Chapter Three

Chris Ainsworth Pros/Cons

Note to self: When he's getting on your nerves, read this.

Cons

1. OMG, this guy is such an asshole.

2. Fine, "asshole" goes a bit far. He's arrogant. Also intrusive, pretentious, dismissive, self-centered.

Pros

1. My publisher loves him.

2. His arrogance doesn't seem to negatively affect the marketing. In fact, it seems to help, as if everyone expects Zane to be a prick.

3. He makes me laugh, even if he isn't trying to.

4. Fine, he's a hot guy who takes hot photos. Yes, I'm shallow.

Semi-Con

1. He hasn't read the @$%! book. Okay, this is ego, isn't it? I'm hurt that he hasn't even skimmed it. He has nothing but praise for it in interviews. Considering he supposedly wrote the book, the praise is kinda weird, but again, it seems to be what they expect.

2. So this isn't really a "con." It just kinda stings. When that happens, reread those starred reviews that Nia edited to include MY name. I wrote the book. Remember that.

MAY 10, THREE DAYS TO PUBLICATION

Daphne gripped the sides of the toilet bowl and focused on the feel of the cool porcelain as her stomach threatened to heave again.

Just three days, and it would be over.

No, three days and it would begin. Real people would read her book and post reviews and tell her she sucked. Or they wouldn't read her book, and the publisher would have a warehouse of unsold copies and her career would be over before it began.

Daphne leaned over the bowl as her stomach bucked.

"D? You still there?"

She opened one watery eye and struggled to focus on the cell phone perched on the back of her toilet, speaker icon lit.

She made a noise Chris could take as assent.

"Good," he said. "I really needed someone to talk to about this. I had no idea it would be so stressful playing Zane. I know you're excited. Everything is great for you. You wrote the book and your job is over, and now you can just sit back and reap the rewards."

She glared daggers at the phone. Beside her, Tika growled.

"Is that your stomach?" Chris asked.

Chris didn't wait for a response. He didn't need one. The man could carry on a conversation all by himself. Last week, she'd made the mistake of saying he could call to discuss his growing workload, so now he called. Also texted. And emailed. But mostly called.

He didn't need anything—this was the calm before the storm. But he was dealing with a lot of stress from the release of this book that he did not write and had not even read.

Daphne could feign cell-service issues, but she didn't actually mind these calls. She could listen to him fret and fuss and tell her how she must be so excited, and the overwhelming urge to strangle him long-distance gave her something to focus on besides her utter terror as her publication date approached.

"The phone interviews are getting kinda stressful," he said.

That made Daphne freeze, her head over the bowl.

"All right," she said slowly. "We can definitely cut back on your workload. Like I said last week, you absolutely don't need to do these by phone." In fact, I'd rather you didn't, but you insist, and while some of your answers make me cringe, my publisher is thrilled.

"No, the publicist said phone or video chat is preferred by journalists. The problem is that sometimes they ask questions I can't answer."

"Which is why we were supposed to use an earpiece," she said.

They'd done that when the phone interviews started last week, but Chris had an alarming habit of answering questions before she could formulate a response. When they'd had technical difficulties, he'd flown solo and aced it. For the last two, they'd skipped the earpiece.

She continued, "I would never want you doing anything you're uncomfortable with. I know there's been a lot of interest in interviews, far beyond what I ever imagined."

"Because of me," he said with a soft chuckle. "I mean, the book's good. It must be, if it got those circled reviews, right?"

A pinprick stabbed behind Daphne's eyes as she pushed to her feet. "Starred reviews. I know that interviewer thought you were adorable getting that wrong, but…"

"Adorable because I'm a baby author. I'm not expected to know all this. My point is that you've obviously written a good book, and I'm good at promoting it. We make an awesome team."

"If you're asking for a raise, don't hint, Chris. Just ask—"

"No raise. Not yet." Another chuckle, and despite her annoyance, she noted it was a very sexy chuckle indeed, one that rippled through her every time she heard it.

Oh, Chris. You could be so perfect.

Too perfect. That was the problem. A guy like Chris Ainsworth had to be a jerk. Otherwise, he'd be clearly hiding a secret past as an axe murderer.

"What do you need, Chris?"

"More face time. I need to be you, D, and I can't, because I don't know you well enough."

She thumped onto her writing recliner, and Tika took up residence at her feet. "But you aren't supposed to be me. You're Zane. That's the whole point."

"I'm Zane, but Zane is you. You wrote this book. You live that life. Well, except for the part about rescuing cougar cubs from charging grizzlies, but I'm sure you could, if you tried."

"Also if there were actual cougars here." She paused with her hand halfway to her water glass. "Wait, I thought you rescued it from a non-charging grizzly."

"Er, that was the first interview. The one I did yesterday… I might have gotten carried away. She loved it, though. Sent me her phone number in case I had anything more to add."

"That's not why she sent you her number."

He chuckled. "It might have had something to do with the photo I sent her, too."

Daphne thumped back in the recliner. "Oh God. Please don't tell me you're sending dick pics."

"Of course not." He paused. "Unless you want me to. Maybe I could accidentally send them. Like ‘Here's a photo of me holding a bear cub, whoops, that's not a bear cub.'"

Daphne pressed her knuckles into her mouth to hold back a laugh. Do not encourage him.

"I'm kidding, D. I'd never do that. Do guys really think a woman is going to get an unsolicited dick pic and say, ‘Mmm, gotta get me some of that'?"

Her next words evaporated. Damn you, Chris. Don't say things like that.

Every now and then, Chris would say something insightful. Something smart and funny and sweet, and it was an even bigger tease than the shirtless photos.

He continued, "The point is that to do these interviews, I need to get to know you better. Know where you live. How you live. There's a flight this afternoon. I can be in Whitehorse tonight."

She shot upright. "Whoa. Wait. You want to come here?"

"I need to immerse myself in you." A low chuckle. "Er, that didn't come out right. I think it would help to get to know you better, D. I wouldn't be a bother. I'd just follow you around for a couple of days, watch you work, live your life, immerse myself in your creative process."

"My creative process involves me parking my ass in a chair and typing. There aren't any helpful thought bubbles."

"I could read over your shoulder as you write—"

"No, no, no." Daphne shuddered. "Let's table this conversation, Chris. Any questions you have, just ask. I really need to go, though, before my cell service cuts out."

"Yeah, I know. Okay, bye, D. Talk later."

When he ended the call, she closed her eyes and exhaled.

Just a few more days. Get through the next few days, and the book would be launched into the world, and everything would be fine.

Chris hung up the phone and smiled to himself. That went well. Okay, it would have gone even better if Daphne had agreed to let him visit, but he'd work on that. For now, he had distracted her, and that was the main thing. Pretty sure he'd even made her laugh, if those choking sounds were any indication.

He knew she was more stressed than ever. So he'd been calling, feigning his own anxiety, while reassuring her that she had no reason to worry. And if he could also make her laugh, even better.

Chris chopped Belgian chocolate into chunks and threw them into the batter. He was baking brownies to send express for Daphne's release day, since he wouldn't be there to deliver them in person. He couldn't admit he'd made them himself, either. Definitely not a Chris Ainsworth thing. He'd bought cookies from a high-end bakery and saved the box to pack them in.

There were two tricks to baking. One: Follow the recipe. Two: Follow the damned recipe. He'd been baking since he was a kid, and while he'd grown up watching his mother and grandmother throw in a pinch of this and a handful of that, Chris was all about precision. Find the best possible recipe and test it out. Later, being an experienced baker, he could tweak, but once he'd achieved perfection, he followed his revised recipe exactly with the best possible ingredients.

How many times had extended family members joked that he'd make some woman very happy one day? It'd been true for a while. In high school and university, girls loved his baking. Then, after his Steve Rogers transformation, that skill seemed less appealing to the women he dated, and he'd started pretending he didn't know his way around a kitchen.

Maybe that has something to do with the type of women you date these days?

True. He attracted a very different type of woman now, and when he tried to go back to his old type—the quirky, geeky, brainy girls—they eyed him like he was a high school jock hitting on them while his friends laughed in the background.

The last woman he'd dated had seen a novel on his nightstand and said, "You read books?" in the same tone she might ask if he googled photos of underage girls. All his lines to Daphne about not reading—so many words—came verbatim from that short-lived relationship.

As Chris put the brownies into the oven, his gaze shifted to the box and ribbon. He'd need to put a note in it. As he thought, his memory tripped back to the day he met Daphne.

Oh yes, that was the answer.

Then he remembered another part of their first conversation, when he'd offered dessert on him, and a fresh idea pinged.

Hell no. He wouldn't dare do that.

True, but this wasn't him. It was Chris Ainsworth. And he would totally do that.

She needed to buy Chris a release gift, as thanks for everything he'd done. He'd already sent hers. She smiled at the thought of the brownies… and the note that came with them. She'd woken up sick with stress, and that note had washed it away.

Dessert on me, as promised.

She'd been enough of an emotional wreck to tear up at that. It'd been incredibly thoughtful of Chris to send her a gift on release day and even more thoughtful to ask Nia what she'd want.

Then she'd realized the note was on the back of a photo. She'd flipped it over and…

It was Chris. Naked, with the open box of brownies very strategically placed. She'd laughed so hard she'd given herself a stomach cramp. Then she'd fixed a coffee and cut a brownie and texted him a thank you.

Chris:I get brownie points for not sending a dick pic, right?

Chris:Brownie points. Get it?

That made her laugh anew.

Chris:However, if you want the missing part…

Another laugh, because the string of emojis that followed said the offer was tongue-in-cheek. She'd replied that the view was lovely even without the rest. Then taken another look at the photo.

Even now, in her car, Daphne sighed at the memory of that photo. It was definitely going in her nightstand drawer. Such a gorgeous man. Pure fantasy fodder, which was where he needed to remain. It'd be easy to jump on the signs he wasn't quite the asshole he seemed… and use the excuse to jump on him. But she needed to keep this professional.

Even if he wasn't her employee—which he was—and even if he was interested—which he wasn't—Daphne wasn't emotionally built for flings. She'd always had boyfriends, and past high school, each boyfriend could have been the one. That was how she chose them. She knew she'd get emotionally invested, and she wouldn't do that with anyone she couldn't envision beside her in twenty years.

Those post–high school relationships had eventually come to amicable ends as she realized they weren't "the one."

Then came Anthony. She wouldn't say he was perfect. Any guy who seemed perfect was scamming you. But he'd been perfect for her. A fellow architect who shared her love of the outdoors and who read her writing and encouraged her to continue.

Anthony saw through her chilly exterior and understood how deeply she cared. In return, she'd let him in more than she'd ever let any of those previous boyfriends. She'd finally accepted his invitation to move in and hadn't renewed the lease on her apartment.

Then came her mom's cancer diagnosis, and Daphne was no longer the baggage-free woman Anthony had fallen for. She had responsibilities and, worse, she embraced those responsibilities because it was her mom, damn it.

Daphne didn't have siblings. Her dad left when she was young. It had always been just her and her mom. Now the most important person in Daphne's life was dying, and Anthony was complaining because she had to cancel lunch to accompany her mother to chemo. Daphne and Anthony would have decades of lunches, but he didn't understand this was all she had with her mom. When the chemo was no longer working, Daphne had to reschedule a weekend getaway to discuss her mother's final stages, and that proved to be the last straw for Anthony.

The experience taught her a valuable lesson about relationships. Mom had raised her to be self-sufficient and independent and to find someone who accepted that about her, embraced it even. Daphne had thought Anthony was that person. In reality, he'd only embraced her independence when it meant she wasn't relying on him for help. Once that independence inconvenienced him, it was another story.

Having been through that, she knew there wasn't room for anyone in her life right now. That life had changed so much in the past few years. Mom's death, moving to the Yukon, getting her book published. If she brought anyone into that, she risked them turning out to be another Anthony, happy to accommodate her "eccentric" life until they realized it wasn't a whim, that she didn't intend to move south again, didn't intend to go back to a stable career as an architect.

All of that had nothing to do with Chris Ainsworth, who would be horrified if she was thinking the word "boyfriend" and him in the same headspace.

What mattered now was that she would repay his brownies with a nice gift. He'd said he liked single-malt scotch during an interview.

Daphne pulled out her phone and began searching for a Vancouver delivery service.

Chris sat at the kitchen island in his condo, perched on a high stool, chin resting on his hands as he stared at the very expensive bottle and wished he liked scotch.

A card lay beside it with a typed message, printed by the delivery service.

Chris,

The brownies were delicious! The perfect remedy for release-day stress. Thank you. And thank you foreverything you've done. You have made everything about this process better and easier. I'm not sure I could have done it without you, and I wouldn't have wanted to try.

Daphne

That message was the mirror image of the note he wished he could have sent Daphne with the brownies. She'd always been quick with her gratitude for his work, but that was polite praise, careful not to rocket Chris Ainsworth's mile-high ego into the stratosphere. Here, she'd let her guard down.

Except it wasn't Chris Stanton she was thanking. It was Chris Ainsworth, and the scotch drove that point home with the force of a baseball bat.

When he first opened the gift, he'd deflated. It seemed the kind of generic present you might pick for a guy you didn't know well. Then he'd realized it wasn't generic at all—he'd mentioned liking scotch in an interview. Daphne had taken the time to choose a thoughtful gift. The problem was, it was thoughtful for the Chris she knew.

Part of him said to stop, just stop. This was a professional relationship, and his crush on Daphne violated her trust in him. But, see, there was the loophole. Chris Ainsworth was her employee, and Chris Stanton had the crush. That made it okay, right?

Yeah, probably not.

He fingered the scotch label. Then he straightened and went to find a tumbler so he could send Daphne a photo of her gift being properly appreciated.

As for the rest, he'd figure that out later.