Chapter Ten
After lunch, the mist rolled back in, and Sofia decided that was the perfect time to bring out the guns. Even Chris knew fog meant it was the worst possible time for any shooting, but he had to admit they did get good footage. Also, the mist meant no one expected him to actually fire the gun.
Daphne showed him how to hold it, and the crew got a few moody shots of him aiming at something in the fog. It was pure kitsch, but if it sold books for Daphne, he’d wade knee-deep in the icy water and pretend to take shots at nonexistent waterfowl.
Then the filming was done, and it was time for the crew to leave, right?
Ha! Don’t be silly. Why would you leave this gorgeous piece of Canadian scenery for a tiny motel room, when that piece of scenery came with a roaring propane fire to ward off the chill, free Wi-Fi to monitor stats on your viral video, and a selection of ice-cold beers and coolers.
Personally, Chris wouldn’t have brought out the beer and coolers. Or the charcuterie board with artisanal cheese and wild-game salami. But, in Daphne’s defense, it wasn’t as if she offered that while the crew was making moves to leave. They were clearly planning to hang out here until their flight, and so she had to play good hostess. He didenjoy his beer and plate of goodies; he’d just have enjoyed them more without three-quarters of the company.
It was Daphne who finally did the Oh, would you look at the time? bit. As the crew was packing away their equipment, something caught Daphne’s ear, her attention yanked toward the driveway.
“Everything okay?” he murmured.
She hesitated. Then she said, “Can you help them pack?”
He grinned. “Happily.”
“I’ll be right back.”
It’d been Tika who’d heard someone arriving. There was no crunch of gravel, which meant the visitor came on foot. The lack of a growl or warning bark—just a curious lift of Tika’s head—meant it was someone she knew.
Daphne hurried down the steps and around the side of the house in time to see Robbie strolling along the driveway. Tika spotted his canine companion and took off.
Daphne broke into a jog, running up the driveway to cut Robbie off before he got any closer to the house.
“Well, someone’s happy to see me.” He waggled his brows. “Getting tired of your little friend already?”
Did he mean Tika?
He waved toward the crew’s truck. “Least he got himself a proper rental.”
Chris was her little friend? She could have laughed. He outsized Robbie by about two inches in height and twenty pounds in muscle.
She settled for shaking her head. “We took his rental back.” She nodded at the truck. “That’s business clients.”
His brows rose. It seemed to take a while for the wheels to turn. “Oh, right, you draw houses.”
“I’m an architect,” she said.
Play nice. Don’t give him any reason to be suspicious. Politely send him on his way because if the crew comes out here, you’re screwed.
At the thought, her heartbeat picked up, and she took two calming breaths while she pretended to watch the dogs play.
“Can I talk to you later?” she said. “I just need to finish up—”
“Are they hiring you to draw them a house?” He peered at the truck. “Where did they find land? Is it a teardown?” He looked at her. “You’d tell me if there was land for sale around here, right?”
“It’s not for my job, Robbie. It’s for my friend’s.”
“Your friend is helping someone build a house?”
“No. He’s up here on business, and since he’s staying with me, I offered to host his meeting—”
“Bye, Dana!” a voice called, and Daphne looked to see Sofia and the crew walking toward their truck with Chris right behind them.
The neighbor. That was who Daphne had heard and run out to meet. What’s-his-name, who very clearly wanted to get more neighborly. Asshole.
Okay, that didn’t make him an asshole, but Chris still got those asshole vibes, and not because he’d insulted Chris on their first meeting.
Okay, not entirely because of that.
Was there something going on between Daphne and neighbor-dude? Did she like assholes?
He almost laughed at the thought. Uh, no, by the time he’d left their first meeting he’d known that Daphne McFadden definitely did not go for assholes. But presumably neighbor-dude wouldn’t be an asshole to her.
Chris watched them as he escorted the crew to their truck. Daphne and neighbor-dude huddle-talked while their dogs played together.
The guy was decent looking. Okay, he was good-looking. And living out here meant he was outdoorsy. Was this Daphne’s inspiration for Zane? Neighbor-dude was a lot less polished than Zane, but that sophistication had been Chris’s take on the role. He got the feeling “polished” wasn’t Daphne’s type, any more than “asshole.”
Hey, Chris could be a little rough around the edges if he wanted. He could be so damned unpolished, he’d walk through the house with his shoes on and not even ask whether it was okay.
Take that, neighbor-dude.
His inner voice sighed. Deeply.
Fine. That was more rude than “rough around the edges.” Daphne wouldn’t like rude. Just a little more real. Like her. Daphne wasn’t Zane. She wasn’t fake. She didn’t shop for designer flannel and probably laughed at guys who did.
He looked down at his two-hundred-dollar flannel shirt.
Sofia called to Daphne, saying goodbye. When she used the Dana name, Chris tensed, but he could see Daphne saying something, no doubt laughing it off as a mistake.
“Should I go say goodbye?” Sofia said. “She was such a great hostess.”
“Mmm, better not. That’s a neighbor, and he’s a bit of an ass. You might want to flee while you still can.”
Before he comes over here and realizes what’s going on.
Chris hadn’t even thought of that.
Because you were too busy being jealous to realize Daphne is holding him off before he blows her cover?
And now the neighbor was heading their way while Daphne jogged along, trying to intercept him.
Shit!
Chris put out his hand to help Sofia into the truck, which was the gentlemanly thing to do and not at all to hurry along her departure.
“Hey!” neighbor-dude called. “You guys have a lead on some land for sale here?”
Sofia’s face scrunched as she twisted in her seat. “What did he say?”
“He’s looking for a building lot,” Chris said. “They’re hard to come by out here. I swear he asks everybody.” He tapped his temple. “Too long in the woods.”
Sofia nodded knowingly, and he shut her door before turning to block neighbor-dude.
“Hey, Reggie,” he said.
The man’s mouth tightened. “It’s Robbie.”
Chris tried to steer him away from the truck, but Robbie dug in his heels. Then the window rolled down.
“If you’re looking for a building lot,” Sofia called, “I saw a notice at our hotel for a land lottery.”
“Yeah, I’m not made of millions,” Robbie grumbled. “‘Lottery’ doesn’t mean ‘free.’”
Daphne grabbed Robbie’s arm, saying, “Whoa! Don’t get run over.” The truck hadn’t moved yet, but she used the excuse to direct him off to the side as she waved goodbye to the departing crew.
“It’s nice of you to stop by, Robbie,” she said as the truck rolled down the drive. “I’m sure I’ll see you around—”
“I need to borrow your hatchet. Handle broke on mine.”
She hesitated, and something like panic crossed her face before she said, “Uh, sure. It’s in the shed. Hanging on the left.”
As Robbie sauntered off, Chris inched closer to Daphne.
“Well, there goes that hatchet,” she muttered.
Chris frowned.
“Once he has it, I’ll never see it again,” she said.
“Then tell him no.”
She gave him a look. “I live alone in the middle of nowhere. I’m not saying no to a guy like that.”
Chris’s whole body tensed. “He’s threatened you?”
“No, no. It’s just…” She shrugged. “He wants a permanent place to live, and guys like that think the world owes it to them. If the world won’t deliver, well, there’s a lonely spinster down the road with a sweet setup.”
Chris rocked forward, fists clenching, gaze locked on the shed door.
Daphne put a hand on his arm. “I’m fine.”
“If he’s harassing you—”
“It’s not like that. I’m sure he doesn’t realize I feel harassed.”
“Then he needs to pull his head out of his ass and put himself in your shoes.”
She smiled at him. “Thank you. But people like that are functionally incapable of putting themselves in anyone’s shoes.”
“Then they should read a damn book to get some practice.”
The way she looked at him then, her eyes on his, her lips slightly parted, reminding him of that moment in the shed, when she’d leaned toward him, just before they kissed.
Which gave him an excellent idea.
He moved closer and lowered his voice. “Earlier, you helped me with Sofia. If you want help with Robbie…”
She looked at Chris. Then her lips curved in the most amazing smile. “Are you offering to be my fake boyfriend again, Chris Stanton?”
“I am.”
“Would it involve kissing?”
He hesitated. His brain warned that maybe he’d misinterpreted last time, and she hadn’t meant to kiss him, and now she was making sure that wouldn’t happen again.
But that smile said something else, so he shut off his brain, followed his gut, and smiled. “It could.”
“Good, because there’s no fake dating without kissing.” She took hold of the front of his shirt and pulled him to her, and before he fully registered what was happening, Daphne was kissing him.
With the first kiss, he’d been restrained. Putting his best effort forward to showcase his talent while being hyperaware that it was supposed to be for show, so he couldn’t get carried away.
This time…?
Well, this time, there was no doubt she’d started it, and he could just follow her lead.
It was a valid plan. Very logical. Very chartered-accountant Chris. Except chartered-accountant Chris was now kissing a woman who set his brain—and every other body part—on fire.
Kicking aside restraint, he kissed Daphne, his mouth opening to hers, his body pressed to hers, until he could feel her thighs against his, her breasts against his chest, her arms around his neck, his hands on her ass.
How did his hands get there? He wasn’t quite sure. He only knew that she was pressing into him, letting out a soft little moan of pleasure as he cupped her ass and pulled her against him.
He hefted her legs around his hips, his hands wedged between her ass and the tree.
Tree? Where did that come from?
He shifted position, one eye peeking to be absolutely certain she was okay with this. That was when he saw someone standing there.
Who the hell—?
Oh, right, Robbie. The actual reason Chris was making out with Daphne.
Robbie stood there, arms crossed, glaring. Then he turned on his heel and stomped off… and Chris went back to kissing Daphne.
Just kissing. Nothing more.
Umm, her legs are around your hips, and you’re grinding—
Shut up.
There’s a word for that. You’re a writer now, buddy. You should know it.
Shut. Up.
Maybe it was more than a kiss, but he still held back from going further because this was not an opportunity he should exploit. Unless she wanted it exploited.
“Oh!” She snapped from the kiss so fast her head hit the tree.
He jumped back… and dropped her. Literally dropped her two feet onto the ground. “Shit!”
He scrambled to help her up, but she was already twisting to rise, her elbow catching him in the nose. She jerked back, blurting apologies, and his leg got caught around hers, both of them tumbling to the ground. Then his nose started to bleed, because of course it did.
Daphne stared in horror before yanking off her sweater and pressing it to his nose even as he protested. They sat there on the ground, catching their breath.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“My fault,” he said through the sweater. “I dropped you.”
“I mean—yes, I’m sorry about your nose—but I’m sorry about…” She ducked his gaze. “I got carried away with the kiss.”
“Mmm, pretty sure that was me.”
She shook her head. “I backed into the tree and then put my legs around…” She trailed off, cheeks going bright red.
“Uh, no. The tree was me. The legs were me. Or if not completely me, then sixty percent me. I got carried away.”
She seemed ready to argue. Then she stopped. “Where’s Robbie?”
Chris frowned and looked around, hoping he was selling the look of confusion.
“Did he leave?” Daphne asked.
“I guess so. Huh. Never noticed.”
She laughed and shook her head. “I didn’t notice, either. Definitely carried away. I’ll blame nerves from the shoot. Hey, it’s better than stress-puking, huh?” She made a face. “Did I actually say that? So smooth.”
“Making out is better than stress-puking. So anytime I’m around and you need to work off a little stress…” Chris waggled his brows, making her laugh. Then he said, “I’m teasing. If you’re stressed, I’ll distract you with bad jokes and questions about bear safety.”
She looked at him and then said, “You’re really sweet, you know that?” She made a face. “Is that okay? Calling you sweet? I’d say ‘nice,’ but that can be a loaded word.”
Chris faked a whine. “‘Nice guys finish last. Women say they want nice guys, so why can’t I get a date?’ Yeah, not being an asshole doesn’t make you nice. It’s a scale, not a Boolean dichotomy.”
She smiled over at him. “Well, you actually are nice, and to me, that is definitely a compliment.”
“Then I’ll take it as one. Thank you.”
Daphne nodded, and the nod just kept going, as if she wasn’t sure what to do. She glanced to the side, where Tika lay patiently.
Say something, buddy.
Like what?
Something. Anything. Yeah, that kiss didn’t end quite as smoothly as you’d have liked, but there’s still an opening. She just complimented you.She also admitted she was as into that kiss as you were. Nudge that door. See where it leads.
“I, uh…” he began.
Come on. Say something, damn it.
“My nose seems to have stopped bleeding.”
Seriously? That’s what you’re going with?
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
He smiled. “It does that. Sneeze too hard, and I’m spraying blood everywhere.”
You’re beyond help, you know that?
Daphne laughed. “It’s still better than stress-puking.”
“Oh, I don’t know. For prom, I finally got up the nerve to ask a girl I really liked. She said yes. I showed up at her door, and she opened it too fast, and it clipped me in the nose. I got blood all over her dress.”
I give up.
Daphne winced. “Ouch.”
“Right. So I guess, what I’m trying to say is…”
I cannot wait to hear where this is going.
He wasn’t sure where he was going.
Shocker.
But he could see an opening there, something about girls—women—he liked and bloody noses.
No, stop.
A segue. Something sweet and funny and—
“Tell me she just changed her dress,” Daphne said. “Or used a corsage to cover up the stain. Or that she went with it, blood and all, a funny story to tell.”
He shook his head. “She freaked out. She said she’d only agreed to go out with me because the guy she really liked asked someone else, and she wanted to make him jealous, and how could she do that with blood on her dress.”
“I hate her.”
There! The door is open. Jump. Fast. Jump now.
Chris did jump… because the moment he went to say something, his phone buzzed.
He would have ignored the interruption. But after their fall, the phone was halfway out of his pocket, and the vibration sent it tumbling out.
He still intended to ignore it. But Daphne reached to pick his phone up for him, and as she did, she froze.
“Is that our Lawrence?”
Our Lawrence?
Shit. Daphne’s agent.
Nia had set up a fake number for Zane, which forwarded texts to Daphne and calls to Chris. First, though, calls diverted through a voicemail service that asked the caller to leave a message and press 1 only if it was urgent.
Lawrence knew Zane hated talking by phone, so he emailed. Now Lawrence was calling… after pressing 1 for urgent. Daphne stared down at his phone, panic on her face.
“Do I…?” Chris began.
“Yes!”
She shoved the phone at him, and he hit Talk.
“Zane Remington speaking,” he said.
“Hey, Zane, it’s Lawrence. I hate to call but you haven’t answered my email, and it really is urgent.”
Email? That would go to Daphne. He glanced at her, but she couldn’t hear Lawrence, and he wasn’t sure about putting him on speaker.
“Ah,” Chris said. “No, I haven’t been checking my mail. The film crew kept me very busy.”
Daphne’s wince told him she hadn’t been checking it.
“Let me go read it,” Chris said. “I’ll get back to you—”
“It’s about the tour.”
“All right. I’ll read—”
“It starts next week.”
“What?” Now Chris was the one wincing because that was not a Zane exclamation. He cleared his throat. “Next week, you say? I was told it would be fall. August, at the absolute earliest. I know it takes time to set these up with the bookstores.”
“Well, they’re making it happen. Strike while the iron’s hot, and it’s scorching right now. I just got a text about a video? Something about a grizzly bear?”
“Ah, yes. That.”
“That is going viral, and after the tour was arranged.”
Chris glanced over to see Daphne’s total panic. She’d parsed out enough from his side of the conversation to understand what was happening.
Chris said, “Let me have a look at your email and—”
“I can give you the details. We really need to get moving on this.”
“I understand. However, this isn’t a good time to talk. I have”—his gaze touched on Daphne’s sweater, balled up on his lap—“a nosebleed.” A Zane chuckle. “Yes, terribly embarrassing, but I bopped my nose, and there is blood. I really do need to call you back.”
“Ten minutes?”
“Fifteen.”
“Fine.”
Daphne forwarded Lawrence’s email to Chris. Then they set up a timer on the kitchen table and read it over.
Eight minutes remaining.
There was a tour. Not this fall, but starting next week in Los Angeles. Launching at the LA Times Festival of Books. Wasn’t that usually in April? May? Not this year, apparently. This was why they were scrambling to arrange a last-minute tour. Because they’d scored a vacated seat on a panel at one of the world’s most prestigious book festivals.
She couldn’t say no to that. Yes, being last minute, excuses were possible. That’s why Lawrence was so eager to talk. He was making sure Zane was free.
She could come up with an excuse, and that would be just fine… if she wanted to piss off the LAT Book Fest and the stores that had been ready to host Zane. Not to mention upsetting her publicist and publisher.
Zane wouldn’t care. If a last-minute tour was inconvenient, he’d cancel. But Zane wasn’t actually the author of At the Edge of the World. If he were, he wouldn’t give a damn how well it sold because he was the kind of author who only cared about reviews and awards. Not gross material concerns like sales. If his publisher was upset about him refusing a tour? Well, that’s what happens to real artists, isn’t it? They get steamrolled by the man and his petty concerns.
In that regard, Daphne was the polar opposite of Zane, and the sort of writer he’d turn his nose up at. Such a hack, always thinking about money. Except regular writers—who did not have trust funds or successful spouses—needed to think about money, and authors like Daphne worried about damaging their careers because they wanted to have a career.
Maybe it’d be different as Zane. Maybe the creative-genius schtick would work. Maybe no one really expected a man to make himself available at the last minute, scrambling to accommodate everyone else’s plans.
And maybe no one expected her to make herself available at the last minute, either. She could be completely overreacting, letting herself fall prey to the horror stories about publishing, which she now knew to be grossly exaggerated, if not altogether false.
Would she take that chance, though? No. Turning down the tour wasn’t an option.
Unless she had to. Because there was a very important part of the equation she’d forgotten.
“Could you do it?” she said to Chris. “I didn’t even ask—”
“I can, but I’d like to ask you to do something, too.”
Her gaze slid to the timer. He turned it around so they weren’t watching the countdown.
“Come with me,” he said.
She blinked.
“Come on the tour. Please.” He leaned across the table. “I know it’s not your thing. I know this is why you hired me, and if you need me to do this alone, I will.” He met her gaze. “But I’d rather do it with you.”
She stopped, a refusal halfway to her lips. He could pull this off by himself. He wasn’t actually Chris Ainsworth, wannabe actor who’d never read the book. She trusted him to handle this.
But he wasn’t saying he needed her there.
He was asking her to be there.
I’d rather do it with you.
A tour with Chris. Just the two of them, and if he had any interest in a fling, that was when it would happen.
He smiled at her. “It’ll be fun. You know it will.”
She bit her lip.
“And you kinda want to.” He leaned in and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “You don’t want the limelight, but you’d like to meet your readers. See them. Listen to what they have to say about your book.”
“I…”
“You’ve given up something, D, by having me play the author of your book. You deserve to get the best parts of it back. Hearing—firsthand—how actual readers react to your story. Not interviewers. Not reporters. Not a thirty-year-old accountant. Actual teenagers who love your book.” He met her gaze. “Will you come with me?”
She nodded mutely, not daring to speak. Deep inside, there was still a girl who wasn’t sure he was serious, a girl who’d learned that when a popular boy asked her to go someplace—join him for lunch or a ball game—he probably wanted help with his homework.
Was that what Chris was doing? Pretending he wanted her company when he really just wanted her help?
But when she nodded, he smiled, and it was such a genuinely delighted smile that her doubts melted.
“Excellent,” he said. “Now let’s call Lawrence.”
“I can email—”
He lifted a hand. “Please allow the accountant to handle this.”
“Accountant?”
“Fifty percent accountant, fifty percent number one NYT bestselling author who definitely knows his own worth. First, can we stick with Daphne?”
“What?”
“Calling you Daphne instead of Dana. That got confusing, and I think you’ll be more comfortable with Daphne. You definitely can’t fly as Dana. As for hiding my own name, they know Zane is a pseudonym, so I’ll insist on buying my tickets for anything requiring identification. The hotel rooms can be in the publisher’s name.”
“They can do that?”
“I have clients give me receipts booked that way. If we need to show ID, I’ll ask you to do it.” His lips quirked. “As my assistant.” He looked more serious. “That’s what we’ll need to do. The assistant thing. The publisher could write off your expenses if you’re my assistant but not if you’re my partner.”
Did he mean otherwise they’d pretend to be a couple?
“We’ll go with that,” she said. “But they don’t need to pay my expenses. I can—”
“Let me handle it.”
He called Lawrence.
“I have read the email,” he said when Lawrence answered. “I am prepared to discuss details.”
“So you can do the tour?” Lawrence asked.
“Of course,” Chris said loftily. “People have gone to a great deal of trouble to arrange this. In the future, though, I must ask that I be on the ground floor of any such discussions. Clearing next week will not be easy. Yet I will do it in recognition of the efforts others have made.”
Which was exactly Daphne’s reasoning, but somehow Chris made it sound as if he were making a huge sacrifice for others, and Lawrence rewarded him accordingly, thanking him for being so accommodating and promising to speak to the publisher, who never should have gone this far without confirming Zane’s availability.
“Now, details,” Chris said. “First, I will be accompanied by my assistant, whose expenses will be covered.”
“You have an assistant?”
“Of course. This book is turning out to require the sort of administrative oversight I’m hardly in a position to provide. I’m a writer, not a secretary.” He shot Daphne an apologetic look, but she only smiled. She knew the difference between his Zane opinions and his Chris ones, and he didn’t need to clarify.
Chris continued, “Her expenses will be covered, and she will accompany me to all events and signings, where she will provide all necessary assistance.”
“Your publicist will be accompanying you.”
“Excellent. However, I still require Daphne. Now, I know I’m putting you on the spot with these requests, Lawrence, but I am quite willing to speak directly to the publisher about them. If that is the case, I would like someone from their accounting department on the call, so that we might discuss the profitability of this tour, which I presume they have not arranged to treat me to a mini-tour of the States.”
Lawrence chuckled. “Not exactly. Yes, it’s about selling books. The tour should keep you on the bestsellers lists, which will further prod sales. I suspect the store events will require a purchase to attend.”
“Then the publisher’s profit will allow Daphne to accompany me. I also require business-class seats on all flights of more than an hour. I’m over six feet tall. I cannot sit in economy.”
Daphne stared at him. That was never going to—
“I can’t guarantee it,” Lawrence said. “But I’ll definitely try.”
“Daphne also requires business class, being nearly six feet herself.”
Lawrence hesitated.
“If they wish to argue, remember that I want an accountant present. Two business-class seats for all flights over an hour. For flights under an hour, business-class seats on trains are preferred for ecological reasons. As for hotels, four stars only. Two rooms. Adjoining. High-speed internet. King-size beds.”
“That should be fine.”
“Good. I would also like a per diem. I don’t wish to fuss with saving and submitting receipts. If they say they cannot do that for tax purposes, I will—again—speak to someone in their accounting department. We will discuss the per diem, but they must remember that I am a very active man. I have a high metabolism.”
“Understood.”
“Excellent. Send me their responses—”
“Hold on.”
Daphne tensed. Lawrence was going to suggest Zane rein in his demands. Lawrence would do what he could but, really, Zane was overstepping.
Lawrence continued, “I’ll need you to be in LA a day early to meet with some people. We have film interest.”
“Film interest?”
“Film and television. We’ve had it for a while. But Lucy has been fending it off.”
“Lucy?” Chris looked at Daphne, who shrugged.
“Your film agent.”
She had a film agent?
Lawrence continued, “We were gambling on strong opening sales to bolster interest and maximize the playing field. I’ve whittled the list down to seven, and as long as you’re in LA…” He chuckled. “It is home to Hollywood, after all. The players are there, and if they’re serious about acquiring this property, they’ll agree to meet with you Friday before the festival.”
“That is…” Chris looked at Daphne, who was too thunderstruck to answer. “Acceptable,” he said. “Yes, I believe that will be acceptable.”