my girlfriend.”
“Can I?” Definite sarcasm there, and he heard his tone and inwardly winced. As Chris Ainsworth, though, he couldn’t let that show. He rolled his shoulders and leaned against the wall. “Sure. They’d buy it. Guy like Zane’s bound to have a girlfriend. Or three.” His lips twitched when he said it, but her look only darkened.
“No, Chris, I’m not playing part of Zane’s harem.”
“I was kidding. You and Zane would be exclusive. You’re a fellow writer he met online, both working on your novels, and you helped him with Edge.”
“I helped him?”
Chris adjusted his lean, warming to his subject. “Helped a lot. He couldn’t have done it without you. You’re like…”
“His muse?”
“Exactly. You’re smart and gorgeous and a great writer, and you inspire him—”
“I inspired him to write my book?” She stepped toward Chris. “Do you know how many men in history have taken credit for books written by their wives and girlfriends? I realize that I’m perpetuating that already, and I don’t feel good about it, but there is no way in hell I’m going to play your girlfriend, your muse, the wannabe writer gazing up at you adoringly, drinking in your every word, dreaming of someday being half as good as you.”
Daphne’s eyes blazed as she moved closer, and he swore he could feel the heat radiating off her. She looked magnificent, strumming with life, fiery and furious.
Furious withyou, idiot. Stop mooning. Reverse course or you are going to be sleeping in that lake, possibly at the bottom of it.
“I—I see your point. I’m sor—” That’s not Ainsworth. He lifted one shoulder in a shrug while offering that most nonapologetic of apologies. “I’m sorry if you were offended. I just wanted to be sure you had a role.”
“I do have a role. Caretaker. I clean your house and cook your meals so you can write, and I will do so off camera, because we need to tread very carefully and pray no one I know watches the show and recognizes my house.”
Shit. He hadn’t thought of that. “Good point.”
“An excellent point, which is why I didn’t want…” She shook her head. “I’m playing caretaker because it makes sense. I’m not doing it to be pissy. Let’s just get through this interview, and then we’ll discuss long term how we want to handle the in-person obligations, so we’re on the same page. For now, settle in, maybe go for a walk. I’ll make dinner.”
A walk sounded like a fine plan. Get out of Daphne’s hair and explore her property. That would work so much better if he could get off the porch.
He looked down at Tika, standing in front of him, her fur bristling as she growled.
“I was given permission to leave,” he said. “In fact, right now, I think she’d rather I left.”
Tika just kept growling. Not forcing him back inside, he suspected, but warning him off the property entirely.
Dogs usually liked him. He’d spent the last decade dreaming of a house with a yard so he could get one again. The problem was that in Vancouver, unless you had a few million to spare, you weren’t getting a yard. He’d been looking at the suburbs, weighing his need for a yard and dog against the convenience of a commute he could bike in ten minutes.
Then came the thieving partner and the lawsuits. Now the lawsuit was being settled and his firm looked poised to survive the reversion to single-partner. All thanks to Nia. Well, Nia and Daphne, because without this job he might have been filing for bankruptcy. Now he was recovering his equilibrium and his business, plus he had the income from playing Zane Remington.
The income from playing Zane. Earned as Daphne’s employee. Not a partner in her business. Which meant he damned well shouldn’t be making business decisions for her, like accepting a film interview. Especially when that meant kicking her out of her bedroom for two nights and forcing her to play hostess. Worse? He hadn’t accepted because he truly thought her publisher wouldn’t take no for an answer. He accepted so he could spend time with her and prove himself.
Prove himself? Yeah, as the kind of guy who’d accept an interview on her behalf and then make her sleep in the guest room while playing caretaker to his cut-rate Ernest Hemingway.
“I screwed up,” he told Tika. “But I’m going to make it up to her. I’m giving the best damned interview ever, and then, afterward, I’m going to tell her the truth.”
And upon hearing that heartfelt confession, Tika curled her lip, clearly unimpressed.
“I’m going to start by being helpful,” Chris continued. “Right this second. I’ll do something to pay her back for having me here. I’ll cut the lawn.”
He looked around. There was no lawn. It was forest, with a meadow that wasn’t meant to be trimmed. Then his gaze lit on something halfway between the side porch at the lake. An axe wedged in a piece of cut wood.
That’s what neighbor-dude offered to do, wasn’t it? Chop wood for Daphne. She’d refused because she was capable of cutting her own wood. But she was busy dealing with an unexpected guest, so he could do this for her.
Chris had never actually chopped wood. The requirements, though, as he understood them, were threefold. An axe, which was right there. Wood, which was strewn throughout the forest. And a bit of muscle.
He flexed, his biceps popping. “I do believe I have everything I need.”
He swore the dog rolled her blue eyes. Yet she made no move to stop Chris, and he strode past her to find suitable lengths of fallen wood in the forest.
Daphne breathed deeply as she chopped vegetables, struggling to recover her equilibrium, which would have gone better if she weren’t chopping onions. Tears were streaming down her face, and she wiped her eyes on her shoulder and sniffled.
No tears allowed. No misplaced anger. No awkward annoyance. She’d told Chris that giving him the main bedroom wasn’t about her being pissy, and while that was true, she’d felt pissy at that moment, especially when he’d suggested she play his muse. It made sense to be the caretaker, but part of her had been mulishly digging in to make a point.
She knew the interview was a prime opportunity. New Gotham magazine plus a segment on their show? Just this morning, her editor had emailed her the review that would accompany the article, and it was the equivalent of a full-spread color ad. From a business standpoint, there was zero reason to be pissy. From a writer standpoint, though…
It stung. She hadn’t realized how much until Chris suggested she play his girlfriend. With that came the realization that she’d pandered to the very system she’d railed against.
Editors and agents might take a man’s book more seriously? I’ll submit my book as a man and hire a man to play me while I sleep in the guest room and make his meals. Ha! That’ll show them!
The fact that she’d sold the book as Zane didn’t necessarily prove that playing a man helped. It might have been the different cover letter. It might have been the different attitude she adopted as Zane—the confidence and the ego and sense that she didn’t need to soften her communications with exclamation marks and smiley faces.
None of that was Chris’s fault. She needed to treat him like a guest, not growl at him like an intruder.
Speaking of growling, she should make sure Tika wasn’t bothering Chris. She had no idea what was up with the dog. A little voice whispered that she should heed Tika’s caution. Didn’t people always say that dogs could see through whatever persona a stranger adopted? If a dog didn’t like you, it was a bad sign. Except that Tika’s “bad dude” sense was clearly defective if she tolerated Robbie.
Daphne finished chopping vegetables and went to the front window, knife still in hand. She looked out and—
—the knife dropped, almost skewering her foot. She yanked open the patio door and raced outside.
“Stop!”
Chris froze in place, axe lifted like a baseball bat.
“What the hell are you doing?” she shouted, which was a mistake, clearly prompting him to demonstrate, the axe swinging down—
“Stop!” The word came as a shriek now while Daphne clambered down the steps.
Chris froze.
She lifted her hands. “Do not move. Please.”
She jogged past Tika, who was watching Chris, her tail wagging in anticipation of the bloodshed to come.
“Lower the axe carefully,” she said. “Do not swing it.”
“I’m just cutting up this limb.”
“If you continue on that trajectory, the only limb you will cut is your own.”
She took hold of the axe shaft and placed her hands over his. Then she carefully followed through with the swing, the blade missing the tree piece and stopping an inch from his lower leg.
“Oh,” Chris said. “Huh.”
She took the axe from him. “When’s the last time you chopped wood?”
“It’s… been a while.”
“Let me rephrase. Have you ever chopped wood?”
“Uh…” He shifted his weight. “I think the axe I used before was different. It’s all about the tools, right?” He held out his hands. “Let me try that again.”
Daphne tightened her grip on the axe and made a mental note to lock it in the utility shed. “I don’t need wood, Chris. I have tons.” She motioned to the piles stacked tight between pairs of trees. “That’s just part of it. I have two cords of seasoned wood, and I’ll add more in the fall.”
“Huh. So why was that guy offering to chop wood for you?”
“Because he’s…” An asshole looking for a better place to live. “Because he’s a good neighbor. I’ll take this and finish making dinner. Why don’t you go for a walk with Tika? I’ll bring down the bear spray.”
“Bear spray? What for?”
“The squirrels. They’re very dangerous this time of year.”
He paused for a beat and then chuckled. “That’s a joke, right? The bear spray is for bears.”
“It is.”
“So I should spray myself with it. Bear repellant.” When she hesitated, he smiled. “That was a joke, D. I spray them in the eyes.”
“Only if they show signs of aggression. Otherwise, you retreat slowly while making yourself as big as possible. Don’t turn your back. Don’t run.”
“You, uh, seem like an expert. Get attacked by bears a lot?”
“I’ve only encountered two black bears on trails. Both walked away. It’s safe. The spray is an extra precaution. Let me go inside and grab it.”
After dinner, Daphne didn’t know what to do with Chris. They’d talked for an hour as they’d prepped for the filming. Then he’d gone out onto the deck with a beer. Being early June in the north, the sun was still blazing down, even as the clock struck nine. The deck faced south, which meant it got hot, and he’d stripped off his shirt. Now he was lounging, shirtless, against the railing, gazing out over the lake as he chugged his beer.
At the risk of objectifying the guy, it was like coming home to find that a friend had snuck a cool new piece of tech into her home. A moment’s pause of Where did this come from? followed by a heartfelt I don’t care, but I know exactly what I want to do with it.
Her gaze sliding down his perfect abs to the button on his jeans.
Didn’t Nia insist there was something to be said for spontaneity?
Daphne shook her head sharply. There would be none of that. Even if she somehow declared herself ready for a fling, this was her employee. Thinking about him that way was wrong.
Right?
It was wrong, wasn’t it?
Forget about finding something to do with Chris. He was busy soaking up the evening sun and enjoying his beer.
She eyed him again and sighed. First stop: a cold-water splash. Then she’d pull out her laptop and get some work done. She had a few new scenes to write for the sequel, and none of them involved anything even mildly sexy, thank God.
Daphne settled in. It always took a few minutes for her muse to get going—like starting her pickup midwinter after forgetting to plug in the heating block. A few cranks of the engine, and it was primed, the scene roaring—
The hairs on her neck prickled, and she lifted her gaze to see Chris, still shirtless, now poised on the other arm of the sectional sofa, watching her.
She started to close her laptop.
“No no, keep going,” he said.
She shook her head. “I thought you were busy, so I was just finishing a scene.”
“Continue, please. I’ve never seen you write.”
“It’s not much of a spectator sport. How about we—?”
“I’d like to watch, if that’s okay with you.” He leaned forward with a quick grin. “That didn’t sound right, did it? Watch you write, I mean.”
Her mind hadn’t even peeked down that other possible path until he mentioned it. Damn him.
Was there any excuse that might convince him to put on his shirt?
We get a lot of mosquitos in the house. You may want to cover up.
He continued, “If I’m going to play a writer, I should know how it’s done. I won’t bother you. I promise.”
She opened her mouth to tell him, more firmly, that she could not write while being watched. Then she remembered her resolve not to snap at him.
“Okay,” she said. “But be warned, it isn’t very exciting.”
She twisted just enough that he was out of her line of sight. Then she resumed the scene, slowly at first, the motor cold again. After a few lines, the engine caught and—
“Why that word?”
Daphne jumped and twisted to find Chris leaning over her shoulder.
“I was noticing your word choices,” he said. “Like that one there. You used ‘ensnared’ instead of ‘caught.’”
“Uh-huh.”
He eased back. “I’ve often wondered that about authors. How do they decide when to use five-dollar words instead of five-cent ones? Is it to help readers build their vocabulary?”
Or to show off their own vocabulary?
He didn’t say that, but she heard it, and swallowed the snarky comeback.
Be nice.
Deep breath. “Sometimes a fancier word has a nuance the plain one doesn’t. Other times you’ve used the plain one twice already on that page, and you need a synonym to avoid echoes. In this case, it’s dialogue from a pompous ass. He’d use ‘ensnared.’”
“Makes sense.” Chris eased back. “Keep writing. I’ll just ask questions as you go.”
Daphne closed the laptop. “If you want to watch me work, how about I do this instead?” She walked to a drawer, opened it, and took out a sheaf of papers.
“Editing?” he asked. “I was actually pretty good at that in middle school. I loved commas. You can put them in wherever it looks good. Like art. Here, let me help—”
She hugged the papers to her chest and pulled a chair up to the kitchen island. “It’s not editing. It’s business work. You want to know more about being an author? This is one of the profession’s dirty little secrets.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “It’s not all sitting around making up stories. You’re running a small business.”
She laid out the pages.
Chris picked up one. “You paid five grand for website design? I’ve got a buddy whose nephew does them for a case of beer.”
She plucked the invoice from his hand. “We can discuss marketing later. Right now, I need to enter these expenses into my online ledger.”
He stepped up behind her and peered at the screen. “You know you can hire people for that, right? They do it, like, professionally.”
“You mean bookkeepers?”
“That’s the word. You’re making enough money that you should be offloading all the tasks that don’t require your personal attention so you can focus on the things only you can do, like writing. An accountant who also does bookkeeping could not only take this part off your hands but help with tax-saving opportunities.”
He cleared his throat. “Or so I’ve heard. From my accountant. I don’t do my own. There’s so many numbers. All that math.”
“I don’t mind math,” Daphne said.
“Really?” Another throat clearing. “I mean, sure, if that’s your thing. Unless you really love bookkeeping, though, you should consider hiring someone.”
She sighed. “I know. It’s just that all the details are up here.” She tapped her forehead. “What this receipt was for. Why I needed to buy that. I worry that I’d spend as much time explaining it as just doing it myself.”
“Not with a good bookkeeper. Once they have a handle on your cash flow and regular expenses, you don’t need to tell them specifics.” He pulled a receipt from the pile. “Two recent young adult novels. Someone might think these were just for reading, and not a legitimate expense, but a bookkeeper would understand that you’re conducting market research.”
He was actually dead-on, and here was the conundrum of Chris, the reason Daphne couldn’t dismiss him, the reason she’d found herself getting an emergency haircut and manicure yesterday.
She could say she was attracted to him only because he was, well, hot. She could even joke about this being her new prerogative as a successful single author. Guys in her position routinely showed up for events with a starry-eyed young thing who could barely spell “bestseller.” Therefore, she was entitled to lust after Chris.
Yet that had never been her thing. Never would be. If that was all Chris was, she could easily dismiss him as eye candy. Every now and then, though, she caught glimpses of something more. Of a guy who could carry on a deep conversation. Of a guy who was sweet and thoughtful and a little bit goofy.
Like now, when he’d picked up that receipt and known exactly why she bought the books. An insight that shouldn’t come from a guy who thought commas went wherever they looked good.
Show me more of that, she thought, and as soon as she did, another part of her whispered, And then what?
Oh, she had some answers for that. So many answers, most involving positions, and a few involving toys. But there were other answers, too, the meaningful ones that would slide in after the fun. Intense conversation, sharing ideas, comparing interests.
She wouldn’t be the superior bitch who declared there weren’t any intellectual depths to Chris. Even if there weren’t, it didn’t mean they couldn’t find common ground.
There was common ground. She thought he was hot… and he agreed.
Daphne choked back a laugh. For some people, that’d be enough, at least short term. But she’d never been that person.
She closed her laptop. “We should probably get to bed.”
The words came out before she could process them, proving it was definitely past talking time.
“Yeah, big day tomorrow,” Chris said.
And that was it. She’d accidentally lobbed a ball straight at him, and he hadn’t even lifted a hand to catch it. Guess that answered any questions. Not that she should be entertaining any.
“What time does the crew get in again?” he asked. “One?”
“The flight lands at one. They should be here by two.”
He nodded. “Okay, well, let me know what needs doing in the morning. Chores or whatever. I’m here to help.”
There was no bravado to those words. They weren’t Let me know if I can carry anything heavy for you, little missy. They didn’t sound like an empty and offhand suggestion, either. A genuine and very sweet offer of help, and it was like those glimpses of a smart and insightful guy. What the hell was she supposed to do with that?
Nothing. That’s what she was supposed to do with it. Be glad he seemed willing to help out, and just hope that interest didn’t fade once the vacuum cleaner came out.
“Good night, Chris,” she said.
He lifted a finger. “Zane. For the next two days, I only answer to Zane.”
She smiled. “Fair point. Good night, Zane.”
“Good night, D.”
Daphne couldn’t sleep. She tried to tell herself it was because she was in her damned guest room, but that was just grumbling. Everything in her environment was fine. Comfy bed. Perfect temperature. Complete darkness courtesy of the blackout blinds. Complete silence from living in the middle of nowhere. Tika lay beside her, radiating comfort and security.
The problem was her writer’s brain. She’d been halfway through a new scene when Chris decided he wanted to watch her write. Now, every time her brain started drifting, it replayed that unfinished scene, and with each iteration, it blossomed a little more. At first, it was only a mental outline—Theo on patrol when she spotted what turned out to be a fox… which started lurching her way, and she realized it wasn’t rabies, but something much worse: the first infected animal.
While Daphne had finished the first draft of the sequel to Edge, it needed something more, and this was her main revision. Was it weird to be excited about your own ideas? Maybe, but she’d been jonesing to write this since she had the epiphany a few days ago.
Daphne tossed and turned enough that ever-patient Tika started to grumble. When the poor dog finally decided she’d rather sleep on the floor, Daphne gave up, pulled on track shorts and an oversize tee, and tiptoed upstairs, wincing as Tika’s nails clicked behind her.
At the top of the stairs, Daphne glanced around the corner toward the main bedroom. The door was closed. With an exhale of relief, she ducked into the kitchen and warmed milk in the microwave, being careful to hit Stop before it dinged. Then she made hot cocoa and took it to her writing spot.
She’d left the scene with Theo heading into the woods, accompanied only by her dog, Mochi. But as Daphne sat there, facing the huge window, she saw the deck beyond, and Chris’s image from earlier materialized, conjured by her treacherous imagination.
You said you wanted to write the Theo scene, and instead you’re giving me this? Really?
It was like when Tika pretended she needed to go potty and really just wanted to con Daphne into an extra walk.
Focus.
Theo was stepping into the forest…
A door opens behind me, the slow creak of it barely audible even in the silence. I freeze, breath held, as I peer over my shoulder into the settlement. The sound comes from the cabin where Atticus is staying. If he sees me, he’ll give me hell for going out alone after dark.
I slide into the shadows and lower my hand to Mochi’s head, asking her to be quiet. Atticus steps out. He’s shirtless, his muscled—
Ack! That was not the story. Reverse!
Daphne cut that and tried again.
I slide into the forest. Branches sigh in the breeze, and I inhale the sharp tang of pine. I take another step. The lake stretches out before me, shimmering in the moonlight. Something ripples twenty feet from shore. Then a familiar head of dark-blond hair breaks the surface. Atticus. As I duck behind a tree, he walks from the lake, water running off his muscled shoulders and his chest, glistening—
Daphne slapped shut her laptop. She sat there, her head back, eyes shut. At a click, she glanced left and, for a moment, she thought she was writing again, this time penning a scene of Chris coming out of her bedroom, his dark-blond hair sleep-tousled, his chiseled face cast in half shadow, his muscled shoulders appearing over the back of the sofa and then his chest, nothing but bare skin all the way down to… Okay, he was wearing sweatpants, but they rode low, down on his hips, the muscles there riveting her gaze as she stared.
Now that was a sexy gluteus medius.
And that was also a phrase she never expected to use in her life.
Daphne realized she wasn’t conjuring Chris in her literary mind. He was actually out of the bedroom. She started opening her mouth, and then realized something else—if she was seeing his hip—and that very sexy stretch of muscle—he was angled to the side, which meant he wasn’t coming her way.
Chris tiptoed to the stairwell and peered down. Making sure he wouldn’t be disturbing her, just as she’d checked to be sure his door was closed. He paused there, head tilting as if straining to listen.
God, the guy was gorgeous, cast in shadowy moonlight, half naked, his cheeks dark with beard shadow. The sexiest thing, though, wasn’t that stubbled jawline or those perfect biceps or even that oh-so-tempting strip of bare hip. It was the way he paused, listening, considerate of the fact that he might wake her. Once he was sure he hadn’t, he tiptoed with such care that she had to smile. To withstand northern winters, the house was solidly built, and that included floors so thick she wouldn’t hear him from below unless he tap-danced.
He tiptoed to the door leading to the deck. For a moment, he stood there, hand on the knob. Then, with another glance back toward the stairs, he eased open the door. He was halfway out when he gave a start and looked down.
“Hey, Tika,” he whispered, and Daphne realized the dog had slipped from her side. “Couldn’t sleep either? Or keeping an eye on the dude stealing your person’s bed?”
His voice was different. Not the timbre, but the tone, wry and soft. From sleeping, she presumed. He wasn’t fully awake yet, not fully himself yet.
“I’m just stepping out,” he whispered to the dog. “Please don’t eat me. Also, please don’t bar the door and leave me out there. It’s kinda chilly.”
Daphne bit her cheek to keep from laughing. He eased the patio door open a little more, his gaze on Tika. Daphne tensed, ready to interfere if Tika objected to Chris going out, but soon he was on the deck.
“Coming with me, are you?” he whispered as he reached a tentative hand down. A skritching, as if he was petting Tika’s coarse ruff. “Now I’m allowed to pet you? Whew. Unless it’s a trick. Getting me to step all the way out so you can slam the door shut behind me.” A soft laugh. “I’m onto your plot, pup. You go out first.”
He waved a hand, and Tika went outside. Then he followed, leaving the door cracked open before he moved into the full-length window in front of her. He was barefoot and shirtless, his sweatpants baggy until he leaned his forearms onto the railing and gave her the perfect view of a perfect ass.
Seriously, Daphne? You’re going to sit in the dark and drool over your unsuspecting guest?
She should say something. She really should. And she would… soon.
Chris lowered his hand to Tika’s head, and the dog didn’t just accept the petting, she leaned into him. Chris grinned in such unabashed delight that Daphne’s heart skipped.
Who are you, Chris Ainsworth? Who are you really?
She sat there, watching him as he gazed out at the lake and petted Tika. When the dog glanced Daphne’s way, her heart stopped. Chris was going to turn around and catch her creeping on him.
He didn’t, but the thought was enough for her to rise from the sofa. She set down her laptop, walked to the door, and pushed it farther open.
“Hey,” she said softly.
He looked over and winced. “Oh geez, sorry, I didn’t want to wake you.”
Did he say “Oh geez”? His expression was so unguarded and genuinely contrite that her heart fluttered.
“No,” she began. She was about to say she’d come up for a glass of water and spotted him outside, but that might still imply the noise had woken her. “I, uh, I was…” She stepped out and pointed through the window to her laptop on the reclining end of the sofa. “I was there.”
He smiled. “And I was blocking your view.”
Not exactly.
“No, no. I just didn’t want you to turn around and see me sitting in the dark, like some kind of creeper.”
He laughed, and it wasn’t the laugh she’d heard before from him, always somewhere between forced and self-aware, as if he were, well, an actor playing a role. This was a real one, as he relaxed against the railing and patted Tika.
“Stealing my dog, huh?” she said.
He tensed. “Your dog, your author’s role, your bedroom.”
“No, no.” She fluttered a hand. “I’m kidding about Tika, and the rest was my choice.”
“Still…” He glanced inside. “There’s no reason I should kick you out of your bed. The film crew isn’t staying here. We can stage it before they arrive. You’ll sleep better in your own bed.”
In her own bed… where he’d been sleeping. A bed that would still be warm from him, still smell of him.
She swallowed hard and tried for a breezy tone. “No, Chris. Seriously. It wasn’t the guest room that drove me up here. I was obsessing over a scene, and it’s done now.” Liar. “I’ll just finish my cocoa and head back down.”
“Hot chocolate?” He perked up, and it was so adorable she had to smile.
“Would you like some?”
He hesitated, and then said, “No, it’s late. I’m fine.”
She opened the deck door. “I’m getting you a cocoa. Whether you drink it or not is up to you.”
While she heated the milk, he grabbed a shirt from his room.
“Little chilly out there?” she asked as he put it on.
A self-deprecating laugh. “Yeah. It’s warmer than I expected, though. Being the north and all.” His face screwed up. “That sounded like I thought there’d be snow in June.”
“Oh, people expect snow year-round. They arrive at the airport with winter coats in July. While it’s never hot enough to need air-conditioning, I will be hauling out the fans soon.”
She handed him his cocoa. He went back onto the deck and held the door for her, which she took as an invitation to join him.
She stepped out. He moved to the railing and gazed up at the sky.
“I was hoping for the northern lights,” he said.
“Uh…”
He glanced over, his smile wry. “Wrong weather, I’m guessing.”
“Wrong season. It’s not impossible to get them in early summer. They’re actually there when the solar wind activity is strong, but it rarely gets dark enough to see them at this time of year.”
“Solar wind activity?”
She smiled. “I’ll spare you the science.”
“No, I should know it, in case I’m asked, as Zane.”
As she explained, she could see his brain whirring.
“That’s… a lot,” he said when she finished. “I think I’ll stick with ‘solar wind activity.’”
“Good call.” She leaned on the railing. “I like the legends better. Not surprising, being a writer. The local indigenous are—”
“—the Kwanlin Dün First Nation tribe,” he cut in. “I memorized that. It’s important.”
She smiled. “It is. This is their land. Now, I don’t know the Kwanlin Dün tradition regarding the northern lights, but the Tlingit one warns against looking up at the lights because they’re spirits trying to lure people away. Then there’s lore that says the lights are the spirits of stillborn children.”
“Oh,” he said, inhaling sharply. “That’s… Wow.”
He leaned on the railing beside her and sipped his cocoa. She did the same, gazing out at the moonlit lake as they enjoyed the night in silence.