Chapter 22
Waves below, stars above, three little dots at her fingertips.
The boat swayed gently under Emma’s heels, the engines humming beneath the rise and fall of voices. String lights looped along the deck rail, their reflections rippling over the dark water. A cool breeze slipped through the sheer sleeves of her royal-blue dress.
She rested her arms on the railing, looking out into the night.
The harbor was already far behind them, gold and white glittering from the San Diego skyline.
In the distance, the Coronado Bridge stretched like a lit ribbon through the darkness.
Like a connection of pure light. It made her think of Catlyn and Lucen.
Near the bow, a jazz trio played a mellow tune—low brass, brushed cymbals. A perfect backdrop—elegant, romantic—if she’d had someone to share it with.
The polite smile she’d been wearing for most of the evening was starting to make her cheeks ache. She’d just endured a twenty-minute monologue from a literary agent on how AI would be the death of authorship and managed to escape only by interrupting him mid-sentence, pretending to be seasick.
She shifted her weight, restless. The only reason she had come was that Leah had waved an invitation in her face and said It’s a boat, Emma.
Boats are fun. Also, free champagne. And then convinced her to wear heels, which made every step across the swaying deck feel like a baby deer learning to walk.
At least accidentally grabbing people for balance was a good icebreaker. So far, she’d acquainted herself with two producers, a seasoned scriptwriter, and a semi-famous actress that way. But whoever she talked to, her gaze kept slipping past their shoulders, scanning the crowd behind them.
Darren wasn’t there.
Not that she’d expected him to be. San Diego must have been swarming with events during Comic-Con. He was probably somewhere less formal, maybe a secret club, or wherever the movie stars went to entertain themselves away from the mortals.
Even though she was certain by now that he wasn’t on the boat, her eyes kept sweeping the deck of their own accord. As if he’d been hiding in the engine room for most of the journey, waiting for the right moment to pop out and make a grand entrance.
“Champagne refill?” Leah appeared at her side, pressing a fresh glass into her hand. She was a true vision, wearing a white power jumpsuit that somehow managed to look both formal and like she could win a yacht race in it. One of her brows arched. “You’re looking for someone.”
“I’m not,” Emma said automatically.
Leah leaned in, lowering her voice like a CIA informant. “There are rumors of a private screening party tonight. Mostly A-listers. My guess? Whoever you’re not looking for is probably there.”
Emma pressed her lips together. “I was just deciding who to network with next.”
“Sure you were.” Leah flicked her hair back, copper catching the light. “Then, on a completely unrelated topic, you never told me how the casting talks went at lunch.”
It was true—she’d actually forgotten about that part. After the bookstore signing, the first thing Leah had done on the ride back was to turn toward Emma so fast her seatbelt locked and command, “Spill.”
So Emma did. She told her about the haunted elevator, escaping through the hatch (leaving out the part where Darren had to save her, and definitely the part about how it felt to be pressed against him), and about her blouse ripping so she had to borrow Darren’s shirt.
Leah had been less impressed than Emma had thought—probably because she’d have done the same thing, wearing heels—but she did mutter something about insurance premiums. Then they were back at the hotel, taking turns in the shower, before Emma could say much more about the actual lunch.
She shrugged, sipping her champagne. “I don’t know. He’s hard to read. He kind of dodged the subject when I brought it up.”
“Strange.” Leah folded her arms, glass dangling elegantly from her hand.
“You’d think he’d be all over it. Truth be told, his career has been dipping a bit in the last few years.
Lucen could be just the kind of part he needs to change the trajectory.
Something that could finally override his legacy as Sebastian Vale, instead of just another pale copy. ”
“Darren’s career isn’t in a slump,” Emma protested. “You should have heard the Hall H crowd during his panel. He drew more decibels than the rest of them put together. My eardrums are still not quite recovered.”
“He’s got a strong fan base,” Leah agreed. “But he hasn’t played a truly original, well-rounded character in ages. Darkreach has heavy promotional dollars behind it, but have you noticed it’s kind of a shitty show?”
Emma made a reluctant sound that wasn’t quite a no. For some reason, she felt an instinct to defend him. Then again, Darkreach was a pretty shitty show.
Leah’s eyes narrowed. “His move at the panel was so perfectly engineered to set up a casting hype. So why wouldn’t he want to talk about it? I wonder what game he’s playing.”
The casual words hit Emma like a sucker punch. As if it were obvious he was just playing an angle.
“Well, in other news,” Leah went on, “Kay is supposed to be here tonight, and I think I have a good opening after my tampon rescue yesterday.”
“That’s great, Leah.” Emma did her best to sound enthusiastic, still reeling from the Darren comment, now also sprinkled with a few stings of jealousy. This night was just getting better and better. Maybe she should just go ahead and get seasick, too.
Kay Bellamy, the Wonder Writer. Emma was suddenly reminded that she still owed Miranda a hefty number of pages. Which would have been fine, except they were still lacking that small detail of actual words.
Leah nodded. “Yeah. Might need someone to gush about how awesome I am. Be prepared to lay it on thick. I’ll bribe you.”
Emma tipped her glass. “Hey, for you, I’ll do interpretive dance if I have to. Just please don’t buy me any more designer heels I’ll feel obliged to wear.”
“No promises,” Leah said, already on the move. “I’ll whistle when I need you. Keep an ear out.”
Emma shook her head, turning her attention back to the water. The cool night air made her shiver, but she preferred to stay here rather than risk being dragged into another tedious conversation. Drinking alone felt slightly more acceptable when you were dressed up and on a boat.
She was mid-sip when her phone buzzed in her purse. She fished it up, the display showing a text from an unknown number.
Hi. Rode an elevator before and thought of you. What are you doing tonight?
A tiny spark flared under her ribs. She glanced around automatically, as if someone would be peeking over her shoulder.
Who is this? she typed. I have inside elevator jokes with lots of people.
She bit her lip, imagining that low, amused chuckle of his.
Sorry, how presumptuous of me. This is Darren Cole. We had lunch today, and then I saved your life?
A laugh slipped out before she could stop it.
He texted in full sentences—with punctuation, and words like presumptuous. That alone could have made her fall for him. Hell, she’d ghosted dates for using double exclamation marks.
Ah. Does ring a bell. How did you get my number? she typed.
The three little dots appeared again, teasing an answer.
A gentleman never tells. Let’s just say I know a person who knows a person.
A pause. Fine, I asked Sienna to ask Leah.
And then, You never answered my question.
I’m on a boat, Emma wrote. Have regrets. Leah lured me here with promises of free champagne, but it comes with a side of small talk and wearing heels. What are you doing?
Texting was, in Emma’s opinion, the best thing that ever happened to dating.
Flirting with someone—in writing. Away from the sweaty palms and awkward menu decisions, connecting at a safe distance through words that could be double-checked and polished.
Lovely. Too bad it was considered customary to follow up with a physical meeting sooner or later.
Except she didn’t feel that way with him, did she? Despite all the nerves, the tension, the sheer overwhelm of being near him—the longing to see him again tugged at her like a physical sensation. Aching even harder as she held this tiny thread of connection in her hands.
Penthouse screener party, he wrote. Smells like popcorn and self-importance. You’re the talk of the day here, by the way. Margot Robbie was just fangirling about our panel.
The corner of her mouth curved upward.
Tell her I said hi. With the whole near-death thing, I’d almost forgotten about the panel.
The three little dots winked at her.
I haven’t.
And the Internet sure hasn’t. Max keeps sending me weirder and weirder stuff. Apparently, there’s a huge subreddit with fanart of us as something called furries.
She let out another laugh, hiding it behind her glass. The breeze had picked up, but the cold didn’t bother her so much anymore. As she was trying to decide on the funniest way to answer, he started writing again.
I really enjoyed our time together today.
The text sat on her screen, glowing softly. She brushed her thumb over the words, as if she could absorb them straight into her skin.
No joke. No wink. Just . . . that. She hesitated.
Why did you stay for the reading?
Her heart stirred as she waited.
I wanted to hear you read your own words.
And maybe I had a hard time tearing my eyes away from you in my shirt.
She swallowed. The phone buzzed again.
I should probably let you get back to dazzling people, he wrote. And then: Near-death experiences aside, I had a wonderful time today.
Emma looked at the screen. A slow, cautious warmth unfurled in her chest, in a way she hadn’t let herself feel in a long time. Unthinkable as it was, this didn’t feel like it was about casting anymore.
Me too, she typed. Goodnight, Darren.
Goodnight, Emma, he answered. Don’t use any elevators without me.
She breathed out softly, tucking her phone back into her clutch. The city lights blurred into watercolor on the water, and somewhere below, the wake was caressing the hull.
Emma watched the flecks of gold drift and scatter. A quiet thought rose in her, something almost surreal.
As if the story were slipping off the page—and spilling into her own life.