Chapter Thirteen

They were finally in the hotel. The meeting with Begum and McKay had run until nearly seven, and by then, they were both wiped out. It felt like a week's worth of frustration and disappointment and hope all crammed into a few hours.

They hadn't discussed the film meetings yet. Chris could tell from Daphne's expression that she was, once again, a million miles away. This time, though, it wasn't disengaging to protect herself; it was sinking into a whirling mass of thoughts, sorting through them all. Happy thoughts… or so he hoped.

As for him, he'd felt all that frustration and disappointment and hope along with her. Once in the car—another hired town car—he texted Gemma to see how her day had gone.

Gemma:I love the book! Still reading, but it's exactly the break I needed.

Chris:I'm glad. How was today's negotiation meeting?

Gemma:Can we talk about the book instead?

Chris:We sure can. What part are you at?

They'd continued like that until Chris and Daphne reached the hotel, which was so close they could have walked. Chris had wondered why they didn't just stay at the meeting hotel, but after seeing that one, he'd presumed it was because that hotel—while suitable for Hollywood meetings—was not meant for mere writers, even if they were bestsellers.

He was wrong. Their hotel was equally nice, but tiny, the sort he knew from client accounting would be considered "boutique." Which meant small and fancy rather than grand and fancy. Definitely no meeting space room here.

As they checked in, Daphne stayed quiet, giving only murmured answers to his questions, until they were upstairs.

"You want me to leave you alone for a while?" he said.

She turned and blinked, and he swore he could see her mentally rising to the surface.

Her eyes widened. "No. I'm so sorry. I've barely said five words—"

"It's been an exhausting day. If you want a quiet night in with room service, that's fine. If you want dinner out together, that's fine, too. Totally your call."

"I'm not ready to call it a night, but I'm not sure I want to go out and people."

He smiled. "No peopling then. How about room service in your room? We can talk about the meetings, and you can kick me out whenever you've had enough."

Or… not kick me out.

Nope, he wasn't going there, however much he might want it.

Here's the thing about hope, buddy. It only gets you so far. After that, you need to take matters into your own hands.

He'd wait and see how the evening went. Maybe a little flirting and, if that worked, a kiss.

Yep, definitely going to be taking things into your own hands tonight. Alone. In your shower.

"That sounds great," Daphne said. "If you're up for company."

His brain was still stuck on what that inner voice had been saying, which put an entirely different spin on Daphne's response.

Yeah, at this point, I think she could tell you her shower was broken and joke about sharing yours, and you'd only end up sitting on the bed while she used your shower.

"Chris?"

He shook it off. "Yes. I mean, that sounds good. Room service for two."

Sigh…

"You okay?" she said. "You seem a little out of it. Tired?"

"No, no. Now let's see your room. Make sure the shower's working."

She frowned, and he remembered that part of the conversation had been entirely in his head.

He shook his head and laughed. "Just kidding. The last time I was at a hotel, the shower was broken."

"Ah."

"If it is, you can always use mine."

What the hell is that? It isn't flirty. It doesn't even make sense.

He quickly added, "That's why we have adjoining rooms."

He swore he heard that inner voice do an inner face-palm.

Daphne smiled and shook her head. "Long afternoon, wasn't it?"

"The longest."

"Think our rooms have a minibar?"

"If not, I'm telling them to bring the drinks up before dinner."

"Excellent plan." She opened her door and stepped in. "Oh my God."

"What's wrong?"

She wheeled, eyes widening. "The shower is broken."

Run with it. Come on, you can do it. Take the ball and run—

"Couldn't resist," she said, squeezing his arm ever so gently. "Either this room is gorgeous or I'm so tired that anything with a bed looks like the Ritz."

The ball is right there. Grab it and—

Daphne walked over to the bed and collapsed face-first on it with a little moan of pleasure.

If you fumble this, that's it. I really and truly give up on you.

He walked over to stand at the foot of the bed, gave a dramatic pause, and then collapsed backward onto it.

Fine. This is acceptable. The ball is in play.

Daphne turned her face sideways, and he did the same.

"Fancy meeting you here," he said.

She laughed softly. "Not a bad place to meet."

"Not bad at all. I could joke about finally getting you in bed, but that seems a little…" He scrunched his nose. "Obvious?"

"And not really your style."

"True. My style is more…" He reached one hand up to gently touch her face, as he met her eyes. "Hey."

She blushed. Then she leaned into his hand—

His cell phone blared. It didn't just ring. It blared. He snatched it up to hit Ignore, but as he did, Daphne leaned over and saw the caller.

"Lawrence," she groaned as she sat up. "He's waiting for an update."

Chris realized that it was possible he'd never hated anyone quite as much as he hated Lawrence.

"It can wait," he tried, but Daphne was already rubbing her eyes and rolling her shoulders, as if roused from sleep.

"I really should email him," she said.

He tapped in a quick text to Lawrence and showed it to her. She nodded, and he hit Send. The message said that he was exhausted and wanted to collect his thoughts but would call soon.

That took care of Lawrence, but it didn't rewind the clock. Daphne was up and adjusting her hair and looking everywhere except at him.

"Hey," he said.

She glanced back at him, still stretched on the bed. Something flickered in her eyes. A flash of regret for a lost moment? Maybe they could recapture it.

No, recovering a moment was always awkward, and he was too good at awkward already. Also, didn't he keep telling himself he wasn't jumping into bed with her? Doing that—even semi-innocently—seemed guaranteed to derail his plan. Slow and steady.

He pushed up on one arm, propped on the bed. "Do you want to talk about the film stuff? Or shelve it for a while?"

"Both?"

She sat on the end of the bed. Close enough for him to reach over and tug her down into a kiss. He didn't because, yeah, he might fumble the ball—a lot—but he also understood when he'd be grabbing for one she hadn't thrown.

The moment had passed. She needed something else right now.

"Is that a bottle of bubbly?" he said.

She started to smile, as if he were joking, but then she followed his gaze to a basket on the desk. She bounced up and grabbed it, then returned to the end of the bed again and set the basket between them.

"Ooh, goodies," she crowed. "From the film people. I guess this was supposed to be your room."

"No, it's supposed to be the author's room. Which means the basket is yours. Let's see what you have."

The card on the basket said it'd been sent by Begum and McKay. Then the hotel had added in gifts from two others.

"Apparently, Zane Remington likes…" He lifted a bottle.

"Single-malt scotch." She peered at him. "You don't actually like scotch, do you?"

"Pfft. Of course I like—"

"Liar. I saw your face when you spotted that bottle."

"It's the brand."

"But the one I gave you was a brand you like," she says.

"Exactly."

She leaned back on the bed, propped on her elbow facing his way. "Name it."

"Glen… something? From Scotland?" He leaned back, too, and faced her. "I think it had a deer on the label. Or a thistle. I only know labels. That's how I remember which one to buy."

"Good. I mean, if you'd only said you liked scotch because you thought Zane would, I'd appreciate your honesty. But since you really do like it, when I get my first royalty check, I'm buying you a whole case of it." She lifted a hand. "No, I insist."

"I…"

"Hate scotch?"

"No, no, it's just…"

She reached over, took the scotch bottle, and opened it.

"Screw glasses," she said. "I'm going to be a cretin and drink single-malt straight from the bottle." She took a slug, eyes watering as she gasped. "Wow. That's good." She held it out. "Your turn."

He took the bottle.

"Bottoms up," she said.

He braced himself, took a long drink, and—

He nearly dropped the bottle as he sputtered and coughed.

"Poor baby," she said, patting him between the shoulder blades. "That just went down the wrong tube, didn't it? Here, take another drink. That'll help."

He lifted his hands. "I surrender."

"So you lied?"

He hesitated. She lifted the bottle.

"I lied," he blurted.

"Totally lied." She moved her face closer to his. Then both of them were lying on the bed. "Such a liar. A very sweet liar, who didn't want to hurt the feelings of someone who got him a gift, but still…"

"Sweet?"

She sputtered a laugh. "I was going to say still a liar. But yes, also very…" Her gaze met his face less than a foot away. "… Very sweet."

He inched forward, testing his welcome. She leaned toward him and—

His phone buzzed.

Lawrence:NP. Get back to me when you're ready to talk.

Chris had never been the phone-throwing sort, but he finally understood the appeal.

He shoved the phone into his back pocket, looked over toward Daphne, and found himself staring at an empty space on the bed.

Daphne was sitting up, rifling through the basket.

I hate you, Lawrence. Oh, I'm sure you're a very nice guy, and you did sell Daphne's book for a crapload of money, which I appreciate, but I am still blocking your number.

"How about the bubbly?" Daphne said, waving the bottle.

He hesitated, but once again the moment had passed, and he had to trust it would return on its own.

It would. He'd make sure of that.

"Sure, break out the bubbly."

"Can we talk about the meetings?" she said as she retrieved the glasses. "We really should get back to Lawrence. It's after ten p.m. in New York, and he's obviously waiting."

And the longer he waits, the more he'll call."Let's get this over with," he said.

They talked about the meetings. Daphne didn't care that the first four people had connections to the biggest studios. There was little point in having a TV adaptation if it didn't at least fundamentally resemble your book. All she'd get from that was one-star reviews on the book because it wasn't exactly like the show, plus emails from readers angry that she'd let them "ruin" her book.

She liked Begum and McKay, but just because they seemed like a good fit didn't mean they would be. It also didn't mean they'd commit to an option. Her agent wanted a paid option, and Chris wholeheartedly agreed.

An option meant they paid for the exclusive right to shop the project to studios for a set period. A shopping agreement was the same, except usually no money would change hands until a studio accepted the project.

Daphne deserved to be paid for taking her book off the film market. That was just common sense, but the market had apparently been slowly shifting toward freebies. Chris was glad Daphne's film agent was holding out for better.

Chris ordered room service dinner while Daphne jotted notes for Lawrence. They'd decided to email him Zane's thoughts instead of calling. If he—or Lucy the film agent—wanted to talk, that could wait until morning.

By the time dinner arrived, the email had been sent. Lawrence had replied with a thumbs-up and a promise to forward it to Lucy, which seemed to mean they could set that aside and await the next step.

They ate dinner in the sitting area, Daphne on the love seat, Chris in the armchair. Afterward, Chris answered a couple of business emails while Daphne did the same.

"Okay," he said as he finished up the last one. "Work done, and it's barely nine. Do you want to kick me out yet? Or chill and watch a show together?" He lifted his gaze from the phone, a grin sparking. "I think they have Netflix."

He waited for her response. Was she going to snatch the bait, make some "Netflix and chill" joke that he could riff off of? That might be a way to get them back where they'd been earlier. Start a little double-entendre'ing that could lead to flirting that could lead to…

"D?" he said. She was sitting sideways on the love seat, facing the other way, laptop in place. One hand lolled on the floor. Chris scrambled to his feet.

"Daphne?"

Her lips parted in the softest snore.

Chris laughed under his breath. Seems she'd already made her plans for the evening, and he couldn't blame her. She must be exhausted—early flight plus the roller coaster of the meetings this afternoon.

The question was: What to do with her? She was very soundly asleep and not in the most comfortable spot, with her feet dangling over the end.

Did he leave her and slip out? Did he carry her to bed? What if she woke up while he was putting her to bed and thought he had something else in mind?

Do you have something else in mind?

Of course not.

Then don't worry about it. She knows you better than that.

True.

Yep, so maybe you should listen to me more often.

He ignored the voice and walked to the bed, where he pulled back the covers. Then he gently carried her over. She barely stirred. He set her down, pulled up the covers, and stood there, looking down at her.

Don't make this creepy.

He wasn't trying to make it creepy. He was taking a moment to look at her, so deeply asleep and peaceful, her dark hair spread over the pillow.

He bent over and very softly kissed her temple. "Sweet dreams, D," he murmured. Then he slipped back to his own room.

Daphne had dreamed of Chris. Floating in that semi-lucid state before waking, she wasn't quite certain of the specifics of the dream, only that she wanted to slide back there and stay awhile. There'd been a bottle of scotch and a very sturdy tree and brownie batter, and she had no idea how all that had fit together—or if she wanted to know—but it didn't matter because there'd also been Chris. Which was all any dream needed to make perfect sense.

When she couldn't quite find the dream again, her brain surfaced but lingered there, writing its own version, because that was what she did. She told herself stories, and this one was still ephemeral, woven of sight and sound and smell and feeling. Mostly feeling. The feeling of his body against hers, his mouth against hers, the crushing need to get closer to him. The rest was a delicious jumble—a sliver of stubbled jawline, a whiff of peaty scotch, a soft laugh, a flash of his green eyes, the smell of evergreen trees, a low groan at her ear. She groaned back, pressing into the pillow, imagining it was him, his hands running down her back—

The buzz of her phone sent her flailing. One moment of confusion, followed by one very sharp surge of annoyance.

Goddamn it, Lawrence. If that's you again—

Except Lawrence's calls forwarded to Chris's phone. She looked to see a name she didn't recognize.

Sakura Mori.

Who was…?

Her new publicist.

Daphne fumbled to answer, only for her foggy brain to realize it was actually a text.

Sakura:Hey, so I can't get hold of Zane, and I have both your numbers. Are we still on for breakfast?

With a groan, Daphne started to type back and say yes, they were still on and they'd see Sakura at nine. Then she saw the bedside clock.

9:15

She scrambled up and looked around. Her brain was still reorienting after that dream. She'd fallen asleep on the sofa, hadn't she? Then why was she in bed? For one brief moment, she expected to look across the sheets and see Chris there.

The other side of the bed was empty, with the covers still turned up. Okay, so that hadn't happened.

Was that a pang of disappointment?

Not exactly. Yes, she would hate to forget having sex with Chris, the memory reduced to a few sexy flashes of scotch, trees, and brownie batter. Still, if they did have sex, that would imply more sex was coming, and given the choice between forgetting the first time and never having a first, second, and third time…

Your publicist is waiting downstairs. For breakfast. While you stand here regretting the lack of amnesiac sex with Chris.

She reached to grab clothing… only to realize she was wearing it. Because he'd put her to bed fully dressed rather than take liberties, even innocently.

Was that disappointing?

Nope, it was sexy. Even sexier than erotic dreams of scotch and trees and—

Publicist. Late. Move!

She flew to the adjoining door, banged her fist against it… and the door opened, as if having not been properly shut. She caught one glimpse of Chris on his stomach, tangled in the covers, naked. Like totally naked, one twisted sheet covering his hip but riding up high enough to give a full cheek view—

He opened one eye and looked straight at her.

"Oh my God." She stumbled back, smacked into the nightstand—that was going to bruise—and slammed the door. "I'm so sorry," she called through it. "I knocked, and the door must not have been pulled shut."

A lazy, sexy chuckle. "It's fine. You can come in. I'm decent."

She hesitated. Did he think he was wearing underwear? Or did he just figure the sheet covered enough? Either way, he'd given permission, right?

She pushed open the door to see him untangling the sheet, and the polite part of her wanted to back out before he realized he had nothing under it—but he had given permission, right?

He kicked aside the sheet, and then tugged down the leg of his boxers, which had ridden up with the sheets.

"Everything okay?" he asked, as he pushed the sheets aside with his foot.

She tried to answer. A little corner of her brain screamed, Publicist! Late! but the rest shushed it because Chris was lying there in his boxers, looking tousled and sexy and ripped and damn.

"D?" He stretched, muscles rippling.

Are you giving me a show, Chris? Please tell me you're giving me a show, and not just sleepy and disoriented. Tell me you're flirting.

He'd seemed to be flirting last night, when he'd joined her in flopping on the bed, and later, when she'd teased him about the scotch. Then Lawrence had called, damn him.

HadChris been flirting? Was he flirting now?

Damn it, she couldn't tell. No, the truth was that she was afraid to guess. She'd made that mistake before. Okay, fine, it'd been high school, but it'd happened twice. Cute guy being friendly, seeming to let his gaze linger extra long, finding excuses for slinging a casual arm around her shoulder or laying his fingers on her arm, her friends all saying, "Obviously he's into you"… only to find out he was not into her. He was just being friendly, and she'd made a move and… oof. Even now, that old humiliation burned.

Was this different?

Maybe if she took another step into the room? See what happened?

His lips curved in a smile that was definitely flirty. Then he scooched over and patted the bed.

"Come sit, and we'll order coffee." He yawned. "Too early to get up just yet."

Early.

Late.

Shit.

"I… I knocked because Sakura texted."

There. She'd told him. No need to explain that they were late for breakfast. Later, she'd text her apologies to Sakura and pretend she'd just gotten the message.

"Right," he said, running a hand through his hair and only tousling it more. "New publicist. Breakfast at nine. We have plenty of time. It's only…"

He saw the clock and bolted upright.

"I know," she said. "That's what I came to say. She texted me."

He swung his legs out of bed. "How are we late? I set the alarm." He peered at the clock and swore.

She saw the problem. The clock showed a little dot beside the PM indicator.

"Never trust hotel clocks," she said.

"No kidding."

She quickly texted Sakura.

Daphne:Ack! Just got this! Set the hotel clock alarm, and it was on PM. Give us 10 minutes.

She showed the text to Chris. When he nodded, she hit Send.

"She'll be in the hotel restaurant," Daphne said. "First one ready heads straight down."

"Race?"

She smiled, trying not to regret what could have been. Coffee in bed with near-naked Chris.

Goddamn it.

Her phone buzzed.

Sakura:I'll order coffee. See you in 10!

Daphne pushed off her regrets and ran to get ready.

Daphne was already in the restaurant when he arrived. Because of course she was. How the hell had she managed that? Chris hadn't showered, hadn't shaved, just pulled on clothing, washed his face, brushed his teeth, and ran his hands through his hair when he couldn't immediately find his brush. She'd still beat him, and she looked as fresh and polished as if she'd spent an hour getting ready.

When he stepped into the restaurant, she saw him, her lips curving in a smile that had his feet stutter-stepping. She lifted a hand, as if he somehow might miss seeing her. He tugged his shirt and slowed to switch into Zane mode, which meant focusing on this breakfast meeting and not wishing like hell he was back in bed.

He'd woken the second Daphne knocked on his bedroom door. He'd only been half asleep anyway. He'd heard the knock and the creak of the door swinging open and done nothing. Just lay in bed, letting her come in, seeing what she'd do.

What she'd done was exactly what he'd hoped she'd do. Stopped for a look. He'd given it just long enough, before she might realize she was ogling him and retreat. Then he'd opened one eye, pairing it with a lazy smile, hoping to entice her in… and instead she'd beat a hasty retreat, which he really should have expected.

Still, he'd tried again, inviting her in and posing, just a little. Okay, fine. Posing a lot. And she'd watched. She'd made no secret of watching, which was exactly what he wanted… until she mentioned the text and he realized they were late for their breakfast meeting.

Even if he'd followed his determination to keep it slow and flirty, did he want her distracted? Thinking about the fact she was missing a meeting, making someone sit in the restaurant while she flirted with him?

Mmm, I think there might have been more than flirting coming. But we'll never know because you—

He silenced the voice. This trip was not about getting Daphne in bed. It was about getting positive publicity for her book. Anything else was a bonus. Okay, a very good bonus, but still, he had to prioritize, at least until the tour was done.

"Good morning, sir," Daphne said, smiling up from the table.

He should tell her to stop calling him that. Except… was it wrong that it was kinda hot? Especially the way she said it, with a slight teasing smile, a private joke between them.

Nope, he was not telling her to stop.

He turned to the publicist, who couldn't be more than a few months out of college. She was dressed impeccably, with oversize glasses that made her look even younger.

"My deepest apologies," he said to Sakura as he took his seat.

"I already explained," Daphne said. "I was the one who set the alarm, and I was supposed to wake you up. I didn't see the time was set wrong."

Chris didn't like her taking the blame for what was his fault. But she was the assistant here, and he couldn't argue without it looking odd.

"Tonight we'll both set alarms," he said.

"Actually, tonight you're going to want to set multiple alarms." Sakura placed two sheets down, one in front of each of them. "You have a full day tomorrow, starting with a morning flight."

"Ah," Chris said. "The elusive itinerary."

He hadn't meant it to sound critical, but in his Zane voice everything sounded critical, and Sakura flinched.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I was working on it up until this morning. There are still a few things to be added."

"Last-minute tour means last-minute arrangements," Daphne said. "I'm amazed at how fast this came together. I thought it took weeks to arrange a tour like this."

"We got lucky with the LA slot," she said. "They had a cancellation on the panel and reached out, and we'd already been trying to whip something together. Publishing is not the fastest-moving beast."

Chris lifted the itinerary. "It's very full."

This time, her flinch was more of a tense, complete with a flash in her eyes that said Zane was already turning out to be exactly what she expected. An asshole.

Which was kinda Zane's brand, but here was the thing about acting the part of an asshole. Sometimes, it was great. He could demand first-class treatment and refuse unreasonable requests and set boundaries, and it'd be chalked up to He's an asshole.

But he didn't want to be that to someone like Sakura. Once branded that way, though, he had to do backflips of niceness to counter it.

"Full is good," Daphne chirped, a little too brightly.

"It is," Chris said. "I meant that I'm happy to see it so full. Thank you. I know that was a lot of work."

Mmm, still not quite right. Chris's voice would make that sound like genuine appreciation. Zane's made it sound like praise delivered from on high.

He continued before Sakura felt obligated to respond. "All right. So let's look at today. The panel is at two, so we need to leave at…"

Was that time right? They had to leave in ninety minutes?

"Traffic," Sakura said. "Plus they like you to be on-site two hours early so they can be sure you're there. There's a green room where we can hang out and wait."

Chris caught Daphne's expression. "Do we need to stay in the green room? Or can we look around the festival?"

"Absolutely. We'll take a wander."

The server came, and they ordered breakfast, Sakura adding that they were "in a bit of a hurry." Then it was back to the schedule.

"Panel from two until three, followed by the signing. That ends at five. After that, if you need a bite to eat, we'll have to grab it from the green room because we're hitting a few stores for stock signings."

He frowned. "I thought it was only the festival signing today." He heard how that sounded and added, "Which is fine. I'm just trying to get it all straight."

"Stock signings mean you're only signing store stock," Daphne said.

He laughed, a real one. "Hence the name?" He lifted his mug. "More coffee required."

Sakura gave him a smile for that. "It's all new to you. I know. Please feel free to ask questions."

"Or ask Daphne, who is much smarter about these things than I am."

"Maybe if you read those emails I sent you, sir."

Their eyes met, and her lips twitched. She knew he read everything she sent. But Zane would not, and her obviously gentle teasing had Sakura relaxing because it painted him as not a complete asshole.

Sakura said, "At stock signings, you sign whatever books they have in store. Then they put on the ‘Signed by Author' sticker and, if we're lucky, move them to a more prominent location. But yours is already in a prominent location, so we don't need to worry about that."

"Because it's such an awesome book," he said.

When Sakura hesitated, he smiled. "I'm kidding. I know it's in a prominent location because it's a newly minted bestseller." He glanced at Daphne. "See, I read some of your emails."

"Gold star, sir."

Sakura relaxed. "You'll sign, and you'll meet the booksellers, if that's all right."

"Now that's the part I'll be good at. Chatting up booksellers. The signing? I'm still working on that."

"You have been practicing, right?" Daphne said.

"Of course."

It was a reminder to Sakura that "Zane Remington" wasn't his real name. He'd suggested that—since Daphne planned to "out" herself as Zane post-tour—they should use every opportunity to remind people Zane Remington was a pseudonym. It helped set the stage for the reveal and ensure the signed books wouldn't be worthless.

"After the signing, we're done for the day," Daphne said, reading the schedule. "There's a dinner reservation at eight, if you want it, sir."

Sakura cleared her throat. "Actually, dinner is part of the itinerary. It's with a few select buyers for the regional stores."

"Then a car brings us back to the hotel by ten," Daphne said.

Damn. Chris had expected to be done after the festival, take Daphne to a nice dinner—screw the per diem—maybe walk around LA, make sure they both had enough coffee so they didn't fall asleep on the sofa.

That'd be great for him, but not so great for Daphne's book, which was the point of this tour. Ten wasn't unreasonably late. Maybe the restaurant would be close enough for them to walk back, relax, go to his room, relax some more…

"Is this right?" Daphne said, pointing at the itinerary. "Meet in the lobby for car service at four? In the morning?"

"Uh, yes, sorry," Sakura said. "The flight's at six. It's just a hop up to Seattle, I know, and there are plenty of flights, but we have a plum spot on a morning show. I hope that's okay? We did get business class for you both, despite the short trip."

"Guess you can sleep on the flight, sir," Daphne said.

And he could forget any other plans for the evening.

Well, shit.