Chapter Seventeen

After the interviews, Sakura had decided Chris and Daphne could go to lunch on their own. Which would have been great, if Chris hadn't been very aware that something was wrong. Daphne was upset, and she'd been trying hard to hide it, and he'd been trying equally hard not to fret about it during the interviews. Thankfully, they'd been mostly softballs, and he'd smiled and charmed his way through them.

He was surprised at how easy it was to be charismatic when playing a role. All his awkwardness and overthinking fell away, and he could be Zane Remington, smooth and charming in a way Chris himself never was. Of course, part of that meant not worrying whether what you say might be misinterpreted or sound blatantly insincere. So, in the end, he'd sacrifice being charming Zane for being genuine Chris.

As it turned out during their lunch conversation, Zane was the source of Daphne's worries, specifically a website dedicated to unmasking him. And really, if there was going to be a website devoted to uncovering your secret identity, one would hope for more than the crappy site she showed him.

He could make light because by the time they uncovered his secret identity, the point would be moot. In a few days, Daphne would come out to her publisher, and if they needed to keep "Zane" as the author, it'd be an open pseudonym, purely for branding, with everyone knowing a woman wrote the books.

So, lunch hadn't been the private time together they might have hoped for, but the conversation had been an important one, not only quelling Daphne's fears but helping them plan her authorial "outing" a little more.

Their personal-alert-team system was working, too. While he'd been in interviews, Nia had found the "Who Is Zane" website on her own and notified Daphne. Over lunch, he got a text from Gemma directing him to it. Everything was covered.

After lunch came stock signings, with all necessary appearances by charming Zane. Once that was done, Sakura made good on her promise to give them some real time off. It was only three thirty, and they had nothing on the schedule until the car would pick them up at six for the signing.

Plenty of time for a nice—albeit early—dinner for two. He'd suggest a cocktail in one of their rooms. Time to relax and talk about the good stuff that had happened so far. He had a few stories to tell her from the interviews, and he started one as they walked into the hotel.

"So the first thing she asks is whether I've ever seen The Walking Dead. That was a new one, and it gave me pause because I know you have, and I suspect Zane would have, but he'd never admit it. Since Zane won't be alive much longer, though, I decided to lean in your direction and said I'd seen the first few seasons and enjoyed them."

"Uh-oh. That was a trap," she said as the doorman held the doors.

He poked her arm. "Oh ye of little faith. I have been doing this for weeks, my dear. Weeks. I am an expert at trap spotting. Once I imply that I didn't watch the entire series, I set myself up for her asking why I stopped, which leads to me insulting the most influential zombie media of our time. When I said I'd only seen a few seasons, I said I was late to the show, not wanting to be unduly influenced."

"Nice."

They got in line at the front desk, where he continued, "Next she asked which was my favorite season."

"Uh-huh."

"I answered, choosing season three namely so I could link it to the scenes in Edge when Theo meets Finn and his community. Then she asked how Edge's zombies differed from the ones in The Walking Dead."

"I'm sensing a theme."

"Pure coincidence, I'm sure. I answered that with an emphasis on your zombies. Next question: Which Walking Dead character was most like Theo? Then which character was most like Finn… and Atticus… and Mochi."

"Mochi?"

"She didn't seem to realize Mochi was a dog."

Daphne sputtered a laugh. "Just read the back cover, right?"

"Pfft, no. I'm the back cover, remember. You can't read that." He paused, head tilting. "Although, when you were away from the signing table yesterday, one woman did say she'd like to read me. I pretended to think she was a fortune teller."

Now Daphne was biting her lip to keep from laughing. He opened his mouth to continue, but the line cleared, and it was their turn at the front desk.

"We have two rooms reserved under Daphne McFadden," Daphne said, and then added their publisher's name.

"Oh!" The young woman's eyes rounded, and she fished under the desk, pulling up a copy of Edge. She laid it in front of Chris. "Could you sign this, please?"

Apparently, the booking had also included Zane's name. He smiled and took her pen with a flourish. Then he glanced at her name tag.

"Make it out to Millie?" he said.

"What?" She frowned. Then her eyes widened again. "Oh. No, it's not for me." Her nose wrinkled. "Not my thing, really."

He smiled. "Zombies aren't for everyone."

"It's about zombies? No, I mean reading."

He kept the smile on. "‘Books are for English class, amirite?'"

Daphne gave a soft laugh at his quoting that website.

Millie laughed louder. "Exactly. I haven't cracked open a book since they made me read Moby-Dick."

"Ouch. Never finished that myself. By page twenty, I was rooting for the whale." He lowered his voice and said, "Most books aren't what you read in school. Find the right one, and it's even better than TV. Books have more time to dive into character and emotion."

He'd thought it was a game try, but he could tell he was losing her, so he trailed off and left it at that. Too bad, really. He might have rolled his eyes at that website line, but English class had turned more people off reading than time-table memorization had turned them off math. Which was a damn shame, on both counts.

"So make the book out to…?" he prodded, pen over the title page.

"Oh, just sign it. Lots of authors stay here, and the manager says it makes them feel good if we ask them to sign a copy of their book."

"I see."

"Between us, I think he sells them on eBay."

"Ah."

Chris wrote: To the manager of the Rosemont Hotel. Thank you for the lovely stay. Then he added a scribble that was nothing like his Zane signature.

"Done." He closed the book and slid it over. "Now, if we could have our room keys."

"Your rooms aren't ready. Check-in is at four."

"Our company arranged early check-in for after two."

Millie checked her watch. "It's three."

"After two. Three comes after two."

Hmm, it seemed that asshole Zane wasn't completely gone, after all. Just lying low until required. In this case, though, it didn't matter. Millie had given their rooms to people who'd been there at two, because they weren't.

"Fine," he said. "We'll wait in the bar. Where would I find that?" He looked around the tiny lobby.

"Find what?" Millie said.

"The bar? Or restaurant?"

She shrugged. "We don't have one."

"Is there one nearby?"

Another shrug. "I don't know. I'm not old enough to drink."

"All right. May I speak to the concierge, please?"

"That's me today. We're short-staffed. I usually work in the back. Today, I'm everything."

Except helpful."What does the hotel have in terms of facilities?"

Blank look.

"Where in the hotel could we wait?" Chris said. "Is there a coffee shop? Lounge?"

Blank.

He shook his head. He could argue this wasn't the four-star hotel he requested, but it was very fancy. Just also very small and, apparently, short-staffed. Looked like they were going for a walk—with their luggage, since he didn't trust Millie to hold it. Then Daphne tapped his shoulder and pointed at a sign.

Gym.

"You bring anything?" she asked.

He actually had packed workout clothing, thinking he'd need something to do while Daphne worked… in all their copious downtime. When he nodded, she said, "I have sweatpants and a T-shirt." She leaned in and whispered, "At worst, we can sit on the weight bench and wait until four. Does that work?"

It did.

The gym was tiny, and also empty. Empty was good, as far as gyms went. She'd given up going to public ones when she built her house, instead using one of her spare rooms as a combination library and home gym.

There had to be good gyms where a self-conscious woman could exercise in comfort, but she'd never found one. She always felt the eyes critically assessing her physique. She'd also suffered through the endless string of guys wanting to "help." Sometimes that just meant telling her she was doing it wrong, because her lack of a Y chromosome made that inevitable. Other times, it was an excuse for them to demonstrate proper form and show off. And then there were the guys who wanted to help her achieve that proper form with hands-on assistance.

Okay, now breathe like this. Feel my hand on your sternum? Whoops, that's not your sternum, he-he.

She was long past the beginner stage, but somehow, the offers never stopped.

"Think we can lock the door?" he said as he wheeled in their luggage.

She smiled, mostly because she'd been thinking the same thing. "I don't think we need to worry. There's dust on everything except the treadmill."

"Ah, yes, the ubiquitous hotel treadmill. But there's supposed to be a window in front of it, overlooking the pool or lobby. What's the point of working out on vacation if everyone can't see you're working out on vacation?"

She laughed. "So are we working out? I'd like to, if that's okay. I could use the stress relief."

"I was thinking the same thing. Let's get changed then."

Daphne walked over to the changing room and opened the door. It was a single-size booth.

Huh, only one changing room. We can share, right? I'll just change over here, in front of the mirror, which I absolutely will not use to watch you at all. Because that would be wrong. Wouldn't it? I mean, your call.

Oh, he would be okay with it. He'd made that clear. But he'd also set his terms, and she had to respect that. No more sexy flirting. No more hopes of a hot fling.

So where did that leave her?

Terrified, that was where it left her.

"You can go first," she said.

He shook his head and waved. "After you."

And then she was in the tiny dressing room, all alone, with the door shut as she pawed through her bag looking for the sweats and T-shirt she'd brought for writing, because clearly on tour there would be lots of downtime, where Chris would want to work or go to the gym, and she'd curl up in her sweats and write.

She pulled out the pants and tee and winced. They were built for comfort, not style, and certainly not sex appeal.

Well, they were working out. If she'd pulled out a cute little pair of yoga pants and sexy sports bra, he'd wonder what she had in mind.

Oh, let me tell you what I have in mind, Chris. See that weight bench and squat rack? I want to—

She yanked on her sweats and didn't look in the mirror as she tugged open the door. He smiled at her and held the door as she walked out.

"Just leave your bag in there," he said. "This room is small enough as it is. Reminds me of my first apartment in Vancouver." He looked around. "Nope, my apartment was definitely smaller." He rolled his luggage into the room and propped it against the door, holding it open. "Did you ever live in Vancouver?"

She shook her head. "I took one look at what I'd be able to afford and decided I liked commuting."

"I don't blame you. That first micro-apartment I had was a sublet. The owner went overseas and left her cats behind. Cats. Plural."

He opened his bag and rummaged through it as he talked. Then he pulled out clothing and started undoing his shirt. Still talking. Still with the door open.

Should she turn away?

If he didn't want her to look, he'd close the door, right?

Maybe it was just open so she could hear him, and she was supposed to turn away.

Or maybe he knew exactly what he was doing and stripping right in front of her, using the excuse of telling a story.

Reminding her of what was on offer, should she accept his terms and conditions.

He flipped open the buttons on his shirt, one at a time, each revealing an extra sliver, and sure, it was just his chest, and sure, she'd seen it before—multiple times—but that didn't matter. She watched like he was opening a fully stocked fridge and she hadn't eaten in weeks.

Was he still telling the same story? He was still talking, and she should listen. There might be a quiz later. He'd ask a question, and she'd start randomly blurting muscle groups. Pecs. Delts. Abs.

Speaking of abs…

His shirt was now unbuttoned and pushed aside, and he reached to absently scratch that stretch of skin just below his belly button, drawing her gaze there. That perfect stretch of light hair arrowing down.

Chris undid the button on his fly.

Now Daphne was openly and obviously staring, and dimly aware that he was still telling his story, but it might have been in Latin for all she noticed.

The button on his jeans was now open and she held her breath, waiting for that fly to zip down. Instead his hands rose to his unbuttoned shirt. He took hold of each side and slid it off his shoulders, and her gaze went there.

Traps. Delts. Pecs. Biceps. Oh my.

Was she drooling? Please tell me I'm not drooling.

He let the shirt fall. Then his fingers returned to his fly, and her attention returned there, too. She should look away. Really, she should. But it was as if she no longer controlled the movements of her neck and eyes. They trained on his fingertips and stayed there.

He slid down his zipper, one tooth at a time. Then his fingers hooked in his waistband and he pushed his jeans down to his hips.

She'd seen Chris wearing boxers. He wasn't wearing boxers now. Today it was briefs. Black briefs, the waistband visible as he pushed down—

He stopped. The movement was so sudden that it broke the trance, and her gaze zoomed up to his.

"Water," he said. "I forgot to grab water. Is there any out there?"

She turned. "There's a fountain with paper cups."

"Could you grab me one?"

Uh… Sure?

She did as he asked, and when she came back, he was yanking up a pair of baggy workout shorts, one sliver of black briefs visible before it disappeared.

So that part of the show wasn't included without the full cost of admission. It was a sneak peek designed to leave her wanting more. As if she needed the incentive.

She looked at him as he pulled on a tank top. Loose fitting, like the shorts, but both still showed off plenty of skin and plenty of muscle.

"All right then," he said, downing the offered water and then swinging into the gym. "Where do you want to…" He trailed off as he looked around. "Huh. Slim pickings."

Daphne glanced around the gym and saw what he meant. They'd noticed it was small, but they hadn't looked closer. The treadmill took up half the space. That left a squat rack and single weight bench, which was shoved under the squat rack, there being no other place for it.

"Take turns, I guess?" Chris said. "Looks like it's all free weights. Is that okay?"

Daphne almost lied. Free weights? Damn, I only know how to use machines.

That's fine. Here, let me show you.

That was… oddly tempting, now that she thought of it. Not a stranger putting his hands on her to "correct" her hold or posture, but Chris "teaching" her to use free weights.

Breathe like this? I can't quite get it. Here, let me put your hand on my sternum? Whoops, that's not my sternum, he-he.

Daphne sighed inwardly. He'd set his parameters, and if she tempted him to break them, she'd feel guilty, and guilt didn't make anything sexy.

She did use free weights—exclusively these days, being all she had in her home gym. What caused a panic bubble was the realization that Chris expected her to lift in front of him. While he watched. That also wasn't sexy.

Why not?

Because it wasn't.

So watching him lift wouldn't be sexy?

Her pulse picked up speed at the image.

So that's sexy, but not a guy watching you?

She'd tell him to go first. There. Let him start and then, whoop, out of time.

Chris had turned away, though, and before she could speak, he was bending in front of the weight rack.

"How much?" he asked.

Sweat beaded along her hairline. "Why don't you go first?"

"I'm good. You warm up while I get this ready. It's one of those variable weight barbells. Might take some fussing."

"If it's too much trouble—"

"It's not. How much do you want for a flat bench press?"

She swallowed.

He turned and caught her expression. "And that's a loaded question, isn't it? I've seen guys do that in the gym to women." He lowered his voice to a gym-rat rumble. "That's all? I can lift four times that." His voice went back to normal. "I know that the chest press is one exercise where women lift a lot less. You won't get any judgment from me." He met her gaze. "On anything."

When she still didn't answer, he reached over and lifted a five-pound dumbbell. "This?"

That made her laugh and relax. The problem wasn't that she thought he'd question her not being about to press enough.

She flashed back to the last time a guy offered to set up the barbell for her, after he'd finished with it.

"That's a lot for a lady. You sure?"

"I am. Thank you."

"Okay, then." He'd winked. "Maybe time to get your testosterone levels checked, huh?"

She'd wanted to snap back something. Instead, she'd almost sunk into the floor as everyone in the gym turned to look.

"You want me to guess?" Chris's eyes twinkled. When she didn't answer, he eyed her upper body. "Ninety pounds? Maybe one hundred?"

"I just moved up to one hundred, but I haven't worked out in a couple of weeks, so ninety would be good."

"Done. Now how's that warm-up coming?"

She stretched, and he brought the barbell over, carrying it as if it was still the five-pounder. She got into position on the bench, and he placed the bar on her hands. Then he leaned against the treadmill.

"First time I did a bench press it was fifty pounds," he said. "And I almost dropped it on my head."

She hefted the weight. "Thirty for me. Which was just the bar. I asked the guy at the store for a smaller one—I know they have them—but he didn't carry them, because they're not for serious lifters."

"In other words, he only served men. Asshole."

She kept lifting, and he kept talking, taking over the conversation as she focused on her breathing. He was looking at her, but there was nothing critical in it. Just watching her as he talked. Avidly watching her, as if appreciating her form… which made her elbow give out on the last rep.

He caught and held the barbell. She'd been in no danger of dropping it, but she appreciated the gesture.

"Switch out between sets?" he said. "Or do you just want to rest and go again?"

"If it's not too hard to change weights, then we'll switch."

"Easy enough." He took the barbell and returned it to the rack.

"Does that even go high enough for you?" she asked.

"Pfft. No. I usually press two cows and a small goat."

That made her laugh. Then he looked down at the dial.

"It actually doesn't go high enough, does it?" she said, smiling as she sat up.

"It does not, and I should make that sound impressive, but this thing is made for casual workouts. It maxes out at one fifty."

She walked over to him. "Is that all?"

"I think you're going to need to lie across the bar for me. Sorry."

She sputtered a laugh. "Hey, if I could think of a sexy way to do it, I would, but I'd end up clutching the bar like a spider monkey."

"Don't sell yourself short, D. Spider monkeys can be very sexy."

She wanted to run with that. He'd teased her back, which meant flirting was still on the table. Now it was her turn, which would have been easier if she hadn't introduced spider monkeys to the conversation.

Damn it, she wasn't very good at this.

Of course, she wasn't the one who'd said spider monkeys could be sexy, so… Maybe they both weren't very good at this?

Chris lifted the bar and brought it to the bench. To accommodate the lighter weight, he put the bench on an incline.

"What do you normally press?" she asked as she settled in to his former spot, leaning against the treadmill.

"Little over two hundred."

She whistled.

He shrugged as he adjusted the barbell into position. "It's not that impressive… as I'm told repeatedly in public gyms. If I wanted to be bigger, I'd need to press more, but that isn't my goal. For me, it's what you said earlier. Stress relief."

He started to lift, and she let her gaze settle on his chest muscles, visible under the white tank.

He continued, "I hated gym as a kid. I suck at sports. Even in swimming, I barely made the team. The only person I want to compete with is myself. Mostly what I want from sports is fun. I can get that now that I'm older, and there are leagues where people are genuinely just there to enjoy themselves. But this"—he nodded at the barbell—"pure stress relief." He grinned over at her. "Can't argue with the results, though."

Her gaze swept over him. Nope, can't argue with the results.

"You?" he said, grunting a little as he kept going.

"Mostly training," she said. "Not for any competitive sports. That isn't my thing, either. But where I live, there are endless opportunities for outdoor activities, most of them hard, all of them challenging. A ‘moderate' trail in the Yukon usually involves a mountain."

"So you work out for that."

She nodded. "I want to be able to climb mountains and paddle rapids. Mostly I can, but there are days when Tika and I are struggling up a trail and some seventy-year-old practically sprints past us, and I think ‘That's what I want.' Being able to climb those trails now is good, but I want to be sprinting past youngsters when I'm seventy."

"Nice."

After that, they lost themselves in the workout and the conversation—switching off, changing exercises, and talking. So much talking, some serious, some light, all of it wonderful.

The scenery wasn't bad, either.

Yes, Daphne was being shallow. Too bad. If she acknowledged that a guy was a great conversationalist, it was perfectly fine to also acknowledge he looked incredible pumping iron, getting hot and sweaty, tank drenched, muscles glistening.

When Chris's phone buzzed, he barely glanced at it, still intent on their conversation. Then he cursed.

"Hmm?" she said.

"Our rooms are ready."

"Finally."

"And it's past four thirty, which means our chances of getting dinner in time are nonexistent."

"Room service?"

"I guess so. I did promise you a nice dinner out, though. Rain check?"

"Of course."

She wanted to say more, needed to say more, but as soon as she thought it, her heart started pounding like a jackhammer.

She didn't care where they ate, as long as she was with him.

So tell him that.

I'm scared.

Then tell himthat.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And there was so much to gain.

Also, so much to lose.

"Ready to go?" he said. "We'll order dinner at the desk when we get our keys."

She nodded and followed him from the gym.