Chapter Twenty-Four

While Daphne talked to Lawrence, Chris had slipped away and brought back the breakfast menu. She'd smiled and pointed out what she wanted. He went into the adjoining room to order, which made her forget what she was saying… probably because he was still naked and the view of him walking away was very fine.

After she finished the call, he came in, looking equally fine from that angle. "Thirty minutes to a fresh hot breakfast. Meanwhile, I made this."

She was so busy admiring his form that she didn't notice he was carrying coffees until he handed her one. She checked the time. Barely seven. Perfect. They didn't need to leave the bedroom anytime soon. If breakfast was a half hour away, that meant time to do more than ogle—

Her phone buzzed. Daphne hesitated before reluctantly glancing at the message.

"It's Sakura," she said. "She's wondering where we stand on… the interview? What—Shit!" Daphne nearly spilled her coffee as she sat straight up in bed. "That's why we were taking the train. You have a morning show at ten."

She checked the phone again for the next message. "Sakura says she can cancel. She'll say you're not accustomed to all the public speaking and you've lost your voice."

"Up to you," Chris said as he sat on the bed. "I can do this one last interview rather than cancel. I was thinking…" He cleared his throat. "Suggestion only. If you want to come out as Zane tonight, we'll do that. Either way we should skip the afternoon stock signings."

"Agreed. I don't want stores pissed off because they have two hundred copies with the wrong…" She trailed off. "Everyone who got their book signed before now has the wrong signature." Her heart pounded, and she felt herself starting to doom spiral. "They're going to be furious."

Chris reached out to hug her. "Not the wrong signature. A limited-edition alternate. We'll talk to Sakura, but I suspect we can spin even that to your benefit."

She nodded, taking deep breaths. Then she sent back a reply to Sakura.

"I owe Sakura a huge thank-you gift," she said to Chris. "I also need to write the most gushing recommendation to her superiors."

"I need to give her something, too. My stunt yesterday put her on the spot."

Daphne smiled. "Oh, I think she got her payment watching you stand there as she drove away." Her phone pinged. "She's replied. She might be late to the interview, but she'll take us to breakfast after." Daphne looked pointedly at the room-service menu. "Whoops."

"Guess we get a second breakfast."

She grinned and set her phone down. "Works for me." Another peek at her watch as she slid toward him. "We'll need to pop out and get you something to wear for the show, but we have twenty-five minutes to kill before our first breakfast arrives. Any idea how we'll fill it?"

Chris reached out to cup her bare breasts, and his very touch sent her pulse racing. His fingers grazed her nipples, still sore after last night. This only made them even more sensitive, and they jumped to attention at his touch.

He leaned in and whispered, "I may have an idea, but I'm not sure you'll go for it. It's a little… risqué."

"More risqué than sex in a train bathroom? Thirty minutes of sex in a train bathroom?"

"This possibly is more risqué. It can be a… delicate subject. Not everyone's idea of fun."

She grinned and met his gaze. "You have my attention."

"I propose we spend our twenty minutes…" He put his lips to her ear. "With some couple-based financial planning."

She smacked his bare chest hard enough to make him yelp.

"Is that a no?" he said, smirking.

"Depends on whether ‘couple-based finances' is a euphemism for me paying you for sex. Which I totally could." She waggled her brows. "I am loaded these days."

He smiled. "Nah, I'll take my payment the old-fashioned way. In very expensive gifts."

"Scotch, right?" She reached for her phone. "Let me order you that case."

He caught her hand. "I was thinking baking supplies. My measuring cups are shit, and I've been eyeing this one set, but it's very expensive. Nearly thirty bucks."

"I believe I can afford that."

"Don't be so quick. I'll need two sets if you want me baking brownies for you in the Yukon, too."

She swung her leg over him to straddle his lap. "You know our twenty minutes is slipping by."

"That's my plan. I stall until we just get started, knowing breakfast will arrive at any second, and the door could open, someone walking in…"

She rolled her eyes. "The door is locked, Stanton. Locked and bolted."

"Of course. We don't really want someone walking in. We'll just pretend they could." He cupped her breasts again. "Or I could spend the next twenty minutes continuing to make up for yesterday. While last night's sex was great, I don't think it constituted a proper apology."

"And what does constitute a proper apology?"

He reached to set the alarm on his phone and then flipped her down beside him. "You're about to find out."

Daphne took her usual assistant's seat at the signing table, in charge of the sticky notes and Sharpies. Chris was at the podium, and Daphne was trying very hard to keep her smiling assistant face on and not freak out, knowing what was to come.

Not that she knew exactly what was to come. They'd spent half the day discussing this—with Sakura, with Alicia, with Lawrence—sometimes individually, sometimes together via video chat. A lot of that discussion was about the higher-level issues, like how to handle previously signed stock, readers who wanted refunds, and so on. When it came to how to do the actual reveal, Daphne had worked herself into knots until Chris asked whether he could handle it.

While Daphne hated handing it over, she had to admit that was best for all. Her plan would be to throw herself on the mercy of the audience and beg forgiveness, and no one wanted her doing that. Not even Daphne, if she were being honest.

She would apologize. She would accept blame. But she was past the point of wanting to grovel. If people chose not to read Edge because she wasn't Zane Remington, that was their right. They were consumers. She supplied a product. It was on her to provide the best product she could, and she believed she had, and now the book had to stand or fall on its own merits, without viral videos of the author staring down grizzlies.

As for exactly how Chris was handling the reveal, she hadn't wanted details. The plan was Sakura-approved, and that was what mattered. He'd admit that he didn't write the book, and then she'd get up and explain.

Their event was at an independent bookstore, in an offsite auditorium. The crowd was nearly double the size of the previous night's. Well over three hundred people, the manager had told them, vibrating with delight. Each attendee had bought a book, and some bought two.

"I think we'll hit five hundred books sold for a single event," the manager had said. "That doesn't count all the signed stock we'll sell later."

The manager had suggested Chris come in early to sign stock, and normally, they'd have jumped at the chance to get back to their hotel faster. Tonight, though, Sakura had demurred, because they all knew that after Chris's announcement, the store might not want that signed stock.

They waited for the audience stragglers to find spots to stand—the seats were long filled.

At the podium, a staff member stepped forward to introduce Zane. Chris intercepted her with a few words, and she looked confused, but smiled and nodded and moved aside. He didn't want to be introduced as Zane. Not tonight.

"Good evening," Chris said. "Thank you all so much for being here. It's truly an honor to see so many people take time out to come tonight." He paused for a round of polite applause.

Chris continued, "Now, normally, I talk about the book and then answer questions. Tonight, I'm switching it up."

He lifted the podium and moved it aside, to a few whistles and laughs, as if this was part of the show—buff author carrying heavy objects.

Chris returned to center stage with a cordless mic. "Who here likes PowerPoint presentations?"

Silence. Then a strained laugh or two, from those who felt obligated to humor him.

"No one?" he said. "That's a shame. I love PowerPoints."

Daphne frowned. What was he doing?

Chris turned, walked to the back of the stage, and pulled up what looked like a screen. Then he reached behind the curtain and wheeled out a laptop.

A click of a button, and a slide was illuminated on the screen. It was a blank template with three words.

Chris's PowerPoint Demonstration

He hit the button. A photo filled the screen, one of Chris in a tuxedo. A few people whistled. Patches of laughter followed.

"This is me," Chris said. "Chris Stanton." He waited through the audience murmur, as the name surprised some people while others whispered to neighbors that Zane Remington was a pen name.

He continued, "I live in Vancouver."

Another click. A photo of Chris on a tiny balcony overlooking a busy street. He was shirtless and lifting a beer to whoever was taking the shot. Another whistle. More laughter, still sporadic and confused, as the audience tried to figure out where this was going.

You and me both, Daphne thought.

"This is where I work." A shot of Chris in an office, at a computer, surrounded by papers. "I'm a chartered accountant," he said.

That laughter again, even more awkward, now with a tinge of sympathy. This poor debut author was trying to be funny, but it really wasn't his forte. It was only his first tour, so they should cut him some slack. Hopefully the actual event would start soon.

"No, really," he said. "I'm an accountant. I have the math-geek creds to prove it."

A shot of teenage Chris holding a math award. In it, he looked like the guy in the photo he'd shown her the previous night, gawky and acne-riddled.

"Yep, that's me," he said. "High school was not the best years of my life. Weirdly, being a mathlete doesn't get you invited to a lot of parties."

"Math is sexy!" someone shouted from the audience.

"Thank you!" Chris said. "I agree. Nothing is sexier than a guy who can save you thousands on your taxes."

A few whoops from the audience.

"I can do that." He flipped to a photo of himself holding up a comic book and making a face at whoever was holding the camera. "I can also debate the strengths and weaknesses of all five Hawkman retcons."

Another couple of whoops.

"But you know what I can't do?"

He flipped to the viral shot of him facing down the grizzly. Cheers from the audience, along with a few gasps.

"You may have seen this video clip, in which I appear to be single-handedly scaring off a grizzly with the sheer force of my steely gaze. Now here's the full picture."

Another click, and the screen filled with a shot Daphne hadn't seen before. It must have been from the other camera. The angle was from slightly behind the bear, and while Chris was standing in front of it, Daphne was just behind his shoulder, talking, one hand on Tika's head.

"This is the real story," he said, "complete with my grizzly-encounter coach, Daphne"—he waved toward her, sitting out of the spotlight—"who is talking me through it, because I nearly walked right into that bear. That was why it walked away. Not my steely gaze, but the fact that Daphne was telling me how to react and standing right there with her dog, the three of us more than the bear cared to tackle."

"What's the dog's name?" someone called.

"Tika. That's Daphne's dog. Let's see her up closer." A click, and there's a photo of Daphne bent over, hugging Tika. "Gorgeous, huh?" A beat pause. "The dog's cute, too."

Obligatory laughter.

Chris continued, "Why was Daphne telling me how to handle the bear? Because this is where she lives."

A few quick shots of the Yukon.

"And this is how she lives."

A montage of shots that had to come from Nia. Daphne doing target practice with her bow. Daphne and Tika ice fishing. Daphne and Tika climbing a mountain. Daphne chopping wood.

"See this picture?" Chris said. The photo showed him with Tika on her property, with the house partly visible through the trees. "Not my dog. Not my house. Not my life. Remember this?" He flipped through the slides of him on his city balcony and in his office. "That's me."

Another slide. "This is Daphne." It was her with her laptop, deep in concentration as she typed. "And this." Daphne in elementary school, smiling as she held up a first-place award from a short-story contest. "And this." A shot of Daphne from last week, in her gym-library, with its floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

"Okay," he said. "Actually, that's something we have in common." The next slide was Chris with friends, the bookcase behind him equally huge and overstuffed. "We both love reading."

A louder whoop from the audience.

"But you know what I don't do?" He looked out at them. "I don't write. I admire the hell out of anyone who can, and I'm grateful for them, because I want those books, but the only thing I can write well is a balance sheet."

The room went completely silent. So silent that Daphne's ears hurt as her throat ached.

"I didn't write At the Edge of the World," Chris said, his voice softening. "It's not just that I don't write. I don't know the first thing about that kind of life, hunting, chopping wood, surviving. And I sure as hell don't know what it's like to be a teenage girl, with or without a zombie apocalypse."

He walked to the edge of the stage. "You know where this is going. You know which of us"—he gestured between himself and Daphne—"could have written this book. Which should have written this book. Which did write this book."

Silence, and in that silence, all Daphne could feel was the audience's disappointment. She didn't even dare look into their faces.

"Daphne's going to come up here," he said. "She's going to explain a few things, but I can tell you that she's going to do a crappy job of it because she doesn't want to make excuses—she wants to take full responsibility. She's going to apologize and reassure you that you can get your money back if you feel cheated. And you can. If you are disappointed to discover that I didn't write this book, the publisher will reimburse you and the bookstore will still keep their share."

He stepped forward and looked out. "But if you're unsure how you feel and you haven't read it, can I suggest you try it? If you still feel that the right person to write it isn't this woman"—he clicked to a shot of Daphne as a teenager on a camping trip with her mother and grandparents, grinning and holding a crossbow—"then I will provide an email address for you to write to, and I will personally refund your money."

Daphne looked over at him sharply. That personal refund had not been part of the plan. He studiously avoided her gaze, and her eyes filled with grateful tears for his support.

Chris turned off the presentation and then walked back toward the audience. "You're all wondering why. Why is it my picture on that book? Why am I the one up here pretending I wrote it? And you might be asking why anyone would do that. Like I said, you might not get the full answer from Daphne, but you'll get the short version from me."

He looked out and met their gazes. "I'm sure we have some writers here. What would you do to get your story into the world? Not to make tons of money off it—if you know the business, you know you're better buying a lottery ticket."

Soft laughter.

Chris continued, "What would you do to get your story out there? Would you let someone else pretend they wrote it? Would you put someone else's picture on your book cover? Would you sit at that table and smile and pretend to be the author's assistant? Which part is most important to you? Being up onstage talking about your book? Signing copies of your book? Or writing it and getting it out there in the world and maybe, if you're lucky, getting the chance to write another?"

He looked over at Daphne. "I might not be a writer, but I'm in love with one, and I've seen what she's gone through and the sacrifices she made and the guilt she feels. I've also seen just how damn much she loves what she does… and how much readers love it back."

Then he turned back to the audience. "Now, I'm going to go over and talk to Daphne. I'll stand in front of her, giving anyone who wants to leave the chance to do so discreetly. Then she's going to come up here and speak to you herself."

He did just that. He walked over to the table and blocked her view of the audience. Not that she'd have dared look. Not that she could look anyway. Her entire attention was on him.

"That was…" she began. Her words stuck in her throat.

"The worst PowerPoint presentation ever? Hey, I said I liked them. I didn't say I was good at them."

"No." She stood and leaned over to press her lips to his. "It was incredible. Thank you."

They talked for another minute. Then he said, "Are you ready?"

She swallowed and nodded.

Chris stepped aside. Without glancing at the audience, she walked to the podium. Then she looked. There was one empty seat to her left, quickly filled by someone who'd been standing. A few people were settling, as if they'd also taken empty seats, but when she looked at the crowd, she couldn't see any difference. Most people were still there. Still there and looking up at her and smiling. Someone clapped. Then another person joined in, and tears filled Daphne's eyes as she paused a moment to take it all in.

Then she stepped up to the podium and started to talk.

ONE YEAR LATER

Hello again, Chicago!" Chris said into the cordless mic. He paused and turned to Daphne, seated on a stool behind him. "It is Chicago, right?"

She held up a sheet of paper with the schedule.

"Whew, yes," he said. "Hello, Chicago!"

The applause echoed through the auditorium as he looked out at the packed auditorium. Five hundred seats, Sakura said, and it'd sold out two weeks ago.

It'd been a year since the night Chris first brought her onstage as the author of Edge. The following few weeks had been chaos, handled by Sakura, who'd earned herself a promotion with her incredible work.

Oh, there had been critical media—some very critical. Daphne was a charlatan. She'd done it for the publicity. She'd betrayed women writers everywhere by taking a male name. But Sakura had spun it into the right kind of story, with a feminist angle, and for every critical story there'd been two positive ones.

Her career had survived. Better than survived, if this sold-out theater was any indication.

As for her relationship with Chris, it was also thriving. As planned, they were dividing their time between Vancouver and the Yukon. He was settling into northern life, and Daphne had even bought a cottage down the lake for rental income plus extra room when his family visited. Even better? It was the cottage where Robbie used to live. The owner had finally evicted him and sold it, and Robbie had moved back to wherever he'd come from.

Chris had taken his business mostly virtual, and she was easing out of architecture, only finishing jobs she'd committed to pre-Edge. That was partly to focus on writing and partly to slow down and enjoy life. And these days she was absolutely enjoying life.

Onstage, Chris said, "You are the first stop on our eight-city tour." Then he turned to Daphne again. "Still eight?"

"Ten," she said. "They added two Canadian stops."

"Does that make it a North American tour?"

"It does."

Chris fist-pumped the air. "Next up, international!"

The audience whooped.

"Thank you for coming out tonight," he said. "We're so excited to be here, celebrating the launch of At the End of Tomorrow, the sequel to At the Edge of the World." He held up the hardcover. "My name is Zane Remington, and I wrote—"

He made a show of glancing at the book. "Wait, I didn't write this." He reached back to the table and picked up a copy of Edge. "Fine. I wrote…" He made a show of looking at the new cover, emblazoned with both "#1 New York Times bestseller" and the byline "Daphne McFadden."

"Huh, seems I didn't write this, either." He peered out. "Does anyone have a copy with Zane's name on it?"

A few hands rose in the audience, some waving old copies.

"You know those are collector's items now," he said. "You can get, oh, maybe fifty bucks for them on eBay."

"A hundred!" a voice called. "I have two. One for me, one for eBay."

The audience laughed. Chris flashed a thumbs-up.

Behind him, Daphne picked up her mic. "We can probably get you even more than a hundred. Just get Chris—whoops, Zane—to sign it."

Laughter, and then the young woman called, "Will you do that?"

"Absolutely," Chris said. "That's what I'm here for. To sign old books. To replace D's worn-out markers. To be sure she spells your name right. And to play photographer."

"What if we want you in the photo?" someone called.

He gave an exaggerated eye roll. "If you insist. But I have to keep on my shirt. I have been warned that under no circumstances may I remove my shirt. The best I can do is this." He rolled up his T-shirt sleeves to his shoulders and flexed to hoots and laughter.

"Now that I'm done clowning around, let me introduce the person you really came here to see." He held out a hand toward Daphne. "The actual author of these books. Daphne McFadden."

The audience roared their approval, and he bowed and stepped aside, ceding his place at center stage for good.

Chris was still massaging her hand when their town car dropped them off at the state campground. Not that her hand really hurt that much—she just liked the massage. As for the campground, they were doing what Chris had joked about last year—renting an RV for tour.

When they neared the RV, a dog started barking. Chris unlocked the door, and a gray-and-white ball of fur launched itself at him. With a laugh, Chris scooped up the puppy—Kai—and reached in to grab the leash and a light jacket.

Tika came out more solemnly. With a puppy in residence, she seemed determined to set herself apart as the calm, mature dog who did not chew anyone's slippers. She waited for Daphne's hug and leaned into it with a sigh that seemed to say, Never leave me alone with him again. Daphne hugged her tight and then snapped on her leash.

They headed out, each with a leash in one hand, their other hands clasped together as they walked down the empty path. The night was still, with a blanket of stars above, the chirp of frogs the only sound. When they reached the lake, they stood on the edge as the dogs snuffled at something, Tika grumbling at Kai when he got in her way.

Daphne stood there, feeling Chris's hand, warm and tight on hers, and looked out at the star-dappled water. She felt… happy. So damned happy.

"Hey, is that a bottle?" Chris said.

She turned to see an old glass pill container floating on the current. As it headed out, Chris yanked off his shoes and socks and handed her Kai's leash.

"You're chasing garbage?" she said.

"Litter. I'm a conservationist in training."

She shook her head.

He scooped up the bottle and then stopped. "Wait, there's a note in it." He waved it over his head. "A message in a bottle."

"Someone stuck trash into trash, Chris."

He stepped back onto the shore. "No, it looks like a note." He took Kai's leash and handed her the bottle. "You can do the honors."

Daphne sighed but reached in and fished out a tiny piece of folded paper. She opened and read it aloud. "Turn around." When she looked up, she was alone on the beach.

"Chris?" she said.

"You're bad at instructions, aren't you?"

She turned around… to see Chris down on one knee, holding an open box with a ring inside. A gold ring with a diamond.

Daphne couldn't speak. She just stood there, staring.

"Oh, right," he said. "I forgot something." He looked up at her, still on one knee. "Daphne McFadden, will you marry me?"

She could still only stare. He waggled the box.

"Yes," she said. "God, yes."

"Whew. That was getting awkward. Also, my jeans are soaked."

He stood, and she threw herself into his arms and hugged him. Chris put his hand under her chin, lifted her face. His lips came down to hers—

Kai whined and tugged on his leash.

Chris sighed, shoulders slumping. "We're never not going to be interrupted, are we."

"That's why we rented an RV with a bedroom door." She kissed him. "Now let's get you out of those wet jeans so we can celebrate properly."

"Uh, can I put this on you first?" he said, lifting the box.

"Oh, right." She lifted her hand so he could do the honors.

He slid the ring on and leaned in to whisper, "Thank you for letting me be your Zane, D."

Her eyes prickled with tears. There were things she regretted about how she'd handled the situation, but if she could go back in time, would she wish she'd never put the name Zane Remington on that manuscript?

She leaned in and pressed her lips to Chris's.

Never.