Chapter Twenty

They'd forgotten to close the hotel room drapes. No idea how that could have happened. It wasn't like they'd been busy or anything.

Chris chuckled to himself as he stretched in bed. Busy was one way of putting it. Followed by exhausted.

The curtains had been closed enough that they hadn't been putting on a show, but they were cracked open and he roused from sleep as sunlight seeped in. He glanced at the clock. Another twenty minutes until the alarm went off. Good.

He stretched again, his leg rubbing Daphne's. They'd lost the sheets at some point, and he wasn't complaining about that. He folded his arm on the pillow, head propped on his bicep as he took in her naked form.

Oh, he'd looked plenty last night, but this was different. Last night they'd both been in motion. Lots of motion. A glimpse of her breasts, a blur of her thighs, all of it caught in separate snapshots. Now he got to feast his gaze on the whole of her, stretched out, the swell of her wide hips, the curve of her thighs, smooth and taut with muscle, and then her breasts, full and…

"Are you ogling me, Stanton?" Her voice came heavy with sleep, eyes still closed.

"Absolutely."

She shifted onto her back, and lifted her arms, folding them behind her head to give him a better view.

"Tell me the alarm didn't go off," she said.

"The alarm did not go off."

She opened one eye, long lashes parting.

"I'm serious," he said. "We have eighteen minutes left."

She groaned and stretched. "Not enough."

"You can sleep on the plane."

That one open eye turned his way. "I don't want sleep, and what I do want is best not done on planes."

"Are you sure? 'Cause those business-class restrooms are pretty big."

The other golden-brown eye opened as she poked his chest. "Don't tempt me. That would be wrong. Fun, but wrong. And if we end our tour getting barred from plane travel, we're in trouble."

"Nah. We'll rent an RV with a king-size bed. Have sex in every state and province as we cross the country back home."

"That is oddly tempting." She lifted her head. "But you know what's even more tempting? Finding out how much it would cost to change our flight today."

"Actually, that might be a good idea. I think I'm coming down with something." He fake-coughed. "I've shaken a lot of hands in three days. A few more hours in bed should fix it."

"A few more hours in bed would fix a lot of things."

He reached over, picked her up, and pulled her onto him.

"I can fake sick," he said. "And I would, if I didn't think you'd feel guilty later. But by my calculations, we don't need to get up for another forty-five minutes, if you're willing to grab breakfast at the airport."

"I love breakfast at the airport. Cold eggs and stale bagels are the best." She leaned down, hair falling to tickle his face. "We can shave off even more time if we shower together."

"Mmm, not sure that would save time."

"Fair point. We should start with the shower then."

"Excellent plan." He scooped her up, and he was just about to lift her out of bed when someone knocked on the door.

Chris glanced over. "Did you preorder breakfast?"

"Kinda wish I'd thought of it, but no."

"Because that would require the hotel having a restaurant."

"True." She swung her leg over him and slid to stand beside the bed. He waved that he'd get the door and started looking for his clothing.

She continued, "Can we hope they decided to make up for the bullshit yesterday by ordering us a breakfast tray from somewhere?"

"Sadly, I doubt it. But on that note, we should have time to take the town car through a drive-thru. Better than airport food."

He was still hunting for clothing as the knock became a banging.

"Do you even remember where you took off your clothes?" Daphne said, looking around.

"Pretty sure I wasn't the one who took them off."

"Right. Not sure how I forgot that. Definitely memorable."

He smiled and grabbed his gym shorts from yesterday; as he pulled them on, he headed into the sitting room part of the suite. There was his shirt. He yanked it on and checked through the peephole.

Sakura stood there, raising her hand to knock again.

He checked his watch, which he wasn't wearing. It was only seven, right? Car pickup at eight thirty? Flight at eleven?

If there was a problem, Sakura would have texted or called.

Except they'd both turned off their phones last night, determined not to be interrupted again.

He opened the door. "Did you try calling? I'm sorry. We switched off—"

"Is Daphne in there with you?"

"Uh, yes…"

"Of course she is." The snap in Sakura's voice said they'd definitely missed urgent messages.

"Is there a problem with the flight?" he said.

"I need to talk to both of you. Put on some clothes."

He glanced down. He was decent—gym shorts and an unbuttoned shirt—but he wasn't going to argue.

"Just a sec."

He let the door go. Sakura caught it and stepped into the entranceway. He strode into the bedroom, where Daphne was dressing.

"What's up?" she whispered.

"I don't know. She must have messaged."

"I didn't get—Shit! Our phones!"

Daphne scrambled for her phone on the bedside table. "I should have turned it on before we went to sleep."

"It's seven in the morning," he said. "We turned them off after eleven. That isn't unreasonable."

He was grumbling. He knew that. But he didn't like anyone making Daphne feel guilty for disconnecting overnight.

"It's probably a last-minute interview," he whispered as he pulled clothing from his bag. "Morning radio or whatever. If so, I'll apologize, but they can't really expect that without notice."

Daphne stopped. Her phone must have switched on, and she was holding it up.

"Anything?" he asked.

"A voicemail and two texts about twenty minutes ago. The texts just say to call her."

Chris scowled. Twenty minutes ago? It wasn't as if she'd been calling for hours.

"Take your time," he said as he tugged on a T-shirt. "I've got this."

He slid from the bedroom. "Hey," he said, as nicely as possible. "Daphne's almost ready. So what's up?"

"I need to speak to both—" Sakura's phone chirped. She glanced down. Then she froze. Her finger moved to the Decline button, but at the last second swerved to hit Answer.

"Sakura Mori speaking," she said.

Pause.

"Hello, sir. Yes. I'm in their room right now. Can I call you back—"

Pause. "I haven't had a chance to speak—" Pause. "Yes, I understand."

She hit Mute and lowered the phone.

Daphne walked in. "What's going on?"

"I have Russ Milner on the line." When Daphne's blank look didn't change, Sakura said, "The publisher."

"A representative from Daphne's publisher?" Chris asked.

"No," Daphne whispered. "The publisher, the person in charge of the imprint that published Edge."

Chris suspected Milner wasn't calling to congratulate Zane on a tour well done. Before he could ask, Sakura unmuted the phone.

"Sir?" she said. "You are now on speaker. I have Daphne and Chris in the room."

"Who?" a man's voice snapped.

Sakura looked Daphne in the eye. "The actual author and her boyfriend, who has been playing the role of Zane Remington."

Chris's jaw tensed. He wanted to grab Daphne's arm and storm out.

He couldn't imagine Sakura had turned them in without warning them. Unless something happened and that was her only chance of saving her job, and while he could be furious about that, he wouldn't blame her. But she could have taken two seconds to tell them what was happening before dropping that bomb.

He glanced at Daphne. She stared straight ahead, her face slack with shock. Chris took her hand and guided her to the sofa, and she didn't fight him. Sakura laid the phone on the coffee table and sat in the opposite chair.

"Daphne's agent should be part of this conversation," Chris said. "Has Lawrence Capano been contacted?"

"I attempted to do that and received voicemail."

That wasn't good enough. Even Chris knew Lawrence should be part of this conversation.

"I really think Lawrence needs—"

"He will be looped in later. As will the lawyers. For now, this is a preliminary attempt to resolve this issue. I presume you know what's happened?"

"I haven't had a chance to speak to them yet, Mr. Milner," Sakura said. "Let me do that now." She looked at Chris and Daphne. "Two hours ago, the publishing house received a message from a major social media influencer."

Chris inhaled sharply and laced his fingers in Daphne's.

Sakura continued, "This person claimed that Zane Remington is actually a woman masquerading under that name, who had conspired with her boyfriend to defraud the public."

"Defraud?" Chris sputtered. "It's a pen name. No one hid that. The product is the book, not me."

"So you did not write it," Milner said.

Chris froze.

"No," Daphne said, her voice eerily hollow. "I don't deny that I wrote the book and that I hired Chris to play Zane Remington. There was no conspiracy to defraud anyone. I made a mistake."

Chris opened his mouth, but she gave him a look and pushed on.

"We had plans to come clean to the publishing house after the last event. I have an email chain with my lawyer to prove that, if it helps—"

"It doesn't. This girl is threatening to reveal that our biggest book of the season is a fraud."

"The book isn't a fraud," Chris said. "It's a work of fiction."

"The author perpetrated a deception on everyone who worked on this book."

Daphne went still. Chris surged forward to argue, but her tightening grip asked him not to defend her.

"I'm sorry," Daphne said. "That was not my intention. The question now is what to do about it. My suggestion would be that I come forward immediately—"

"No."

"I know that will have ramifications for the last two signings, but I feel it's best for me to throw myself on this sword, take the blame, and make a genuine apology—"

"You will do nothing of the sort. Our lawyers are looking at this, and until a decision is made and discussed with your agent, you will continue on as normal. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," Daphne said, that hollow tone in her voice again.

"I'll be in touch," Milner said… and hung up.

Daphne looked at Sakura. "I am truly sorry. Whatever you need me to do, I'll do it."

Sakura scooped up her phone and started for the door. "What I need is for both of you to be on this morning's flight. You have everything you need. You can go straight to your hotel. The car will pick you up. I have work to do, and I'm taking a later flight."

"I really am sor—" Daphne began.

The door closed behind Sakura.

The signing was in a few hours. They had yet to hear back from her agent, her editor, or anyone else at the publisher, and Daphne was…

She wasn't sure how she felt anymore. After Sakura left, she'd been a mess. A puddle of regret and guilt and, buried at the bottom, the tiniest spark of anger.

Milner had made her feel as if she'd committed the worst betrayal in the most brazen and thoughtless way. That wasn't what she'd intended, and she was eager to fix her mistake. But no one seemed to be listening, much less giving her any clues as to how this could affect her career.

Before catching their flight, she'd called Nia for advice. Then Daphne and Chris had spent that flight sketching plans for every possible outcome and contingency. And now they were in their hired car heading to the hotel. She used the middle seat belt so she could sit right against Chris, taking comfort in his arm around her shoulders.

Had there been a moment when she'd wondered whether she should set him free in case he got caught in the crossfire? Yes, but it had only been a flicker of animal panic before she realized that he was an adult. If he wanted out, he'd say so.

When the car pulled to the curb, she peered through the window and frowned, not seeing a hotel. Chris opened the door and helped her out, his hand around hers as he led her toward…

"A bakery?" she said.

"Claims to have the best brownies in town," he said. "We're about to test that. Along with samples from two other places claiming the same."

Her eyes teared up. She hadn't shed a single one since the news dropped. She'd been too numb, too frightened, too humiliated. Now, standing outside this bakery, Chris's hand in hers, the tears came.

He didn't miss a beat, just shielded her from any passersby and hugged her.

"It's going to be okay," he said. "Even if I have to print out copies of Edge myself and stand on a street corner in a Speedo to sell them."

She hiccupped a laugh. "You just might."

"Then I will. Me, on the corner, in a skimpy bathing suit with a tray of baked goods, for those who prefer cupcakes to beefcake. But I won't have to because the book will sell itself."

She nodded, and she was glancing at the bakery when her phone rang. Every muscle tensed, and she yanked out her phone.

The number on the screen wasn't in her contact list, but it was a New York area code.

She hesitated, and then answered carefully. "Daphne speaking."

"Daphne McFadden, author of At the Edge of the World?"

Her hand gripped the phone tighter. Not her publisher. Someone from the media? Had Robbie's niece gone ahead and leaked the story?

"It's Lawrence Capano," the man said. "Your agent."

She crumpled. Chris caught her, alarm on his face, but she shook her head and stepped away.

"I'm sorry," she said.

Lawrence exhaled. "I know. Your message said that at least a half dozen times. I'm sorry it's taken so long to call. I was out of cell range this morning, and after I got your message, I had to make some calls and check on a few things to prepare. Do you have a moment to talk?"

"Yes. Please."

They were back where they'd begun the day. In bed. And "in bed" in a good way, not huddled under the covers waiting for this hellish day to end.

The call with Lawrence had helped a lot. The agent wasn't thrilled, but he'd been more understanding than Daphne dared hope. Chris wasn't as surprised. Lawrence had always seemed like a decent guy, and Chris suspected he had pulled up that first query letter and done a bit of soul searching. What if it had been signed "Daphne McFadden"? Would he have set it aside as just another grown-up Hunger Games and Divergent fangirl writing young adult dystopian? Did putting "Zane Remington, MFA" make him see the letter in a different light? Make him open the manuscript and start reading?

Whatever the reason, Lawrence had put aside any anger or embarrassment at being misled and told Daphne that unless this made her change her mind about being his client, he was still onboard. He advised her to wait for Milner's call, which he had insisted on being looped in for, and then they'd see where they stood.

After that, Chris and Daphne had picked up brownies, checked into the hotel, and abandoned the treats in favor of another kind of comfort. Last night had been passion and hunger and abandon. This afternoon, it was pure lovemaking, sweet and slow and intimate beyond anything Chris had ever experienced, leaving him dazed and euphoric, like someone had slipped a little extra into those brownies they'd nibbled.

"We're going to be okay," he said, nuzzling her as they lay there, entwined. "You and me. You and your career."

She nodded and snuggled closer.

He continued, "Whatever happens, it doesn't change the fact that you're a writer. Even if you'd never been published, you'd still be a writer. But you have been published, and you will stay published, and you will continue to get published—one way or another—until you want to stop. This is just a bump in the—"

Chris's phone rang, and Daphne thumped to the pillow with a groan.

"Let me answer it quickly." He glanced at the screen. "It's Milner."

She lifted her head. "Why's he calling you?"

"I have no idea." He hit the Answer button and then Speaker. "Mr. Milner. It's Chris. You're on speaker with Daphne."

Silence. Then, "All right. If that's what you want."

Chris frowned, and Daphne shrugged.

"Is Lawrence on the line?" Chris asked.

"This isn't a police interrogation," Milner said. "You don't need representation. I wanted to speak to you in advance of the official call. I'd like to work this out if we can."

"I'd still ask…" He trailed off as he caught Daphne's look. While he did want Lawrence there, it could delay this call, which would delay her learning her fate with the publishing house.

"Fine," Chris said. "We'll loop him in later. But I'm going to step back now and ask you to speak to Daphne. It's her book. I really was only the face of it. I know that means I'll need to make a statement, and I'm prepared to do that. Otherwise, it's all about her."

"No one is blaming you for this," Milner said.

Chris squeezed the bridge of his nose. "I didn't say that, and I hope I didn't imply that. I knew what I was getting into, and I fully support Daphne."

"Good," Milner said, which eased the ball of tension growing behind Chris's eyes. "That's going to be a huge help here."

"I hope so," Chris said. "I want it to be clear that I support the book and Daphne."

"I am very happy to hear you say that. I believe you are going to be our silver bullet here, Chris. You're articulate, intelligent and—as the female members of my staff tell me—very photogenic."

His hackles rose. What did it matter if he was articulate, intelligent, and photogenic? Daphne was the author, and she was also all those things.

"Thank you," he said slowly. "While Daphne hasn't been taking center stage, I think you'll find she's equally articulate and—"

"But you have been the face of the book, and as such, you have done an excellent job. Like good cover art, if that's not insulting."

"It's not," Chris said. "Because that's an excellent analogy. What Daphne did was like picking a cover that may have attracted extra attention. That's marketing."

Daphne finally spoke up, saying, "It's not quite the same, and I understand that, but yes, Chris has been a great ambassador for the book."

"He has been," Milner said. "Which is why I would like to see him continue in that capacity."

"What?" Chris said.

Daphne said slowly, "Are you suggesting paying off this influencer and continuing to pretend Chris wrote the book? That won't work long-term. Suspicions have been raised."

"Which is why we—all of us—need to take control of the story."

Daphne visibly relaxed. "Thank you. Are you asking Chris to stay on as the face of Zane? Openly admit that the real author is a woman who would prefer to remain anonymous, but Chris will continue acting as Zane in public?"

"No," Milner said. "The problem you've created, Daphne, is that the person they think wrote the book—this intelligent, articulate, photogenic man—did not. That's going to be disappointing to readers in a way I don't think you understand."

"I don't understand it, either," Chris said. "And I think readers would find it insulting to imply that they care what Zane looks like."

"They will be disappointed. However, I think we've come up with a way to fix this mess, which is why I'm running it past you before we involve agents and lawyers. I believe that if handled correctly, we might even be able to turn this fiasco into a publicity win."

"That… would be good," Daphne said as Chris silently seethed.

"And, to be clear, I have spoken to one of our lawyers, and he has no concerns with my proposed solution."

"Good."

"Chris, we'd like Daphne to step out from the shadows as your coauthor."

"My… coauthor?" Chris said. "But I didn't write this book. Any of it."

"Handled correctly, that won't matter. For this first book, you won't discuss who did what. We'll say that's covered by an NDA. For future books, we'll have talking points, and we'll expect that Chris will legitimately play a role in the creation, whether it's brainstorming or editing."

Chris turned to gape incredulously at Daphne, but she was staring down, lost in her thoughts.

"That is my proposed solution," Milner said. "Think it over, talk to your agent, and then we'll have a conference call with everyone."

He hung up before Chris or Daphne could say a word.

After hanging up, Daphne was too numb to move. When Milner had made that suggestion, something in her had crumpled.

She had never wanted to be the public face of Edge. She'd been terrified that her self-consciousness and introversion would hurt her book's chances of success. But when she'd decided she was stepping forward, she'd slowly made peace with the idea and found the confidence to say that she wouldn't be the world's worst spokesperson for her book. And now…

She knew what Milner really meant by "coauthor." Oh, the publishing house would want to keep up the pretense that Chris contributed, but all they really expected was that he'd play Zane. He'd do the interviews and the signings. His photo and autograph would go in the books.

Why was that such a problem for her? Wasn't it what they had already been doing?

Yes, and she hadn't realized how relieved she'd been about ending the charade until Milner suggested they not.

She wanted to be angry. She reached deep inside herself to find that, knowing it must be there. Anger, even rage. But it was smothered under the fear of having this new dream crushed by her own mistake.

"It could work," she said softly.

Chris was pacing along the end of the bed. "Hmm?" He pivoted to face her.

"His plan. It could work."

He stared at her. Then he said, "We are not doing that, D."

That crumpled bit inside her collapsed completely, and her voice didn't even sound like her own when she said, "I'm sorry. You're right, of course. I'd never ask you to make that kind of commitment—"

"It's not the commitment. It's the lie."

Her cheeks heated. "I wouldn't ask you to do that, either. If you did agree, we'd work something out so you could brainstorm or edit—and be paid for it, of course—and we'd be honest about the role you play."

Chris stopped pacing and sat beside her, his hand going to her knee. "I'm not refusing because of the commitment or because of the misrepresentation. I don't give a damn about that."

But he was refusing. That's the part she heard loud and clear, and the tops of her ears burned with humiliation. Milner was throwing her a lifeline. A chance to redeem herself and keep her career, and it relied on Chris, and he wanted no part of it.

Was this where she'd lose him? He'd said he was committed to supporting her writing, and yet, at the first sign of trouble, he wanted her to trample her new career underfoot.

We won't put up with this treatment. That'll show them.

He wanted to take an ethical stance, even if it cost Daphne her career. After all, he'd done something similar when he found out his partner was stealing from their clients.

But in that instance, Chris had done nothing wrong, and while he had taken a financial risk, his career was never in danger, and the tarnish on his reputation was easily buffed away.

And now he found himself in another ethical quandary, where he could be accused of fraud because his new business partner—Daphne—had done something that could be seen as unethical.

Except the "unethical" thing wasn't stealing client money. It was using a male name because no one was paying any attention to her book and she wanted to see whether that made a difference. And it did, didn't it?

She hadn't stolen money to fund a drug habit. She'd played an unfair system to her advantage, and if she felt guilty about that, she also felt angry.

So goddamn angry.

Daphne walked to the window and looked out over the city.

Yes, she could be upset with the system, but she was overreacting by being upset with Chris before she'd given him a chance to prove she was wrong, that he wouldn't throw her under the bus.

She turned to face him. "Can we talk about this?"

"No."

That set her back, blinking. "What?"

His face hardened. "There's nothing to talk about, Daphne. I won't let them do this to you."

Won't let them do it to her? Or to him?

It's easy to say you support my career… until supporting it affects you.

Like Anthony, who'd stayed up with her all night as she sobbed in his arms after her mother's diagnosis. He'd vowed to be there for her through it all. Then came the day when the doctor admitted Mom's chemo wasn't working. The doctor wanted to speak to Daphne, and so she needed to reschedule her weekend getaway with Anthony.

Instead of hearing that her mother was dying, truly dying, he heard that he wasn't getting his weekend away. She'd come home and found a letter in her apartment, telling her that he needed someone who made time for him in her life, as if she'd canceled for a damned manicure.

Chris wasn't Anthony. She couldn't let that old pain and anger sweep her away. Chris would be reasonable. She just needed him to understand.

"I won't try convincing you to be my coauthor, Chris," she said. "That's obviously your choice. I just want to talk about options."

He shook his head. "There are no options here, D. You wrote the book. It will succeed without me. Don't let Milner hold this over your head. We'll go to the signing tonight and tell the truth."

"What? No. We need to talk to—"

"It's your career. You make the decisions."

She stared at him. He stood there, jaw firm, green eyes lit with righteous fury.

"I make the decisions?" she said, and the ice in her voice should have warned him off, but he only nodded, seeming relieved that she understood.

"I make the decisions," she repeated. "And do whatever you tell me."

He blinked, rocking back. Then he shook his head sharply. "No, that's not what I mean."

"But it's what you said, Chris. It's literally what you just said."

She snatched her wallet from the table and marched to the door.

"Hold on," he said behind her. "Let's—"

The door closed behind her, and she strode toward the stairs… and then broke into a run.