Finding Mr. Write, page 17
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHRIS
They were finally in the hotel. The meeting with Begum and McKay had run until nearly seven, and by then, they were both wiped out. It felt like a week’s worth of frustration and disappointment and hope all crammed into a few hours.
They hadn’t discussed the film meetings yet. Chris could tell from Daphne’s expression that she was, once again, a million miles away. This time, though, it wasn’t disengaging to protect herself; it was sinking into a whirling mass of thoughts, sorting through them all. Happy thoughts… or so he hoped.
As for him, he’d felt all that frustration and disappointment and hope along with her. Once in the car—another hired town car—he texted Gemma to see how her day had gone.
Gemma: I love the book! Still reading, but it’s exactly the break I needed.
Chris: I’m glad. How was today’s negotiation meeting?
Gemma: Can we talk about the book instead?
Chris: We sure can. What part are you at?
They’d continued like that until Chris and Daphne reached the hotel, which was so close they could have walked. Chris had wondered why they didn’t just stay at the meeting hotel, but after seeing that one, he’d presumed it was because that hotel—while suitable for Hollywood meetings—was not meant for mere writers, even if they were bestsellers.
He was wrong. Their hotel was equally nice, but tiny, the sort he knew from client accounting would be considered “boutique.” Which meant small and fancy rather than grand and fancy. Definitely no meeting space room here.
As they checked in, Daphne stayed quiet, giving only murmured answers to his questions, until they were upstairs.
“You want me to leave you alone for a while?” he said.
She turned and blinked, and he swore he could see her mentally rising to the surface.
Her eyes widened. “No. I’m so sorry. I’ve barely said five words—”
“It’s been an exhausting day. If you want a quiet night in with room service, that’s fine. If you want dinner out together, that’s fine, too. Totally your call.”
“I’m not ready to call it a night, but I’m not sure I want to go out and people.”
He smiled. “No peopling then. How about room service in your room? We can talk about the meetings, and you can kick me out whenever you’ve had enough.”
Or… not kick me out.
Nope, he wasn’t going there, however much he might want it.
Here’s the thing about hope, buddy. It only gets you so far. After that, you need to take matters into your own hands.
He’d wait and see how the evening went. Maybe a little flirting and, if that worked, a kiss.
Yep, definitely going to be taking things into your own hands tonight. Alone. In your shower.
“That sounds great,” Daphne said. “If you’re up for company.”
His brain was still stuck on what that inner voice had been saying, which put an entirely different spin on Daphne’s response.
Yeah, at this point, I think she could tell you her shower was broken and joke about sharing yours, and you’d only end up sitting on the bed while she used your shower.
“Chris?”
He shook it off. “Yes. I mean, that sounds good. Room service for two.”
Sigh…
“You okay?” she said. “You seem a little out of it. Tired?”
“No, no. Now let’s see your room. Make sure the shower’s working.”
She frowned, and he remembered that part of the conversation had been entirely in his head.
He shook his head and laughed. “Just kidding. The last time I was at a hotel, the shower was broken.”
“Ah.”
“If it is, you can always use mine.”
What the hell is that? It isn’t flirty. It doesn’t even make sense.
He quickly added, “That’s why we have adjoining rooms.”
He swore he heard that inner voice do an inner face-palm.
Daphne smiled and shook her head. “Long afternoon, wasn’t it?”
“The longest.”
“Think our rooms have a minibar?”
“If not, I’m telling them to bring the drinks up before dinner.”
“Excellent plan.” She opened her door and stepped in. “Oh my God.”
“What’s wrong?”
She wheeled, eyes widening. “The shower is broken.”
Run with it. Come on, you can do it. Take the ball and run—
“Couldn’t resist,” she said, squeezing his arm ever so gently. “Either this room is gorgeous or I’m so tired that anything with a bed looks like the Ritz.”
The ball is right there. Grab it and—
Daphne walked over to the bed and collapsed face-first on it with a little moan of pleasure.
If you fumble this, that’s it. I really and truly give up on you.
He walked over to stand at the foot of the bed, gave a dramatic pause, and then collapsed backward onto it.
Fine. This is acceptable. The ball is in play.
Daphne turned her face sideways, and he did the same.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he said.
She laughed softly. “Not a bad place to meet.”
“Not bad at all. I could joke about finally getting you in bed, but that seems a little…” He scrunched his nose. “Obvious?”
“And not really your style.”
“True. My style is more…” He reached one hand up to gently touch her face, as he met her eyes. “Hey.”
She blushed. Then she leaned into his hand—
His cell phone blared. It didn’t just ring. It blared. He snatched it up to hit Ignore, but as he did, Daphne leaned over and saw the caller.
“Lawrence,” she groaned as she sat up. “He’s waiting for an update.”
Chris realized that it was possible he’d never hated anyone quite as much as he hated Lawrence.
“It can wait,” he tried, but Daphne was already rubbing her eyes and rolling her shoulders, as if roused from sleep.
“I really should email him,” she said.
He tapped in a quick text to Lawrence and showed it to her. She nodded, and he hit Send. The message said that he was exhausted and wanted to collect his thoughts but would call soon.
That took care of Lawrence, but it didn’t rewind the clock. Daphne was up and adjusting her hair and looking everywhere except at him.
“Hey,” he said.
She glanced back at him, still stretched on the bed. Something flickered in her eyes. A flash of regret for a lost moment? Maybe they could recapture it.
No, recovering a moment was always awkward, and he was too good at awkward already. Also, didn’t he keep telling himself he wasn’t jumping into bed with her? Doing that—even semi-innocently—seemed guaranteed to derail his plan. Slow and steady.
He pushed up on one arm, propped on the bed. “Do you want to talk about the film stuff? Or shelve it for a while?”
“Both?”
She sat on the end of the bed. Close enough for him to reach over and tug her down into a kiss. He didn’t because, yeah, he might fumble the ball—a lot—but he also understood when he’d be grabbing for one she hadn’t thrown.
The moment had passed. She needed something else right now.
“Is that a bottle of bubbly?” he said.
She started to smile, as if he were joking, but then she followed his gaze to a basket on the desk. She bounced up and grabbed it, then returned to the end of the bed again and set the basket between them.
“Ooh, goodies,” she crowed. “From the film people. I guess this was supposed to be your room.”
“No, it’s supposed to be the author’s room. Which means the basket is yours. Let’s see what you have.”
The card on the basket said it’d been sent by Begum and McKay. Then the hotel had added in gifts from two others.
“Apparently, Zane Remington likes…” He lifted a bottle.
“Single-malt scotch.” She peered at him. “You don’t actually like scotch, do you?”
“Pfft. Of course I like—”
“Liar. I saw your face when you spotted that bottle.”
“It’s the brand.”
“But the one I gave you was a brand you like,” she says.
“Exactly.”
She leaned back on the bed, propped on her elbow facing his way. “Name it.”
“Glen… something? From Scotland?” He leaned back, too, and faced her. “I think it had a deer on the label. Or a thistle. I only know labels. That’s how I remember which one to buy.”
“Good. I mean, if you’d only said you liked scotch because you thought Zane would, I’d appreciate your honesty. But since you really do like it, when I get my first royalty check, I’m buying you a whole case of it.” She lifted a hand. “No, I insist.”
“I…”
“Hate scotch?”
“No, no, it’s just…”
She reached over, took the scotch bottle, and opened it.
“Screw glasses,” she said. “I’m going to be a cretin and drink single-malt straight from the bottle.” She took a slug, eyes watering as she gasped. “Wow. That’s good.” She held it out. “Your turn.”
He took the bottle.
“Bottoms up,” she said.
He braced himself, took a long drink, and—
He nearly dropped the bottle as he sputtered and coughed.
“Poor baby,” she said, patting him between the shoulder blades. “That just went down the wrong tube, didn’t it? Here, take another drink. That’ll help.”
He lifted his hands. “I surrender.”
“So you lied?”
He hesitated. She lifted the bottle.
“I lied,” he blurted.
“Totally lied.” She moved her face closer to his. Then both of them were lying on the bed. “Such a liar. A very sweet liar, who didn’t want to hurt the feelings of someone who got him a gift, but still…”
“Sweet?”
She sputtered a laugh. “I was going to say still a liar. But yes, also very…” Her gaze met his face less than a foot away. “… Very sweet.”
He inched forward, testing his welcome. She leaned toward him and—
His phone buzzed.
Lawrence: NP. Get back to me when you’re ready to talk.
Chris had never been the phone-throwing sort, but he finally understood the appeal.
He shoved the phone into his back pocket, looked over toward Daphne, and found himself staring at an empty space on the bed.
Daphne was sitting up, rifling through the basket.
I hate you, Lawrence. Oh, I’m sure you’re a very nice guy, and you did sell Daphne’s book for a crapload of money, which I appreciate, but I am still blocking your number.
“How about the bubbly?” Daphne said, waving the bottle.
He hesitated, but once again the moment had passed, and he had to trust it would return on its own.
It would. He’d make sure of that.
“Sure, break out the bubbly.”
“Can we talk about the meetings?” she said as she retrieved the glasses. “We really should get back to Lawrence. It’s after ten p.m. in New York, and he’s obviously waiting.”
And the longer he waits, the more he’ll call. “Let’s get this over with,” he said.
They talked about the meetings. Daphne didn’t care that the first four people had connections to the biggest studios. There was little point in having a TV adaptation if it didn’t at least fundamentally resemble your book. All she’d get from that was one-star reviews on the book because it wasn’t exactly like the show, plus emails from readers angry that she’d let them “ruin” her book.
She liked Begum and McKay, but just because they seemed like a good fit didn’t mean they would be. It also didn’t mean they’d commit to an option. Her agent wanted a paid option, and Chris wholeheartedly agreed.
An option meant they paid for the exclusive right to shop the project to studios for a set period. A shopping agreement was the same, except usually no money would change hands until a studio accepted the project.
Daphne deserved to be paid for taking her book off the film market. That was just common sense, but the market had apparently been slowly shifting toward freebies. Chris was glad Daphne’s film agent was holding out for better.
Chris ordered room service dinner while Daphne jotted notes for Lawrence. They’d decided to email him Zane’s thoughts instead of calling. If he—or Lucy the film agent—wanted to talk, that could wait until morning.
By the time dinner arrived, the email had been sent. Lawrence had replied with a thumbs-up and a promise to forward it to Lucy, which seemed to mean they could set that aside and await the next step.
They ate dinner in the sitting area, Daphne on the love seat, Chris in the armchair. Afterward, Chris answered a couple of business emails while Daphne did the same.
“Okay,” he said as he finished up the last one. “Work done, and it’s barely nine. Do you want to kick me out yet? Or chill and watch a show together?” He lifted his gaze from the phone, a grin sparking. “I think they have Netflix.”
He waited for her response. Was she going to snatch the bait, make some “Netflix and chill” joke that he could riff off of? That might be a way to get them back where they’d been earlier. Start a little double-entendre’ing that could lead to flirting that could lead to…
“D?” he said. She was sitting sideways on the love seat, facing the other way, laptop in place. One hand lolled on the floor. Chris scrambled to his feet.
“Daphne?”
Her lips parted in the softest snore.
Chris laughed under his breath. Seems she’d already made her plans for the evening, and he couldn’t blame her. She must be exhausted—early flight plus the roller coaster of the meetings this afternoon.
The question was: What to do with her? She was very soundly asleep and not in the most comfortable spot, with her feet dangling over the end.
Did he leave her and slip out? Did he carry her to bed? What if she woke up while he was putting her to bed and thought he had something else in mind?
Do you have something else in mind?
Of course not.
Then don’t worry about it. She knows you better than that.
True.
Yep, so maybe you should listen to me more often.
He ignored the voice and walked to the bed, where he pulled back the covers. Then he gently carried her over. She barely stirred. He set her down, pulled up the covers, and stood there, looking down at her.
Don’t make this creepy.
He wasn’t trying to make it creepy. He was taking a moment to look at her, so deeply asleep and peaceful, her dark hair spread over the pillow.
He bent over and very softly kissed her temple. “Sweet dreams, D,” he murmured. Then he slipped back to his own room.
DAPHNE
Daphne had dreamed of Chris. Floating in that semi-lucid state before waking, she wasn’t quite certain of the specifics of the dream, only that she wanted to slide back there and stay awhile. There’d been a bottle of scotch and a very sturdy tree and brownie batter, and she had no idea how all that had fit together—or if she wanted to know—but it didn’t matter because there’d also been Chris. Which was all any dream needed to make perfect sense.
When she couldn’t quite find the dream again, her brain surfaced but lingered there, writing its own version, because that was what she did. She told herself stories, and this one was still ephemeral, woven of sight and sound and smell and feeling. Mostly feeling. The feeling of his body against hers, his mouth against hers, the crushing need to get closer to him. The rest was a delicious jumble—a sliver of stubbled jawline, a whiff of peaty scotch, a soft laugh, a flash of his green eyes, the smell of evergreen trees, a low groan at her ear. She groaned back, pressing into the pillow, imagining it was him, his hands running down her back—
The buzz of her phone sent her flailing. One moment of confusion, followed by one very sharp surge of annoyance.
Goddamn it, Lawrence. If that’s you again—
Except Lawrence’s calls forwarded to Chris’s phone. She looked to see a name she didn’t recognize.
Sakura Mori.
Who was…?
Her new publicist.
Daphne fumbled to answer, only for her foggy brain to realize it was actually a text.
Sakura: Hey, so I can’t get hold of Zane, and I have both your numbers. Are we still on for breakfast?
With a groan, Daphne started to type back and say yes, they were still on and they’d see Sakura at nine. Then she saw the bedside clock.
9:15
She scrambled up and looked around. Her brain was still reorienting after that dream. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa, hadn’t she? Then why was she in bed? For one brief moment, she expected to look across the sheets and see Chris there.
The other side of the bed was empty, with the covers still turned up. Okay, so that hadn’t happened.
Was that a pang of disappointment?
Not exactly. Yes, she would hate to forget having sex with Chris, the memory reduced to a few sexy flashes of scotch, trees, and brownie batter. Still, if they did have sex, that would imply more sex was coming, and given the choice between forgetting the first time and never having a first, second, and third time…
Your publicist is waiting downstairs. For breakfast. While you stand here regretting the lack of amnesiac sex with Chris.
She reached to grab clothing… only to realize she was wearing it. Because he’d put her to bed fully dressed rather than take liberties, even innocently.
Was that disappointing?
Nope, it was sexy. Even sexier than erotic dreams of scotch and trees and—
Publicist. Late. Move!
She flew to the adjoining door, banged her fist against it… and the door opened, as if having not been properly shut. She caught one glimpse of Chris on his stomach, tangled in the covers, naked. Like totally naked, one twisted sheet covering his hip but riding up high enough to give a full cheek view—
He opened one eye and looked straight at her.
“Oh my God.” She stumbled back, smacked into the nightstand—that was going to bruise—and slammed the door. “I’m so sorry,” she called through it. “I knocked, and the door must not have been pulled shut.”
