Chapter 25
Geek-mode is coming.
It was still over an hour until the Con would open, but the sun had already risen high enough to clear the marine layer. A soft and golden light kissed the promenade that stretched in front of the building. People moved at an easy pace, as if the day itself was doing its morning stretch.
Darren guided her toward a staff entrance near the west flank of the building, away from where the day’s line was already taking shape. Security guards were posted by the glass doors, scanning staff badges.
Emma reached into her bag for her lanyard, but Darren leaned in, all traces of tension gone from his face.
“You won’t need that, love.”
Her skin warmed at the last word. She knew Brits tossed it around casually, but from him, it felt nothing of the sort. She huffed, trying to conceal her reaction.
“Are you trying to say your face is some kind of all-access pass?”
He tipped his head. “Guess we’re about to find out.”
As they took the last steps, his hand found the small of her back. She stiffened.
It had been one thing when she was fully focused on making it to her reading in time.
Now, with nothing else to distract her, she was ridiculously aware of his touch, convinced she would mess it up—walk too fast, too slow, make it weird.
But he steadily kept pace beside her, his palm certain against her spine.
He’s just tactile, she told herself, recalling her observation from yesterday. He likes touching things. Nothing to read into it. She just happened to be the closest thing around.
A tall guard spotted them as they approached, nodded coolly to Darren, and waved them through without a word.
“See? Told you,” he murmured as they slipped inside.
“It would’ve been so awkward for you if that hadn’t worked,” Emma said under her breath.
He shook his head. “Oh, ye of little faith.”
They crossed the lobby and walked onto the exhibition floor. The cavernous labyrinth stretched out before them, giant display booths rising like small kingdoms. Countless signs hung from the ceiling, fighting for attention in explosions of color.
No fans. No chaos. Just the occasional squeak of sneakers against the gray linoleum floor and the mechanical hum of electronics waking up: generators, projectors, lighting rigs.
A janitor pushed a cart past, humming the Jaws theme. Someone tested the speaker system: “Check, check, one-two . . .” The sound bounced against the ceiling, too big for the near-empty hall.
“I love this time of day,” Darren said. “It’s like being on set. All the gears and wires exposed.”
Emma looked up at the vast expanse surrounding them. “It’s kind of like writing, too. Designing a space that needs to be filled with life. Most people think the magic just happens. No one wants to see the first draft full of frustrated tears and two hundred repetitions of the word ‘gaze.’”
He glanced sidelong. “Don’t be so sure.”
She looked away, too slow to hide her smile.
They wandered deeper in. Promotional banners loomed overhead, famous faces staring down at them wherever they looked. Darren pointed out actors on the posters as they passed, dropping stories about who was surprisingly lovely and who was impossible to work with.
Everywhere they went, the Con was still preparing for the day. T-shirts were being hung on racks; merch tables still hidden under black cloths.
A crew member was testing a VR rig in one of the Star Wars setups, arms slicing randomly through the air at unseen foes. Behind him, rows and rows of stormtrooper helmets shone on their shelves.
Emma slowed for a moment, taking it all in. The quiet before the storm of fans, the worlds built from ink and imagination. “It’s surreal,” she said, almost reverent. “All of this—based on stories that could’ve stayed in someone’s head forever. And now it’s here, alive. Bringing people together.”
When she turned, Darren was watching her again, with that intense, unguarded gleam in his eyes.
“That’s the least cynical take I’ve heard on this business in years.”
She smiled over her shoulder. “Still new and naive.”
His voice came low as he answered. “Stay that way. As long as you can.”
The sweet scent of donuts hit them as they crossed into a new aisle.
Emma let herself breathe, grateful for the rare quiet.
Every so often, it struck her: she was walking next to Darren Cole.
The more time she spent with him, the easier it was to forget about the movie star part.
She debated whether she should bring up the casting again.
She probably should.
But the thought of steering this stolen time into business left a faint sense of resistance. Especially after what he’d shared in the car—those raw edges about choosing to be the villain. She didn’t want to prod at another of those masks. Not when she’d just started to glimpse the man underneath.
“So,” she said instead, glancing over. “Earliest favorite movie?”
“Jurassic Park,” he said without hesitation. “I spent an entire summer pretending my bicycle was a velociraptor. Terrified the neighbors.”
Emma nearly snorted. “That is . . . weirdly on brand.”
“Hey, it had everything—drama, survival, chaos theory. Made me fall in love with storytelling, honestly.”
“Dinosaurs made you want to be an actor?”
“Dinosaurs made me want to be someone interesting enough to survive the movie.” His eyes lifted to hers, an unexpected sincerity behind the joke. “Someone worth rooting for.”
Something real threaded through his words—something that made Emma’s heart pinch. It was far too easy to imagine the bright-eyed, dark-haired boy who wanted to be a hero, only to grow up identifying himself with the villains.
“Alright, your turn,” he said. “First book you ever really loved.”
She gave him a look. “You’re asking a writer that? Dangerous territory. You do realize I could monologue for hours.”
“Oh, trust me. I’ve heard worse. Every BAFTA winner thinks their own voice is a gift to mankind.” His mouth curved. “Let me guess. Harry Potter?”
Her brows arched. “That predictable, huh?”
“Well, your book’s full of magic—literal and metaphorical. Not exactly a stretch.”
“Fair,” she said. “They were the first books I remember staying up all night to read. But they also taught me to keep my story worlds separate from my real one.”
“How so?”
Another story she never told anyone. Why did everything seem to slip out around him?
“I learned to read early. By first grade, I was already on Goblet of Fire. And when a girl asked who my best friend was, I made the mistake of saying Harry, Ron, and Hermione.”
He winced. “Oh, no.”
“Yeah. That did not go over well. It took a while before anyone let me forget it.”
“Kids can be little shits,” he said softly.
She laughed. “They really can. Even though it’s generally frowned upon to say it out loud.”
“So, what happened?”
“The meanest one moved to South Dakota. By second grade, the rest had forgotten. But I hadn’t. I learned to . . . camouflage, I guess. To act normal. Engage, participate, talk about the right things. The books and stories became my little secret.”
Darren’s voice dropped. “I hate that you had to go through that.”
The quiet sincerity threw her. “Don’t. I turned out fine. Just . . . selectively weird.”
A warm, amused sound escaped him and something in her chest loosened.
She cleared her throat. “Alright. Guilty pleasure movie. Go.”
Darren’s answer came out like a reflex. “Mean Girls.”
He froze as soon as the words left him, eyes widening. “Oh, god. That was a terrible segue after what you just told me.”
“It’s fine,” she chuckled. “Are you serious, though?”
“Dead serious.” He playfully pointed a finger at her. “Don’t you dare hold that against me. I love the dialogue, not the bullies. I could do the entire scene where Cady meets ‘The Plastics’ in my sleep.”
Emma shook her head, incredulous. “So the man who once compared his bicycle to a velociraptor is a closet Mean Girls devotee?”
“Not closet. Very public.” He shrugged, unrepentant. “On Wednesdays, I wear pink.”
“Oh, I’m holding you to that now.”
He looked at her, eyes bright. “So what’s yours?”
For a moment, she considered making something up. Then she didn’t. “Speed.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Keanu and the mysterious, gravity-defying bus?”
“Don’t mock.” She nudged him with her elbow, surprised at how natural it felt. “That movie is a masterpiece. Tension, stakes, pacing—textbook storytelling. I’ve probably seen it twenty times.”
Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. It was closer to triple digits, depending on how you defined “seen.” Emma loved putting on a familiar movie or show in the background as she moved around the apartment. It felt like having company, but in a way that asked nothing of her.
Darren’s gaze hovered, warm with something just shy of teasing. “And here I thought you’d pick something bookish and profound. Turns out you’re a total adrenaline junkie. Sheds a bit of light on your decision-making process in the elevator yesterday.”
“I do love action movies,” Emma admitted.
“Especially the part near the end where they are breaking every rule to beat the ticking clock. I’m not much of a rule-breaker in real life, so I guess I’m drawn to the idea of having a really good excuse to drive like a maniac or chase through the crowd at an airport. ”
He smirked. “Either that, or you just had a crush on Keanu Reeves.”
She gave a low snort, suddenly very interested in an exhibition of vintage superhero costumes. The truth was, he wasn’t wrong. And it hovered unspoken between them—Darren’s resemblance to Keanu was uncanny. Except younger, more handsome, and infinitely more charismatic.
He caught her hand, ignoring her tiny, startled twitch. “Now come on. I want to show you something.”
The easy pressure of his fingers sent a shiver through her. Part of her wondered if he was really so oblivious to the whole touching thing or if he knew full well what it was doing to her.
She brushed the thought away. That would have been a Lucen move—manipulative, controlling. As far as she could tell, the real Darren was intent on honesty. Even if he had those small, shifting moments where she couldn’t tell what was really going on behind his eyes.
They passed an aggressively pink Mattel booth with a human-sized, two-story Barbie house, and a Doctor Who display where the familiar whooshing sound of the Tardis made her do a double-take. Then Darren stopped short. Emma almost crashed into him. “What?”
He tipped his chin toward a familiar sight at the end of the aisle: an enormous black chair bristling with swords, set on a raised platform.
Emma inhaled sharply, the dramatic score practically playing in her head. “No . . . Is that the Iron Throne?”
“Replica,” Darren said, eyes glinting. “But still. Want to try?”
She glanced around them. “They’ll kick us out.”
“Of course they won’t. Perks of being VIPs.”
Before she could protest, he moved the velvet ropes aside, gallantly holding his hand out for her.
Emma climbed the step, the chair growing more absurd and magnificent the closer she got.
She lowered herself onto it, hands clutching the thick armrests.
Replica or not, it was made of real metal, cold and rough through her clothes—unforgiving, like power itself.
Her legs didn’t quite touch the ground. She dangled her feet, laughing at the ridiculousness. Darren just stood there with open amusement, arms crossed.
She sat a little straighter, trying to assemble her face into something regal. “Well? How do I look?”
“You look terrifying,” Darren said. “In the best way.”
Emma shook her head, trying not to grin too hard. “Huge Game of Thrones fan.”
“I know.”
She blinked, but Darren confidently met her gaze.
Sure, she’d mentioned it in interviews a few times, but it wasn’t exactly headline material.
Which meant he’d looked her up. He’d led her here deliberately. The realization wound through her, surreal and disarming at once.
When she finally hopped down, his hand caught her elbow, holding on just a second too long for simple balance. This time, she didn’t even flinch.
Maybe he really did know what he was doing.