Chapter Eleven

Film interest," Daphne breathed, her eyes glassy with shock. "He did say that, right? That people are interested in making a show out of my book."

"Nah." Chris handed her a beer from the fridge and thumped onto the sofa. "He said the producers are interested in a novel by another of his authors, and he was wondering if you could meet with them while you're passing through LA."

She stared, as if processing that.

He stretched his foot to knock it against hers. "I'm kidding, D. Pretty sure agents don't sub in other authors for talks like that. That'd be wild, though."

"Like hiring someone to play an author?"

He grinned. "Something like that. Are you really surprised that Hollywood has come calling? I figured you just weren't interested."

"No, I'm… I mean, I should be interested, right? Or shouldn't I? Can they make things worse? What if I pick the wrong company, and they butcher my book?"

"They can't actually butcher your book. They can butcher their adaptation, but that doesn't change one word of your book. And whether you sell rights or not is up to you. I know zilch about it. My suggestion would be that we meet with them so you can hear their pitches. That's all they're doing. Pitching."

"Right. Yes. Wow. I… I need to think about this. Can I ask them questions? About what they'd do? How they envision the adaptation? Or would that be too forward?"

His brows shot up. "They're coming to you, D, and your book is making bank. Unless you have a coke habit I don't know about, you don't need their money." He paused. "Please tell me you don't have a coke habit." He pressed his hands together as if in prayer. "Please, please, please."

She smiled. "Been there, done that?"

He rolled his eyes. Last night, he'd told her the whole story of why he'd needed Nia's legal help.

"No, I don't need the money," she said. "I think an adaptation would be cool, but you're right that I shouldn't shy from asking questions. I'm afraid I might get starstruck and just sit there, nodding and grinning."

"Oh, I will definitely ask questions for you. I take my position as quasi-conservator of your literary genius very seriously. And we'll have plenty of time to talk on the flight."

He held his breath there and watched her expression. He kept waiting for her to change her mind about joining him, which was partly why he'd insisted on business-class seats and four-star hotels. Yes, she deserved it, but it was also, possibly, a bribe.

"Come on tour with me, babe, and I'll show you a good time."

Yeah, at the rate you're moving, the only good time you'll be showing her is those fancy seats and hotels. You planning to do anything with those king-size beds?

Yep, he was going to sleep. So much sleep.

Kidding. Kind of. No, he was not expecting to get Daphne in bed, because that would be wrong.

You sure? I'm thinking it'd be right. Oh so right.

He said "expecting" would be wrong. "Hoping" was a whole other word, but only if it meant the start of a longer relationship. Eyes on the prize, with no rush to get there.

That inner voice sighed deeply, but it knew he was right.

In response to his last remark, Daphne brightened and said, "We will have time to talk. And it'll be easier to talk if we're in business class. Fingers crossed for that."

"Oh, you're getting that." Even if he needed to quietly upgrade them himself.

She sipped her beer. "So I guess it's prepping and packing time."

"It is."

"Three days to get ready."

"Yep."

Silence.

He cleared his throat. "I'm sure you'll be glad to have some time to yourself. A quiet house and a chance to write before we fall into the chaos again."

"And you'll need to tie up work. Is this going to be okay? You weren't planning on a week off."

"Three days will let me get caught up, and I'll be connected for urgent business. I did request high-speed internet."

"And I thought that was for chilling in your room with Netflix."

"Netflix and chill," he said, waggling his brows.

Daphne laughed. "Oh my God. I was doing research for Edge, following teen blogs to be sure I had the voice down, and I saw what that means for actual teens. The next time Nia used it, I had great fun poking at her."

"Yeah, in my case it was a teenage cousin who told me. Way to make me feel old." He considered riffing on "Netflix and chill" and seeing how she responded. But no, he would do nothing to suggest he might be down for a mere hookup. Slow and steady.

He settled in, sipping his beer and smiling as she did the same, an easy silence falling over them. He hated leaving. He had to, of course, and he'd see her again in a few days, but he'd love to find some excuse to invite her back to Vancouver with him.

Hey, maybe you could hang out with Nia. Get a little big-city shopping time in before our trip.

Yeah, the former presumed that Nia wasn't busy, and the latter suggested that Daphne needed a new wardrobe for the trip. He'd seen how she dressed at their first meeting. She had the wardrobe for this.

He just wanted to bring her home with him. Unfortunately, his apartment was a tiny one-bedroom, which meant no. Not yet.

"So…" He scratched his stubbled chin, which reminded him that he could shave, being between the shoot and the tour. "Since you're stuck with me tonight, and you've done quite enough cooking, and I'd rather not rummage through your cupboards to make dinner for us. Want to go out?"

She smiled. "I'd love to."

For the first twenty-four hours after Chris left, Daphne did nothing but clean and catch up—on everything from correspondence to sleep. Sleep most of all.

The problem with sleeping so long and so hard was that by the second night, she wasn't tired enough, and that unsettled sleep dragged nightmares in its wake.

First came the ones of being on tour. She'd drifted off smiling at the thought of meeting readers. She'd craved that in a way she hadn't expected. Of course, she wanted them to read it. That was the point of writing it. Entertaining herself, yes, and in this case, her dying mother, but also sharing her story with the world. Entertaining readers the way other writers had entertained her.

Once the advance copies had been out for exactly two weeks—yes, she'd marked it on her calendar—she'd begun haunting Goodreads. Oh, every writer in every writing community cautioned against it. But Daphne was an architect, she was accustomed to criticism, ready to learn and grow where possible, and chalk it up to a personal taste difference where applicable.

The first four reviews had set her heart floating. Three loved it, and one liked it with a few justified quibbles. The week those reviews came in, she'd written ten thousand words on the sequel.

Then came the fifth. She'd only read it once, but could recite it by heart.

Loved Atticus and Finn. Kept hoping Theo would get bitten by a zombie and die. She never stopped whining.

Daphne knew this kind of response was not uncommon. Some readers who fell in love with the guys decided the girl wasn't worthy of them, as if the protagonist was their romantic rival. That lucky girl had two guys competing for her, and she was such a stuck-up bitch that she didn't give either of them a chance because she was too busy doing silly things like trying to stay alive. Zombies want to eat me. My family is all dead. I don't know if I have enough food to get through the winter. Waa-waa. So much whining.

Rationally, Daphne could ignore the review. Instead, she found herself hunched over her manuscript searching for introspection that could be interpreted as whining. She started fretting that she'd made Theo unlikable—too independent, too chilly, too closed off… too much like herself.

She'd stopped reading reviews because as much as she loved the pure joy of seeing a reader connect to her story, the negative ones cut too deeply into her confidence and impeded her ability to write. But now she'd go on tour and meet readers face-to-face, where—she hoped—they'd be less likely to say that they wanted her main character to die.

She fell asleep on that high. Soon she dreamed she was at a signing, happily watching Chris sign while she opened the books and took down name spellings. Then a young woman passed Chris and walked up to her.

"You lied to us," she said.

Daphne hesitated, sticky note in one hand, marker in the other. "Lied?"

"You said he wrote it." The girl jabbed a finger at Chris. "You lied. To us. To your readers."

"It wasn't like that. It's just a name."

"A man's name. What kind of message does that send to girls like me? Girls who want to write books like this?"

"I didn't mean—"

"It doesn't matter what you meant." The girl slammed the book down on the signing table. "What matters is that you did it." She turned on her heel and walked away.

Daphne bolted from the dream and ran for the bathroom. When she came back, she sat on her bed.

The girl in her dream was right. Because the girl in her dream had been her. Thirteen-year-old Daphne watching a female author speak and thinking That could be me for the first time ever. Thirteen-year-old Daphne standing in front of endless shelves of young adult books, most written by women, giddy at the possibility.

That was what she wanted. Then she'd gotten frustrated and sent that email under a man's name, and now Edge wasn't even on the young adult shelf because they hadn't marketed her book to teenage girls. Her book was "better" than that. It sat on the mainstream shelf. Was that because it had a man's name on it?

She'd lied to readers. Misled them. She hadn't meant to. She hadn't considered them—this was about seeing a dream come true and then being terrified of doing anything that could destroy it.

The other day, she'd thought Zane would refuse the tour because he wouldn't care about a career in writing. She did.

How much did she care? How tightly would she hold on to this lie?

How much of her book's success was the book itself? And how much was Chris? Chris as Zane, handsome and polished and confident. And just Chris as Chris, clever and quick-witted and charming.

It was a good book. Pushing past imposter syndrome, she knew it was good. She also knew that Zane helped get eyes on it and that made a difference. You can tell the best story in the world, but no one's reading a book they haven't heard of.

Did she trust that she could write? Yes. Did she trust that she could find a readership? Yes. It might not be as big as Zane's, but she didn't need all this. She just needed enough to keep writing.

She checked the clock. Five a.m. Of course it was. Because OMG, I need to do something moments always came when nothing could be done.

She popped off an email to Nia. Just a simple "Call me" with an added big fat lie of "Nothing urgent! No rush!"

Less than twenty minutes later, her phone rang.

"You're up early," Daphne said.

"Not as early as you," Nia said. "Did something happen? Feedback from the shoot?"

"No, no. It's just…"

Daphne told Nia what she'd dreamed.

"I need out," Daphne said. "What I'm doing is wrong. I'm deceiving people, and I need to stop."

"Hit pause on the doom-spiraling," Nia said. "Time for a two-minute reality break. Ready?"

Daphne inhaled. "Ready."

"Your publisher knows Zane is a pen name, and thousands of authors use them. Most keep their real name hidden. Some women use male pen names. Some men use female ones. Some authors refuse to have photos taken. Some adopt a disguise for photos, and some even adopt an entire fake persona for signings and events. Then there are the ones who use twenty-year-old photos. And don't even get me started on the fake bios—they're as fictional as anything in the actual books. Then there are the celebrity novels. You know most of those are ghostwritten. Do the people reading them know it? Does the celeb admit it? Oh, I'm sure there are exceptions, but it's a standard practice."

"For marketing. I didn't do it for that, yet Chris has helped sales."

"Which makes you feel guilty. Do you think those celebrities feel guilty? Fine. Skip the celebs. Regular authors who use pen names are not trying to deceive readers. It's about privacy. Which is exactly what you wanted. To get your book published and stay out of the limelight. Are there readers who feel deceived when they discover an author uses a fake name or a fake persona or a fake photo? Sure, but that wasn't the author's intention, and that persona is not what they're selling. The book is what they're selling. I don't owe my clients one whit of personal information. I owe them what they're paying me for—damn fine legal expertise. Readers are paying for your book. Not for Zane Remington. Sure, some would pay for Zane Remington, but that isn't a service he's offering."

Daphne smiled and shifted. "But I still want to come out."

"I agree. It's the rationale that I'm arguing with. You did not set out to deceive readers. However, this has gone way beyond a fake name, bio, and cover photo."

"I know, and I feel terrible. This isn't what you had in mind when we came up with the plan, and if it could get you in any trouble—"

"Stop. It can't, and I'm the one who pushed this solution on you, so if anyone should feel bad, it's me."

"You didn't—"

"Did. But the point is that neither of us foresaw TV segments and tours. No matter how careful you are, the risk is growing exponentially. It's not a question of if you'll be outed. It's a question of when. Someone will recognize you. Someone will recognize Chris. We need to get ahead of that."

Daphne swallowed. "Okay. I'll notify my agent before the tour—"

"Not before the tour. It's too soon, and it'd throw everyone into a tizzy. For now, don't say anything to anyone except Chris. I need to deep-dive into this and find you an exit strategy."

"One that doesn't torpedo my career."

"That's baseline," Nia said. "As a lawyer, I want a solution that doesn't hurt my client's career. As a friend, I want one that makes you look good. We want to focus on why you did this without throwing your publisher under the bus by implying they wouldn't have bought your book under your name."

"They might have."

"Yeah, not for that much and not with this positioning. But what do I know? I'm just the best friend of a writer who tried damned hard to get anyone to look at her amazing book, and then as soon as she put a guy's name on it, she got a half-million-dollar deal. Sheer coincidence, I'm sure."

"But since we don't know what would have happened, no one else is to blame. I got frustrated. I sent it out using a male name. Then I panicked when it sold."

"Which we'll make clear," Nia said. "We will fix this. Just give me time to come up with a strategy. And whatever we decide, Chris has to be part of the conversation."

"Of course. I'll talk to him. And thank you for finding him. He's been amazing."

"He's a pretty amazing guy, huh?"

Daphne blushed. "He is."

"And you like him?"

Her instinct was to deflect and dodge. To be clear she liked him as a person. Instead, she took a deep breath and said, "I like him."

"Good." Nia switched to her Pinky and the Brain voice. "Everything is going according to plan."

Daphne sighed. But for once, she didn't argue.

"Thank you," she said.

"That's what best friends are for. Now get up, do some writing, pack for tour, and call me from LA. I am dying to hear how those Hollywood meetings go."

It was the last night before the tour, and Chris was soundly asleep after one final phone call with Daphne. They'd discussed ideas for Zane's exit, which he was fine with—he couldn't wait for everyone to know she was the real author. They'd also excitedly made plans for tomorrow. Well, he'd certainly been excited, and she'd seemed happy, so yep, they were both excited. He was going with that.

When the phone rang, he bolted up, certain he'd overslept and Daphne was calling from the airport wondering where he was.

Then he saw his sister's name on his phone. He glanced at the clock—1:10.

With a groan, he answered. "Tell me it's urgent," he said. "Tell me something is on fire and that you are not calling at one in the morning to be a brat."

"Me?" Gemma said. "I'm the older sibling. You're the brat. And I'm calling because, if I'm right, you've done the brattiest of all bratty possible things."

"Uh…"

"Worse than when you changed my alarm clock so you could find all the Easter eggs first. Worse than when you used my training bra as a slingshot. Even worse than when you threatened to tell Mom about my party if I wouldn't give you a joint."

"Beer. I said beer."

"Whatever. Tell me this isn't you."

His phone buzzed with an incoming text. It was a still shot from the grizzly stare-down video.

His first thought: Oh shit.

Second thought: How'd she recognize me from a sliver of my profile?

Third thought: She's your sister, dumbass.

"You sold a book?" she said. "Seriously, Chris? It's not enough that I've spent the last few years having friends—friends, ew—asking for my little brother's contact deets. Not enough that you're running your own company. Not enough that all that hasn't gone to your head. Now you're an author? I'm the writer in the family. Me."

"When's the last time you wrote something, Gem?"

"Shut up."

"Just saying," he murmured. "I've been pestering you to get back into writing for years."

"So this is like when you stole my bike, thinking I was done with it because I hadn't ridden in a year?"

"I didn't write a book."

"But you're the guy in this video."

He considered lying. Considered it for less than one second, because this was Gemma and he'd never do that to her. So he told her the truth.

When he finished the story, Gemma said, "This woman couldn't get her book published, so she stuck a male name on it and it sold? Figures. Okay, I forgive you. You got stuck in a bad place with your business partner—I told you he was a creep—and you fixed it by helping this woman get out of her bad place. Which is such a Chris thing to do. On second thought, no, I still hate you. You're too good. Tell me she's hot, and that's the real reason you did it."

When he hesitated, she sputtered, "Oh my God, it is? She's hot, and that's why—"

"I needed her friend's help, and she seemed like a nice person stuck in a bad situation."

"Who is also hot." Gemma burst out laughing. "Okay, I hate you a little less now. You're still human. She does know you're not this cool Zane dude, right?"

"Yes, she knows my Clark Kent side, the accountant who is secretly a dork."

"Oh, it's no secret, bro. Not to anyone who knows you. Okay, so you're playing author for this woman, and yes, I will keep quiet about that. But if I figured it out, someone else will."

"We're working on an exit strategy."

"Good. In the meantime, I'm downloading the book. It'll give me something to read tonight."

"It's one in the morning, Gem." He paused. "You okay?"

"Fine, fine. Just not sleeping great."

He sat up. "Oh shit. The divorce. The negotiations started, didn't they?"

"Yep, the fun has begun, including Alan showing up and parking his twenty-three-year-old girlfriend and eleven-month-old baby in the waiting room. You know, I might not be the math whiz in the family, but if that kid is eleven months old, and Alan walked out sixteen months ago…"

"I'm so sorry, Gem."

"Eh, don't worry. I'm totally using it for the divorce. What an idiot, huh? Couldn't even hide the kid for a little longer."

Chris's heart ached for his sister. He knew her marriage had been worse than she'd ever let on, and he felt incredibly guilty about that—his whole family did—but Gemma was Gemma. If she'd made a mistake marrying Alan, she'd soldier through and handle it herself. Even now Chris couldn't get her to talk about it.

"Do you need anything?" he said. "I could—"

"According to my insomniac digging on Zane Remington, you are headed for Los Angeles tomorrow. Even if you weren't, I'm fine."

"I'm sorry I forgot about the divorce proceedings, and I'll call you every day to see how you're doing."

"Ugh, you're such an annoyingly perfect little brother. Fine. Call. But only if you share author-tour dish."

"Only if you consider writing again."

"Fine. Maybe. Whatever. So about this woman you like. Have you baked for her yet?"

"Baked for her?"

"That's your secret weapon, Chris. Bake her something."

"I made her a batch of brownies for the book release."

"Good man."

"And then I pretended I bought them at a bakery."

"Oof," she said. "You are such a guy sometimes. Bake her more brownies. Admit you made them."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Bake me a batch, too."

"I'll make brownies and send them before I leave."

"Such an annoyingly perfect little brother." Her voice softened. "Good night, Chris."

"Good night, Gem."