Chapter 14
Flings of the past and faulty Excel sheets.
Neither gives a crap that you just got a ship name.
Emma sat curled up on the hotel bed, phone in hand. Her stage outfit lay draped over the back of a chair, traded for the Ravenclaw pajama pants Leah had mocked her about and a soft, worn T-shirt. Her thumb kept scrolling.
Her and Darren. Over and over again.
There was no sign of the hype slowing—if anything, it was accelerating. Reaction videos had started making it into the feed, with ear-splitting screams when Darren made his reveal. Early fan art. Even links to fanfiction, which was tempting, but . . . nope, she wasn’t going there.
Maybe later.
Best to bookmark a few just in case.
It was addictive. She realized she was grinning stupidly only when her cheeks were starting to ache.
Until one post sliced through her haze.
Don’t know why everyone is losing their shizz over an obv PR stunt. Cole’s into tiny brunettes, not sturdy blondes. Alana Kelley, anyone?
The post landed like a slap.
She shifted, trying to brush it off. That was the internet for you. Of course, not every post would be supportive and gushing—even reels with people saving tiny abandoned kittens somehow always managed to rub someone wrong.
A writer caught making starry eyes at an actor would hardly be an exception from the Internet Rule of Balance: People doth always find a way to violently disagree.
Yet, this wasn’t just someone’s opinion. This was . . . fact? Some kind of concrete observation at least. And the name Alana Kelley did ring a bell.
She clicked into the thread with the same instinct as when touching a sore bruise.
As if to prove her theory about internet disagreement, a few comments instantly yelled in all caps to stop ruining their Colehart happy place. But they were drowned out in agreement with the original post, concluding that Emma couldn’t possibly be Darren’s type, given his dating track record.
Several more women were mentioned—one post laid out his full romantic timeline with almost scientific precision—but Alana Kelley dominated the thread. It was also the only name Emma could fully place.
She’d costarred with Darren in one of his early movies, just before Sebastian Vale turned him into a fantasy genre icon. Emma had watched the film a few years back—a mostly forgettable rom-com, saved only by Darren’s face and a steamy scene in a train coupe.
Before she knew it, her fingers typed in Darren Cole Alana Kelley in the search bar.
She instantly regretted it.
Page after page of paparazzi shots flooded her screen.
Sunny vacations.
Takeout coffee on a snowy street.
Caught kissing at the gym.
Most photos featured him in sunglasses, her in tight-fitting outfits, both of them grinning like they’d been plucked straight from a perfume commercial.
Alana was . . . stunning. Dark hair. Heart-shaped face. Petite, delicate body. The kind of slender arms Emma had always been a little jealous of.
Viking descendants, her mom had told her in her teens, when she complained about her broad shoulders. And of course, the classic: you should be happy you’re strong.
She’d grown confident enough about her body that she didn’t much care that someone online called her sturdy. Still, it was hard not to notice the difference between her own naturally athletic build and Alana’s feminine, graceful frame.
Emma clicked through a few articles. They’d been everyone’s favorite couple, apparently. Until they weren’t. The latter headlines were louder. Messier. Speculation dressed as fact. Rumors of fights, of jealousy, of someone cheating, though the stories never agreed on who.
Since she’d apparently lost all sense of self-preservation, she googled the other women, too. All were dark-haired and slight. Mostly actresses, a few models.
There was far less coverage of the other rumored relationships. Mostly paparazzi shots, Darren flipping off the photographer in a few. He’d clearly gone more private after Alana.
Emma set the phone down on the comforter, the excited thrill in her body fading.
The very reason she indulged in celebrity or character crushes was that they were safe. But Darren Cole, in the flesh? Looking at her, talking with her—touching her . . .
Less safe. Like, the diametric opposite of safe.
Darren had the kind of charisma that could make a brick wall blush. Replace her with the ficus she’d hidden behind yesterday, and the chemistry would probably have been just as electric.
Any straight woman with a pulse would be drawn to him, but to think it was mutual? Delusional. And the Internet hysteria, well, that was just the Coleheads and the Lucen fans cross-pollinating into one massive frenzy.
An image of Darren beaming at a dark-haired model still glowed on her phone. Emma closed the tab. She was a grown woman, for god’s sake. Not a daydreaming fangirl. If he’d put in a little extra charm, there was probably a reason for it—maybe something to do with the casting.
She laid it out in her head, forcing all feelings aside to keep herself rational.
His onstage coup could have been a quickly planned stunt. Max seemed like the type who’d have zero qualms, sly enough beneath that boisterous surface to come up with something like that.
Well, that made more sense. She already knew he’d read the book. He must have heard about the Netflix deal. And Lucen was a perfect fit for him. Because of reasons that were . . . purely coincidental.
Emma considered it, pushing down the small twist in her gut. This was a good thing. Darren was her dream casting. And by sheer coincidence, they’d happened to initiate a professional relationship. Who cared that he dated women like Alana Kelley? This was work.
She was good at work.
Her phone buzzed sharply against the bed.
As if reading her mind all the way from Minneapolis, a text from Jennifer flashed on her screen—her most senior employee, the one she’d left in charge.
Hey boss, know you’re busy but board pre-read goes out before lunch, could you just verify? Thx! J
Emma stared at it. Leah’s voice from earlier still hovered in her mind: Don’t you dare touch your email.
She considered ignoring the text. But if something was wrong, and she’d skipped the chance to fix it? Adam trusted her to keep things solid. With the new financing round coming up . . .
With a sigh, she went to fetch her laptop, impatiently chewing her thumb while the VPN connected.
She opened the slide deck. Scanned.
Froze.
Emma knew the profit forecast in her sleep, and this wasn’t it. Pulse surging, she opened the Excel file attached to Jennifer’s email.
Her breath hitched. Wrong template. All the numbers were wildly off, a whole alternate reality of financials—one where the company was somehow thriving. If this went out to the board and had to be walked back, it would tear their credibility to shreds.
Emma swore under her breath. The midday San Diego sun threw bright stripes across the carpet. Her lunch meet-up with Leah was closing in fast, which meant she had about fifteen minutes to save the company from impending doom.
It wasn’t exactly Catlyn-scale heroics, but it needed doing.
gig
Three phone calls, one heated Slack thread, and a thorough read-through later, Emma finally exhaled and confirmed everything to Jennifer.
She closed the laptop and pressed her palms over her eyes, trying to will the gears in her brain to slow down.
Her body wasn’t buying it—still firing on all cylinders.
The sharp turns from Comic-Con panelist to gushing fangirl to Darren’s dating history to corporate crisis management left her with emotional whiplash.
But there was no time to dwell on that, not unless she wanted to go to lunch in her Ravenclaw jammies. Which, granted, she could probably get away with during Comic-Con.
In the elevator down to the lobby, she caught her reflection in the mirrored walls.
Her hair was still a little wild despite the few brush strokes she’d made time for, her cheeks faintly flushed from the adrenaline spike.
She’d thrown on a comfy pair of jeans and the same navy blouse from before, though it was a little rumpled.
The woman in the mirror looked—if she was being generous—exactly like someone who had swapped lives three times before lunch.
She smoothed her hair with limited success. Oh well. It was only lunch with Leah.
The elevator doors slid open, and Emma immediately spotted an aggressively pink blazer near the entrance.
Leah’s eyes sharpened the second Emma reached her.
“You worked. I can smell it on you.”
“There was a literal, board-adjacent emergency. Trust me, you don’t want to know.”
“You’re absolutely right, I don’t.” Leah tilted her head toward the doors, and Emma followed her out in the sunlight.
“So, there’s been a slight change of plans,” Leah said as they turned down the street, weaving past a trio of Ghostbusters. “I’ve rescheduled our lunch.”
Emma frowned. “Rescheduled?”
“Upgraded technically. Because you and Darren Cole seem to be the secret recipe to some kind of hot sauce the world didn’t even know it craved. And because the casting for Lucen is still very much open, so this isn’t just about watching you spontaneously combust—though I do enjoy that part too.”
Emma stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk. “Wait. What are you saying?”
Leah turned, all bright innocence. “You’re meeting him for lunch.”
Emma’s mouth fell open. “What the actual hell, Leah? My nervous system already feels like Chernobyl today. I can’t do that.”
By some miracle, she had gotten through the panel. Talked in coherent sentences, pulled a few laughs, not fainted in front of Darren Cole. Mission damn well accomplished. She was nowhere near ready to launch straight into another round with him, even if it was just the two of them this time.
Especially then.
“Too late.” Leah handed her a folded napkin with an address scribbled on it. “Chambre séparée. Quirky little place in the Gaslamp. He chose it himself.” She gave an innocent shrug. “Just a casual lunch.”
“Casual . . . are you kidding me? Seriously, Leah. No.”
Leah’s expression softened. She tucked an escaping lock of hair away from Emma’s face. “He’s already on his way, sweetheart.”
Emma stared at the napkin, incredulous.
Then at Leah.
Then back at the napkin.
If she was trying to get over her fangirl crush, this was probably the worst idea in the world. Like handing an alcoholic the keys to a bar and telling them to go nuts.
She ran a hand through her hair, trying to process the thought. What if he actually was interested in the role? The possibility of Darren Cole playing Lucen—wouldn’t she have sold her future firstborn for a chance at that a few days ago?
And now here it was. Right in front of her.
Leah was still watching her, calm and patient, as if simply waiting for the inevitable.
“Fine,” Emma said, making sure there was bite in her tone, just for good measure. “I’ll do it. What’s the name on the reservation?”
Leah’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, from what I understand about this place, that won’t be necessary.”