Chapter Twelve

Daphne was sitting in business class. With the "rich people," as her mother always said when they'd boarded a flight. On the last vacation they'd planned together, when they knew the end was coming fast, Daphne had bought business-class seats for a trip to France, nearly emptying her savings to pay for them. Then the doctors decided her mother shouldn't be flying, and they'd settled for a train to Banff, still business class, which had delighted her mother.

"Someday," her mother used to say, "you'll sell your books and fly business class around the world."

Daphne had laughed. "You have no idea how much books actually make, do you, Mom?"

"You'll be different."

And now, here she was, flying business class on her very first book tour, and her fingers kept itching to take a photo for her mom. Maybe that should hurt, but instead it made her smile.

She could say her mom would be proud, but her mom had already been proud of her, and that was what mattered.

She'd dropped Tika off with the neighbor, Pam. Then she'd caught an Air North flight—that was the Yukon airline, which she preferred to use, even if it didn't have a business class.

Chris had met her at the Vancouver airport. Now they were on the flight to LA.

"I have leg room," Daphne crowed. "And elbow room."

"Pretty sweet, huh?"

"No, these are pretty sweet."

She lifted the box of brownies Chris had brought. They were the same kind he'd sent her at release. Last week, she'd considered contacting the bakery and trying to get a box shipped to the Yukon. Good thing she hadn't, because the brownies hadn't actually been from there. Chris had baked them.

He'd baked the most delicious brownies she'd ever had.

"Still looking for the photo, though," she said as she waggled the box.

He grinned and shrugged. "I figured you already had one. The view doesn't change."

She wanted to follow up on that. Joke about ways the view could change… maybe if there wasn't a strategically placed brownie box. She'd punted a ball that he hadn't ignored but hadn't exactly knocked back, either.

She hadn't forgotten their kiss the other day. On a scale of fake-dating kisses, from polite to "totally designed to convince someone you were in a relationship," that kiss was a twelve. Maybe thirteen.

It hadn't felt fake. It'd felt as if they were five minutes from ripping off clothing, and with him pressed against her, there was no way she'd mistaken how much he'd been into it. But he hadn't mentioned it since Lawrence's call had interrupted them.

At least he'd brought brownies.

"You know what you could have tucked inside instead?" she said as she set the box down. "The recipe."

"Ah, but if I give you that, then you won't need me to bake them for you. I know what I'm doing. As long as I hold the recipe hostage, you have to keep me around for the brownies."

"Fair point," she said. "I can't see any other reason why I'd keep you around."

"Then I guess I should have included the photo."

She laughed. That felt like flirting.

The flight attendant came by with a tray of orange juice, water, and something else.

"Sparkling water?" Daphne said, pointing at the bubbly clear liquid.

The attendant smiled. "Sparkling wine."

Daphne took one of those glasses. So did Chris.

When the attendant moved on, Daphne leaned over and whispered, "It's still morning, and we aren't even off the ground yet, and we're getting booze."

"Now you know why I pushed for business class." He held out his glass. "To an amazing tour for an amazing book."

Her cheeks warmed, but she clinked glasses, saying, "And to an amazing fake author."

He laughed and sipped his wine.

"Would you like a brownie with that?" she said, lifting the box.

"If you're willing to share."

"I am."

In LA, a car picked them up at the airport. Not a taxi, either. A black town car, complete with chauffeur who met them at the luggage carousel and insisted on taking their luggage. The car also held a full snack service of food and beverages. Chris was trying very hard not to gawk and giggle like a kid whose parents rented him a limo for graduation. Daphne was doing plenty of grinning, as she had on the plane, and he was just going to play it cool and enjoy her excitement.

The snacks came in handy once they hit the city and the car moved so slowly he could have walked alongside it… backward. He'd heard of LA traffic. A client had lamented it during a recent meeting, and Chris had commiserated as if he'd suffered through it a hundred times. Truth was, he'd never actually been to LA.

Being in traffic gave them time to come up with a list of questions to ask the film people, since they'd now need to go directly to the meetings. They were supposed to have two hours at their hotel to freshen up, but this traffic meant they'd be changing in a restroom. Daphne seemed a little panicked by that, but he assured her that no one cared if they weren't looking their best. They weren't actors—just a novelist and his assistant.

That reasoning worked until they reached the meeting hotel with only five minutes to spare. They dashed to their respective restrooms for a quick freshen-up. For Chris, that meant changing his shirt and shoes and splashing water on his face. He expected Daphne to take longer, but she was out before he was. She'd put on a dress, restyled her hair, and applied makeup.

"That was fast," he said.

"Being a wee bit stressed, I figured it was better not to linger in the immediate vicinity of toilets."

He laughed at that. He considered offering himself up as a tribute for make-out stress relief instead. Nope. Play it cool. Give her no concerns that he expected this trip to include a hookup. It was all about getting to know each other.

They hurried down the hall toward the room indicated on Lawrence's email.

"Did your bathroom have linen hand towels?" he whispered to Daphne as they walked.

"And three kinds of designer-label hand soap," she whispered back. "I was tempted to slide one into my luggage. It's a hotel. They're freebies, right?"

"Tell me which one you wanted, and I'll make sure it falls into my pocket."

She laughed and also relaxed. He took hold of the smoked-glass meeting-room door, opened it, and ushered her in. He stepped through with an apology on his lips only to find…

"No one's here," Daphne whispered, as if someone might step from behind the giant potted plants. "Did we get the right room?"

He backed out the doors to where he'd seen a discreet schedule on the wall.

3 PM–6 PM: Edge meetings

He checked his watch. 3:07. Daphne read the schedule, checked her own watch, and then they went back inside.

"Is that more food?" she said. "I'm still stuffed from the spread in the car."

It was indeed more food. A small buffet stretched along the wall.

"Isn't this LA?" she whispered. "I thought no one here ate."

He walked over to look down at the spread. "It's a little-known LA secret that charcuterie boards have no calories. At least not if they're made up of meats and cheeses people like us don't even recognize."

"Good to know. Better hope the studio folks are hungry."

They grazed a bit at the table, mostly picking and talking as they waited. When ten minutes passed—and it was now 3:17—Daphne declared their three o'clock meeting canceled.

"It was a last-minute thing," she said. "That's fine."

"It is. Remember that two more couldn't make it on such short notice, but they're still interested. It's not this or nothing, even if you do decide you want to option it. What time's the second meeting?"

She checked Zane's email. "3:45."

"Let's get comfy then."

At 3:30, the door swung open and a middle-aged man strode in, followed by a quartet of sleekly dressed twentysomethings.

Chris rose and extended a hand. "Mr.—"

"Zimmerman," he said.

Chris shot her a quizzical look, and she discreetly shook her head. This was not their second appointment. It was their first.

"Damn traffic," Zimmerman said as he shook Chris's hand. "Typical LA, huh?"

Chris gave his Zane laugh. "Indeed."

One would think a resident would know that and prepare for it.

"Can I just say how much I love your book." Zimmerman kept pumping Chris's hand. "Absolutely riveting. My assistant"—a vague nod that incorporated all four young people—"gave it to me the other day, and I could not put it down."

"That's very kind."

"Not kind at all. Truth. Genius, my boy. Absolute genius. The plotting, the characters. Especially the characters. Theo? She's wonderful. Just wonderful. So clever and resourceful." He turned to the quartet. "Isn't she great?"

Agreement all around.

"We loved the book. Absolutely loved it. Everyone said, ‘We must have this book.'"

More noises of agreement. Zimmerman took a seat at the table, and his assistants flanked him in pairs. Chris sat with Daphne beside him.

"And this is my—" Chris began, gesturing at Daphne.

"Lovely to meet you, dear. Now"—his gaze locked on Chris's—"let's talk adaptation. I like to rip the bandage off right away with the question every writer wants answered. What would we change?"

Chris nodded. "I understand changes will be required. Screen is a new medium, which naturally requires alterations."

"So glad to hear you say that." Zimmerman leaned in conspiratorially. "You would not believe how many authors expect to see their book directly translated to screen."

Chris smiled. "Personally, I can't imagine anything more dull."

He'd argued about saying that, but Daphne had insisted. It was true. A direct translation of any book would be boring. There were long passages of Theo alone, working and planning and worrying. That worked for a book; it would not work on-screen.

Chris continued, "We've all seen adaptations where the translation stuck too close to the source material. It doesn't do either of us any favors. I want a good film because that's how I'll bring in new readers."

Zimmerman beamed. "That's the spirit, my boy. All right then. Let's dive in. We'll start small. I see Jennifer Lawrence playing Theo."

Chris hesitated, but quickly recovered with a small laugh. "I would love to see a Jennifer Lawrence type in this. She was amazing in The Hunger Games."

"No, I mean the Jennifer Lawrence."

"I…" Chris cleared his throat and managed another laugh. "She's a little older than Theo, but makeup can do wonders."

"We're aging up the character. I'm thinking thirty." He jabbed a finger at his assistants. "We want them in those seats. Young people who grew up on Hunger Games."

One of the two young women cleared her throat. "I was only nine when—"

At Zimmerman's glare, she squeaked, "And I loved it."

"That's what we want," Zimmerman said. "Kids who grew up with the Hunger Games, only they aren't kids anymore. They're adults, and they're looking for something a little sexier, a little more…" He snapped his fingers. "What's that movie?"

Blank looks from all four.

"With the bondage. Based on books."

"Fifty Shades?" one of the young men said tentatively. "But that came out in—"

"That's what we want. Sexy Hunger Games."

"With zombies," one of the other assistants said, grinning like she'd guessed a Jeopardy! question.

"Zombies?" Zimmerman snapped. "No one's had a zombie hit in three years. Go stand in the hall."

Daphne started to force a smile, presuming he was joking, but the young woman slid from the table and slunk into the hall.

When the door closed behind her, Zimmerman leaned over and said, "I'm thinking vampires."

"We loved the book," said the woman who'd just entered the room with her quartet of assistants. Meeting number four. By this point, Chris no longer bothered with names.

"I loved the book," the woman repeated. There'd been no long handshake this time. Just a fist bump. As they sat, she enthused over Edge. Wonderful. Amazing. So good. Could not put it down. Pure genius. The plot, the characters, the setting. Absolutely wonderful.

That was what they all said. So wonderful, and all it needed was, well, a complete overhaul of that wonderful plot, characters, and setting, depending on what was currently hot. Or what the boss thought was currently hot.

"So good," the woman said. She turned to her four underlings. "Right?"

They agreed, as always.

"I just…" The woman fluttered her hands. "I don't think I can convey how excited we are about this project. We cannot wait to put your wonderful book on-screen and share it with the world. That would be exciting, wouldn't it?"

"It would," Chris said.

The woman shifted, as if this wasn't quite the level of enthusiasm she expected.

"Your book," she said. "On a screen. If I were a writer, it'd be a dream come true. Your words come to life. The chance to see the story you wrote."

Chris wasn't even a writer, and he knew this was bullshit. Writers like Daphne and Gemma saw the story in their heads. It was real to them. It had come alive for them. They didn't need someone to put it up on a screen.

Yep, after three of these meetings, he'd gone from excited puppy to curmudgeonly cynic. More important, it wasn't just him. Daphne had a faraway look that told him she was present in body only.

"That's great," Chris said. "We really appreciate your enthusiasm, and we appreciate you speaking with us today. We're very excited about the possibility of seeing Edge on screen."

Did she notice the use of "we"? Nope. He'd figured that out during the last meeting. The execs tended to use it themselves, and he presumed it meant "the team" rather than the royal we, but at this point, he no longer gave a shit. If it meant he could include Daphne, then he was rolling with it.

"We want to see it on-screen, too," the producer said. "That's why we're here." An obligatory laugh from the assistants. "We are so excited."

"That's great," Chris repeated, trying to sound as if he meant it. "While we're on the topic of adaptations, tell me a few scenes you'd remove." He held up his hands. "That's not a loaded question. I've asked it of the last couple of folks, too, and this isn't a competition to see who'd change the least. We respect changes. We just want a sense of how your changes would align with our vision."

"I am so glad you're open to changes."

"I've heard that," Chris murmured. "Now, admittedly, we do have limits. If you wanted to make the main character thirty, that's a problem. If you wanted to make her male"—producer two—"that is also a problem. If you want to relocate it to space with aliens instead of zombies"—producer three—"that's a problem. In those cases, I'm going to be blunt, you should just have someone write an original screenplay rather than optioning our book."

"Agreed," the woman said. "I have no intention of making changes like that."

"Good. So, let's try something else to get a sense of your vision. Take a scene from the novel and tell us how you'd envision it on screen."

The woman stopped, her mouth open.

One of her assistants leaned forward. "If I might be so bold, we discussed this earlier and I'd like to talk about the scene where Theo meets Atticus."

"Yes!" the producer said. "I loved that scene. So dramatic. The first meeting between potential love interests. I wouldn't call it a meet-cute, but…"

Her assistants laughed.

"So tell me about that scene," he said. "Frame it for me."

"Why don't I let Tricia here—"

"No, I want to hear it in your words." Chris met the exec's gaze. "You did read more than the synopsis, right?"

She bristled. "Of course."

"More than a skim of the first chapter?"

"I read the entire book, as I said."

"Great." He leaned back in his chair. "So block out Theo and Atticus's first meeting for me. In your own words."

Four execs, and none had read the book. She told herself that was okay—they were very busy people—and it would be okay… if they just admitted to it. If they hadn't gushed over the book and her writing and how they were "so excited" only for her to realize they'd just read the paragraph-long description on the cover flap.

Someone in their office—an underling in charge of finding new projects—had stumbled on Edge. That person read the flap copy and thought it sounded viable. That person or someone else in the office actually read or skimmed the book to prepare for the meeting.

It wasn't about Edge. It was about getting in on the ground floor of a hot new property that might come with a built-in audience and proven appeal. Daphne understood that. She really did. Personally, she didn't care how or why Edge got on the screen. It would be the next stage—once the writers got hold of it—that people would actually read and adapt it.

She just wanted honesty.

From Hollywood?

Yes, that wasn't usually the place one went for honesty, but it was more than that. She wanted the respect of being treated like a business partner and not a flaky creative who needed her ego pumped.

Tell me you haven't read it yet, but you love the concept and would like to work with me on it. Don't treat me like a teenager squeeing over the chance to see her story on-screen. Talk to me as if I'm an adult who understands how this can be mutually beneficial.

That was why she'd had Chris say he understood those benefits as well as understanding the need for changes.

And by "need for changes," she'd meant scenes would likely need to be removed or added, secondary characters removed or added, backstories tweaked, whatever worked better on-screen. If they walked in and said they wanted to discuss another setting or changing Theo's ethnicity or making Finn or Atticus a girl, she'd have been fine with that. Instead, what they'd suggested told her they didn't want her story—just the barest trappings of her concept plus the growing audience.

As number four left, Daphne leaned over to whisper, "Would you kill me if I wanted to sit this last one out?"

"I would completely understand."

"Thank you."

Daphne slid into the hall to find a man and a woman talking in hushed voices as the woman checked her watch.

"Ms. Begum?" Daphne said.

The woman turned, and her annoyance smoothed out. "Yes?"

"I work with Mr. Remington. So sorry to keep you waiting."

"Oh, I know why we were waiting."

The man rolled his eyes and mimicked, "Oh my God, you wouldn't believe the traffic." He shook his head. "You'd think they flew in from Kansas. No disrespect to Kansas. That's my home turf." He extended a hand. "Colin McKay."

"My partner," Ms. Begum said. "I wasn't sure Colin could make it or I'd have let your agent know."

"Daphne McFadden," she said, extending a hand.

"We are looking forward to meeting with your boss. I enjoyed his book very much."

Daphne tried not to sag and plastered on a smile. "That's good."

"I have a question before we go in. I know Mr. Remington lives in Canada's Yukon. Any reason why he set the book in Alaska?"

"That… might not have been his idea."

Ms. Begum laughed. "Ah, appealing to the wider market. I wondered, especially when the book didn't seem to be set near the coast."

"Mmm, yeah. Consider it inland Alaska."

"Do you think he'd object to a more coastal Alaska setting? I know the perfect place—we've filmed there before. When I was reading the scene where Theo and Finn get stranded on a raft during a storm, I kept imagining it in the ocean instead of a lake. Rocky coasts, crashing waves…"

"I think Mr. Remington would be quite open to changes like that." Daphne reached for the doorknob. "Let me take you in."

She ushered Ms. Begum and Mr. McKay inside and introduced them.

As Ms. Begum shook Chris's hand, she said, "I very much enjoyed your book, and I'm happy you had the time to see us today."

Mr. McKay extended his hand. "And I haven't had a chance to read it, but I'm looking forward to doing that. Today, I'm just here to listen."

Chris looked over at Daphne, his brows raising in unspoken question.

"I think I'll stay," she murmured, and took her seat beside him.