Chapter Eight

Daphne hit the water. Her first thought was no thought at all. The shock of the cold slammed everything from her brain. That lasted only a moment. Then water closed over her head, and she was five again, shoved into the deep end, the water closing over her head.

I can't swim!

That was what she'd screamed then, water filling her mouth and lungs. It was what her brain screamed now.

I can't swim.

No, it was okay. She was wearing a life vest. She always wore one, even in this calm lake, because she couldn't swim.

Then a memory flashed. Climbing onto the canoe without a vest, too embarrassed to say anything. It was just the lake. She'd be fine.

She was not fine.

She told Chris that she'd steer near the shore for a better view. That was a lie. She'd wanted to stick to the edge because it was shallow. Yet she hadn't reached that yet, and her kicking feet touched nothing below.

Go up.

That was what the swim instructor taught her, the private one her mom hired trying to at least teach her water safety, but Daphne had been so terrified she hadn't made it past the second lesson. Still she remembered this much: get her head up and tread water. She could tread water.

Chris was there, somewhere, and the film crew was watching. She wasn't going to drown. Just get her head up—

Her head struck something hard. Panic flared. She must have gotten turned around, gone down instead of up—

No, she had gone up. She knew that. Something was over her head, pinning her down. She reached up and her hands whacked into something smooth and curved.

The canoe. She was under the canoe.

She smacked her fists up. The canoe was fiberglass. It wouldn't sink. She should be able to breathe under it. But if there was a gap of air, she couldn't find it and her lungs burned, her brain screaming that she needed oxygen, needed it now.

She punched again, as if she could propel the canoe up, but her hands only smacked against the fiberglass. If she couldn't touch down, then she couldn't get the leverage to push the canoe up.

Swim out from under it.

How?

She tried to corral her thoughts, but they ran wild, her lungs ready to explode. She was five again, under the water, screaming, the world going black—

Something grabbed her. The current, weeds, something pulled her under. She screamed then for real, water filling her mouth and then—

Light. It was suddenly light, and she could breathe, gasping in mouthfuls of air.

"I've got you," a voice said.

Warm arms tightened around her.

"I've got you."

Chris.

I've got you. Her eyes filled, tears scorching hot against her freezing skin.

"You're okay," he said. "We're almost there."

Something brushed under her kicking feet. She could barely feel her feet, numbed from the cold, but she knew she was touching sand and rock as her body lifted from the water. Then wet moss and more sand against her back as Chris set her on the shore.

She was lying on her back, looking up, and when Chris leaned over her, the setting sun haloed his head, turning his dark blond hair to the bright gold of an angel. Her gaze settled on his wide lips.

Couldn't she have drowned just a little more? Enough to require mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?

Really? That was what she was thinking after nearly dying?

She blamed oxygen deprivation.

"I… I can't swim," she said. "In case… case you didn't… figure that out."

Those wide lips curved, the smile not reaching his worried eyes. "I'm so sorry, D."

"I should—should have mentioned it."

"And I should have asked."

He reached down to hug her, the heat of him coming through his drenched shirt, like a blazing fire after a long night of snowshoeing, and she fell into his arms, shivering.

"That was great," came Sofia's voice from the distance. "At first, I was like, mmm, a bit much, staging the canoe capsizing, dramatic rescue, but that end part? You coming out, soaking wet, with Dana over your arms? That was…"

Sofia trailed off, as if she'd drawn close enough for a better look.

Daphne choked and sputtered, turning her head to one side as she retched up lake water. Then she started shivering again, this time convulsively.

"Oh my God!" Sofia said. "You didn't stage—"

Chris scooped Daphne up. "We need to get her in the house. Now."

"Alone at last," Chris said.

Daphne looked over at him from the deck chair—where she was completely cocooned in blankets, propane heater blazing at her feet, mug of cocoa in one hand, towel wrapped around her wet hair—and she laughed. At first, it was a choked half laugh. Then it got louder and she started snorting. Her hand flew over her mouth in that adorable way it did when she thought—incorrectly—that her snorting laughs were less than adorable.

Daphne was fine. Thank God. He didn't even want to think about what could have happened. When he'd dumped a shot of Irish whiskey into her cocoa, he might have added some to his as well, to banish the memory of that moment when he'd surfaced, looked for her, and seen an empty lake. That moment when he realized he'd turned down life vests for both of them.

"Chris?" she said.

He took a burning gulp of booze-laced chocolate. "Never thought we'd get rid of them. Sure, staging a drowning might have gone too far, but they just weren't leaving. Film crews."

This time, she didn't laugh. Didn't even smile.

"You saved my life," she said.

He started to make a joke about her saving his life, this job having rescued his professional career, but it'd be as poor a joke as the film crew one.

He wanted to joke. Make light. Make her laugh. Especially make her laugh.

Instead, he said, "I wouldn't have needed to if I hadn't agreed to skip the life vests."

"And, being an adult, I should have insisted on one for myself."

He understood why she didn't. For the same reason he'd pretended he knew how to chop wood. No one wants to admit to what they perceive—or worry others might perceive—as a failing. A guy not knowing how to chop firewood. An outdoor enthusiast who can't swim.

"We need a signal," he said.

"For…?"

"‘Ack! I need to talk to you! Now!' Which you did try to give me. So a signal plus a pact that we'll listen and not presume we know what the other person means, like me thinking you were just concerned I couldn't fish, when you were trying to tell me there were no fish."

"And a pact that we will signal, even if it means admitting to something embarrassing, like not knowing how to swim."

"I—" he began, and then made a face. "I was going to say I could teach you, but then I realized that if you live on a lake and don't swim, there's probably a reason."

She shrugged. "No huge trauma. Just something when I was a kid. First day of swimming lessons I got pushed in, and no one noticed until I passed out."

"Oh, is that all?" he said. "Nearly dying? Not traumatic at all."

"It wasn't like that. Not really." She pulled up her knees, hugging them with one arm. "Okay, a little, but mostly because it happened a few days after my dad walked out."

His breath caught, and when she glanced over, she was scrunching her nose in an expression that could seem like distaste, but he'd come to know was self-consciousness. She'd cracked open her door more than she intended to, revealing a vulnerability she'd rather keep hidden.

"It was fine," she said. "He was an ass, and we were better off without him."

Chris clamped back a reply. He wasn't a therapist, but even he was sure having a shitty father walk out still left a lasting dent in your psyche. Pairing that with a near drowning would explain why she didn't swim. In her place, he might not have even been able to live on a lake.

He sipped his hot chocolate, looked into the flames, and considered his next move. She'd opened up a little, and he really wanted to know more. Did he dare nudge that door? Zane would shove it open. Chris Ainsworth would just casually stroll in, as if he hadn't noticed it'd been closed. Chris Stanton would hover on the other side, frozen in uncertainty.

Maybe it was time to borrow from Zane and Ainsworth. Just a smidgen.

"I think you said you grew up in BC, right?" he said as offhandedly as he could. This wasn't exactly top secret data, he reminded himself. Just normal conversation between two people sitting on a deck, sharing cocoa and a fire and a setting sun. "Is your mom still there?"

A pause. Such a long pause. Okay, maybe it wasn't top secret data for most people, but Daphne wasn't most people. He'd overstepped.

He caught her expression, and his heart dropped.

"Oh," he said. "She's…" He struggled for a word. "Gone."

"Four years ago. Cancer." Daphne's fingers kneaded the blanket. "We had some warning. Time to do everything she wanted. Not enough time, but…"

She shrugged. Then she abruptly stopped kneading the blanket, and he was ready for a quick change of subject, but she smiled and said, "She's the one who convinced me to move up here after she was gone. I'd been in the Yukon on a project. I won the contract to design a government building. A small one. But still, I got to spend two seasons here and fell in love."

"You're an architect?"

She frowned at him. Then she made a face. "I never even mentioned that, did I? Sorry. I don't mean to be all secretive. If it's not something I have in common with Zane, it just wasn't important for you to know it. Yes, I'm an architect by trade. I run my own business, and I haven't taken on new projects since selling Edge, but I haven't quit, either. Writing isn't usually a forever job. Anyway, Mom knew I loved it here and encouraged me to buy property. I got lucky and found this."

"Did you…" He looked at the house. "Did you design this house?"

That shrug, pushing off anything that might lead to a compliment.

"Wow," he said. "That is—"

"Mom also encouraged me to write Theo's story."

Chris bit his cheek to keep from laughing at the way she dove into the topic change, like swerving to avoid an out-of-control eighteen-wheeler. If starting a compliment got her to switch tracks to other personal things, he was going to need to do that more often.

Still, the little she had revealed about the house told him something—that living up here was no temporary whim. The Yukon was her dream place, and she'd moved up here and built her dream home. That wasn't temporary.

Shit. He didn't want to think about what it meant for the hope of a committed relationship, and committed was the only way he was doing this. That wasn't selfishness, either. It was the dawning acknowledgment that a fling with Daphne would leave a bigger hole than if he'd never scratched that itch, because it was an itch that went a whole lot higher than his boxers.

He shook off that thought. She'd given him a chance to pursue a personal conversation, and he wasn't going to miss out on it.

"Your mom knew about Edge?" he said.

Daphne nodded. "It was a little different back then. The main character wasn't named Theo. And I wasn't writing it down. It was just a story I was telling Mom to get her through chemo. She made me promise to write it, which is why…"

Daphne turned away, looking over the lake.

"Why it's so important to you," he said softly.

"It is. Theodora was Mom's middle name. I've written other things, stories I thought were more likely to get published. Young adult postapocalyptic zombie novel? No one buys those these days. But I kept coming back to Theo. Not just for Mom, but because this was the story that spoke to me." Daphne lifted her mug. "How much booze did you put in this?"

"Why? You want more?"

She laughed and then said, "Actually, I might."

She started to rise, and then he lifted a thermos from under his blanket and passed it over.

"You're one step ahead of me," she said. "Thank you."

As she poured more spiked cocoa, he said, "So you moved up here after your mom passed. Any siblings back home?"

She shook her head. "It was just me and Mom. I have grandparents, all still living, all great, including my father's parents. He's in Asia or something. I haven't seen him in years. But his parents are wonderful to me, and they were wonderful to Mom. It's not their fault their son grew up to be an asshole." She passed back the thermos. "And you? Your family?"

Now he was the one shrugging. "Mom, Dad, older sister, two grandparents."

She peered at him. "I won't prod if you don't want to talk about them, but I hope you aren't holding back because I'm a little lacking in the immediate family department."

"Maybe. Sorry. They're great. Well, all except my sister. Gemma's a pain in the ass." He smiled over. "Kidding. Mostly. We're close. In fact, I just saw everyone last weekend, when we went fishing. Which I do know how to do, though admittedly it's a little different in the Pacific Ocean."

She smiled. "Just a little." She curled up, hands cupping her mug. "Tell me about it."

She had made up her mind. She was going to have a fling with Chris. Well, if he wanted one, obviously, and she suspected she was being optimistic even thinking she had a chance at that.

Yes, she'd told herself—repeatedly—that she wasn't emotionally capable of hookups, but maybe she was overreacting. Maybe it was a matter of finding the right guy, one she could trust. Chris seemed like he could be that guy.

As for more than a fling, she absolutely was not ready for that. She'd finally gotten her life on track after her mom's death, and it was more than "on track." She was living out her dreams, and she needed to get herself steady in that before she even thought of adding another dream. Especially when that dream—the one of someone to share her life—could destroy the rest. Finding someone willing to move up here and endure the strange lifestyle of an off-the-grid-living novelist? That was too tall an order. Maybe someday. Not now.

"More than a fling" wasn't an option anyway. Chris was out of her league.

Nia would give her shit for thinking that, but Daphne wasn't being modest. It was an objective fact, like when a prospective client offered her an architecture job and she had to acknowledge that she didn't have the skills—yet—to manage something that complex. There was reaching for the stars… and then there was telling someone you can get that star for them.

Chris was the whole package. Gorgeous, sweet, smart, and funny. Maybe someday he'd meet his perfect match—a neurosurgeon who'd modeled her way through med school—but until then, he was building his career and enjoying all the benefits that came with being a hot single guy in a big city. Couldn't blame him for that.

But while she knew she wasn't long-term partner material for him, her self-confidence was strong enough to know she was "weekend fling" material.

She'd been celibate far too long, and the more time she spent with Chris, the more she realized how badly she needed some fun. Safe, no-strings-attached fun.

If he made a move, she'd let him know that door was open. Wide open.

After staying on the deck until dark, Chris slept like the dead, not rising until sun blazed through the window, and he realized he'd forgotten to draw the blinds. He leapt up, certain he'd overslept and the crew would be there any moment.

It was six thirty.

Wide awake, he lay in bed, debating whether he could slip out and start coffee quietly enough when he caught the click of Tika's nails on the stairs and peeked out to see Daphne creeping silently toward the coffeemaker.

An hour later, they were deep into a walk with Tika, slurping coffee from travel mugs as they wandered along a lakeside trail. The water was absolutely still and veiled in lacy fog. Chris was resisting the urge to send photos to his parents and Gemma. He would, eventually. They knew he was "up north" for a few days "with friends." Nothing wrong with photos.

He hadn't been concerned that his family might accidentally see a picture of him as Zane Remington and recognize him. But now… well, now it was getting a little more complicated, with this TV segment and the media attention the book was getting. He still wasn't too worried. Zane didn't act or sound like Chris Stanton, and his clothing and hairstyles were totally different.

He should discuss all this with Daphne. For now, he was too busy enjoying walking and talking with her, surrounded by landscape where every turn looked like a postcard.

What would it be like to live here? He remembered what Daphne said about coming up and falling in love. He got it, he really did. The problem was that his life was in Vancouver, both personal and professional, and he wasn't ready to give that up, no more than Daphne would be willing to give up her dream home.

What about living here part-time? Could he telecommute? Contrary to Daphne's claims, she had both good satellite internet and good cell service.

What are you doing, buddy?

Thinking.

Maybe you should, I don't know, ask her out before you make plans to move in.

But he was an accountant after all. He considered all the factors. He knew what he wanted, and he had to be sure it worked before he chased it. What he wouldn't do was rush. No woman wanted a guy positioning himself as a friend, only to make the leap to more two seconds later.

Anything worth doing was worth doing right. And Daphne McFadden was definitely worth doing right.

Er, no, that didn't come out correctly either.

Still, not untrue.

Chris took a quick sip of his coffee and then cleared his throat. "So, what's it like up here in the winter?" he asked. Seriously? Why not just ask if she has an extra closet and a spare set of keys?

"Cold," she said with a smile. "But I like it better than the lower mainland, actually. I'm not good with the Pacific Northwest's idea of winter."

"Rain, rain, and more rain? Gray skies and icy drizzle?" He actually didn't mind the gray and mild winter.

"Yep. I prefer snow and sunshine. Once you have the snow, it doesn't feel that cold if you bundle up. Short days, but I kind of like that, too. It's like part-time hibernation—spend my mornings and evenings writing and reading by a roaring fire and my afternoons getting out and enjoying the snow."

"Winter sports?"

She nodded. "Up here, minus twenty doesn't keep people indoors." She waved at the lake. "I can hike or ski or snowshoe across it and visit areas I can't reach by foot in the summer. I'm thinking of biking across this winter, so I can go further."

"Biking?"

"With fat tires, of course. Winter doesn't keep Yukoners from their bikes. And then there are the sled-dog teams. They cross a few times a day."

"Sled dogs? That'd be cool." He looked at Tika, quietly wandering along the lake edge. "Do you pull sleds, girl?"

"She does. For me, at least. Sometimes for practicality—hauling wood. Sometimes just for fun. You should see her pulling me on a toboggan across the lake, running as fast as she can, loving it as much as I do. It's…" Daphne blushed, as if she'd shown undue enthusiasm. "It's fun."

"It sounds awesome. Can you clear the ice and skate?"

"Sure, there are always patches cleared for hockey—"

Tires crunched gravel. It sounded less than twenty feet away, but after nearly two days at Daphne's house, he'd learned that sound meant someone was driving down the mountain, hundreds of feet away.

When the crunching gravel got louder, he checked his watch.

"They're early again," Daphne said.

"Damn."

"Yep."

She straightened, relaxed-Daphne sliding away as she shifted into efficient-Dana mode.

Chris sighed, gulped his coffee, and pulled the glasses from his pocket. The crew's rental truck engine died, its doors squeaked, and he squared his shoulders and headed through the last hundred feet of forest to meet them.

Daphne didn't hurry to catch up. Enjoying the last moments of peace. He couldn't blame her. It had been such a nice morning… until they showed up.

Ahead he made out the distant shape of a figure. The male camera operator was a beefy, middle-aged guy with sandy brown hair. He must have gotten out of the truck early to snap a few shots of the lake through the trees.

"Morning," Chris called, just as Tika's low growl wafted from the lakeside.

Yep, don't blame you for that either, pup. Such a nice morning, interrupted.

"Chr-Zane!" Daphne called, and the alarm in her voice made him wheel. She seemed to be jogging toward him, but he couldn't see more than her shoulder and hip behind a tree. That's when he heard a low huff behind him and turned around as the bulky figure stepped from the shadows.

Chris looked up, way up, and realized this was absolutely not the cameraman. Even then, his brain didn't fully process what he was seeing. Brown hair. Huge shoulders, thick with fat and muscle as the figure moved with rolling steps, massive arms hanging down.

Massive paws with massive curved claws.

Chris lifted his gaze past six feet, past seven feet, at least eight feet in the air to look into the broad face of a…

"Grizzly," he whispered.