Finding Mr. Write, page 5
It rankled so much. And now Chris had witnessed her humiliation, watching her be all sugar-sweet to such an asshole.
“Do you want to drive?” Chris asked, holding up the keys.
Yep, compared to Robbie, Chris was a sweetheart.
Daphne took the keys and whistled for Tika. The dog eyed Chris, and for a moment, Daphne thought she wasn’t going to get into the car. But after giving him a careful once-over, the dog hopped in, as if maybe the guy wasn’t so bad after all.
You and me both, pup. You and me both.
As Chris walked to the passenger door, her brain pulled up a snapshot from five minutes ago, when she’d rounded the corner to see him lounging on the hood of the car, in his expensive loafers and pressed jeans and button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows. He’d looked like one of those intentionally incongruous advertisements that strode the line between quirky and stylish. An ad for that scotch she’d bought him.
Why, yes, my clothing and my vehicle are completely unsuited to this environment, but a man who looks like me is at home wherever he goes.
And this was the guy who’d be lounging around her home for three days.
CHAPTER FIVE
CHRIS
Holy shit, this place was amazing.
The line stuck on repeat in his mind as Daphne drove down the wooded drive. Then the drive opened to the house and the lake and…
Holy shit.
This was Daphne’s house. She woke up to a view straight out of a wilderness resort brochure.
He had to stop gawking like an idiot. Chris Ainsworth would not gawk. Ainsworth was “something of an outdoorsman,” he’d told Daphne in that tone that said he was being modest. Like Zane, Ainsworth fancied himself a man of the natural world, as at home chopping wood as mixing dirty martinis for two. He was not going to get out of his vehicle gushing and gaping like a city mouse who rarely set foot outside Vancouver.
So Chris swung open his door and—keeping his gaze away from the vista—he got his luggage and followed Daphne inside.
As she explained, the second floor was actually the main level, to take full advantage of the view. Perhaps, but the view that knocked the mountains from his mind was the one provided while she led him up the stairs, Chris’s gaze on level with her ass.
“I didn’t show you the door code,” she said, stopping abruptly. “Do you want to do that now?”
He tried to get his brain to catch up with her words, but he could only make some incoherent noise she obviously took as no. She continued up the steps. He let her get two above him, just to give her space, not at all because he was a lech who wanted that view of her ass again.
“That’ll be your room,” she said, pointing once they reached the top of the stairs. “You can put your stuff in there.”
He walked into the room, and his gaze immediately fell on a king-size bed, the covers pulled so tight he couldn’t help imagining pulling her onto them, bouncing down onto the cool sheets as the midday sun shone in—
“This is your room,” he said.
“I’m taking the guest room downstairs.”
“What? No. I’m the guest. Just show me where—”
“You’re the homeowner, remember? This is the main bedroom.”
His mouth worked for a moment. “The film crew isn’t going to come in here.”
“I can’t take that chance. Nothing can suggest this isn’t your house, including the bedrooms.”
She walked out. Still carrying his duffel, he followed.
“This isn’t right,” he said. “It’s your home.”
“For the next two days, it’s yours. I’m the maid.”
“What?” He stepped into her path. “No, Daphne. Absolutely not. If you want to stick around, you can be my girlfriend.”
“Can I?” Definite sarcasm there, and he heard his tone and inwardly winced. As Chris Ainsworth, though, he couldn’t let that show. He rolled his shoulders and leaned against the wall. “Sure. They’d buy it. Guy like Zane’s bound to have a girlfriend. Or three.” His lips twitched when he said it, but her look only darkened.
“No, Chris, I’m not playing part of Zane’s harem.”
“I was kidding. You and Zane would be exclusive. You’re a fellow writer he met online, both working on your novels, and you helped him with Edge.”
“I helped him?”
Chris adjusted his lean, warming to his subject. “Helped a lot. He couldn’t have done it without you. You’re like…”
“His muse?”
“Exactly. You’re smart and gorgeous and a great writer, and you inspire him—”
“I inspired him to write my book?” She stepped toward Chris. “Do you know how many men in history have taken credit for books written by their wives and girlfriends? I realize that I’m perpetuating that already, and I don’t feel good about it, but there is no way in hell I’m going to play your girlfriend, your muse, the wannabe writer gazing up at you adoringly, drinking in your every word, dreaming of someday being half as good as you.”
Daphne’s eyes blazed as she moved closer, and he swore he could feel the heat radiating off her. She looked magnificent, strumming with life, fiery and furious.
Furious with you, idiot. Stop mooning. Reverse course or you are going to be sleeping in that lake, possibly at the bottom of it.
“I—I see your point. I’m sor—” That’s not Ainsworth. He lifted one shoulder in a shrug while offering that most nonapologetic of apologies. “I’m sorry if you were offended. I just wanted to be sure you had a role.”
“I do have a role. Caretaker. I clean your house and cook your meals so you can write, and I will do so off camera, because we need to tread very carefully and pray no one I know watches the show and recognizes my house.”
Shit. He hadn’t thought of that. “Good point.”
“An excellent point, which is why I didn’t want…” She shook her head. “I’m playing caretaker because it makes sense. I’m not doing it to be pissy. Let’s just get through this interview, and then we’ll discuss long term how we want to handle the in-person obligations, so we’re on the same page. For now, settle in, maybe go for a walk. I’ll make dinner.”
CHRIS
A walk sounded like a fine plan. Get out of Daphne’s hair and explore her property. That would work so much better if he could get off the porch.
He looked down at Tika, standing in front of him, her fur bristling as she growled.
“I was given permission to leave,” he said. “In fact, right now, I think she’d rather I left.”
Tika just kept growling. Not forcing him back inside, he suspected, but warning him off the property entirely.
Dogs usually liked him. He’d spent the last decade dreaming of a house with a yard so he could get one again. The problem was that in Vancouver, unless you had a few million to spare, you weren’t getting a yard. He’d been looking at the suburbs, weighing his need for a yard and dog against the convenience of a commute he could bike in ten minutes.
Then came the thieving partner and the lawsuits. Now the lawsuit was being settled and his firm looked poised to survive the reversion to single-partner. All thanks to Nia. Well, Nia and Daphne, because without this job he might have been filing for bankruptcy. Now he was recovering his equilibrium and his business, plus he had the income from playing Zane Remington.
The income from playing Zane. Earned as Daphne’s employee. Not a partner in her business. Which meant he damned well shouldn’t be making business decisions for her, like accepting a film interview. Especially when that meant kicking her out of her bedroom for two nights and forcing her to play hostess. Worse? He hadn’t accepted because he truly thought her publisher wouldn’t take no for an answer. He accepted so he could spend time with her and prove himself.
Prove himself? Yeah, as the kind of guy who’d accept an interview on her behalf and then make her sleep in the guest room while playing caretaker to his cut-rate Ernest Hemingway.
“I screwed up,” he told Tika. “But I’m going to make it up to her. I’m giving the best damned interview ever, and then, afterward, I’m going to tell her the truth.”
And upon hearing that heartfelt confession, Tika curled her lip, clearly unimpressed.
“I’m going to start by being helpful,” Chris continued. “Right this second. I’ll do something to pay her back for having me here. I’ll cut the lawn.”
He looked around. There was no lawn. It was forest, with a meadow that wasn’t meant to be trimmed. Then his gaze lit on something halfway between the side porch at the lake. An axe wedged in a piece of cut wood.
That’s what neighbor-dude offered to do, wasn’t it? Chop wood for Daphne. She’d refused because she was capable of cutting her own wood. But she was busy dealing with an unexpected guest, so he could do this for her.
Chris had never actually chopped wood. The requirements, though, as he understood them, were threefold. An axe, which was right there. Wood, which was strewn throughout the forest. And a bit of muscle.
He flexed, his biceps popping. “I do believe I have everything I need.”
He swore the dog rolled her blue eyes. Yet she made no move to stop Chris, and he strode past her to find suitable lengths of fallen wood in the forest.
DAPHNE
Daphne breathed deeply as she chopped vegetables, struggling to recover her equilibrium, which would have gone better if she weren’t chopping onions. Tears were streaming down her face, and she wiped her eyes on her shoulder and sniffled.
No tears allowed. No misplaced anger. No awkward annoyance. She’d told Chris that giving him the main bedroom wasn’t about her being pissy, and while that was true, she’d felt pissy at that moment, especially when he’d suggested she play his muse. It made sense to be the caretaker, but part of her had been mulishly digging in to make a point.
She knew the interview was a prime opportunity. New Gotham magazine plus a segment on their show? Just this morning, her editor had emailed her the review that would accompany the article, and it was the equivalent of a full-spread color ad. From a business standpoint, there was zero reason to be pissy. From a writer standpoint, though…
It stung. She hadn’t realized how much until Chris suggested she play his girlfriend. With that came the realization that she’d pandered to the very system she’d railed against.
Editors and agents might take a man’s book more seriously? I’ll submit my book as a man and hire a man to play me while I sleep in the guest room and make his meals. Ha! That’ll show them!
The fact that she’d sold the book as Zane didn’t necessarily prove that playing a man helped. It might have been the different cover letter. It might have been the different attitude she adopted as Zane—the confidence and the ego and sense that she didn’t need to soften her communications with exclamation marks and smiley faces.
None of that was Chris’s fault. She needed to treat him like a guest, not growl at him like an intruder.
Speaking of growling, she should make sure Tika wasn’t bothering Chris. She had no idea what was up with the dog. A little voice whispered that she should heed Tika’s caution. Didn’t people always say that dogs could see through whatever persona a stranger adopted? If a dog didn’t like you, it was a bad sign. Except that Tika’s “bad dude” sense was clearly defective if she tolerated Robbie.
Daphne finished chopping vegetables and went to the front window, knife still in hand. She looked out and—
—the knife dropped, almost skewering her foot. She yanked open the patio door and raced outside.
“Stop!”
Chris froze in place, axe lifted like a baseball bat.
“What the hell are you doing?” she shouted, which was a mistake, clearly prompting him to demonstrate, the axe swinging down—
“Stop!” The word came as a shriek now while Daphne clambered down the steps.
Chris froze.
She lifted her hands. “Do not move. Please.”
She jogged past Tika, who was watching Chris, her tail wagging in anticipation of the bloodshed to come.
“Lower the axe carefully,” she said. “Do not swing it.”
“I’m just cutting up this limb.”
“If you continue on that trajectory, the only limb you will cut is your own.”
She took hold of the axe shaft and placed her hands over his. Then she carefully followed through with the swing, the blade missing the tree piece and stopping an inch from his lower leg.
“Oh,” Chris said. “Huh.”
She took the axe from him. “When’s the last time you chopped wood?”
“It’s… been a while.”
“Let me rephrase. Have you ever chopped wood?”
“Uh…” He shifted his weight. “I think the axe I used before was different. It’s all about the tools, right?” He held out his hands. “Let me try that again.”
Daphne tightened her grip on the axe and made a mental note to lock it in the utility shed. “I don’t need wood, Chris. I have tons.” She motioned to the piles stacked tight between pairs of trees. “That’s just part of it. I have two cords of seasoned wood, and I’ll add more in the fall.”
“Huh. So why was that guy offering to chop wood for you?”
“Because he’s…” An asshole looking for a better place to live. “Because he’s a good neighbor. I’ll take this and finish making dinner. Why don’t you go for a walk with Tika? I’ll bring down the bear spray.”
“Bear spray? What for?”
“The squirrels. They’re very dangerous this time of year.”
He paused for a beat and then chuckled. “That’s a joke, right? The bear spray is for bears.”
“It is.”
“So I should spray myself with it. Bear repellant.” When she hesitated, he smiled. “That was a joke, D. I spray them in the eyes.”
“Only if they show signs of aggression. Otherwise, you retreat slowly while making yourself as big as possible. Don’t turn your back. Don’t run.”
“You, uh, seem like an expert. Get attacked by bears a lot?”
“I’ve only encountered two black bears on trails. Both walked away. It’s safe. The spray is an extra precaution. Let me go inside and grab it.”
DAPHNE
After dinner, Daphne didn’t know what to do with Chris. They’d talked for an hour as they’d prepped for the filming. Then he’d gone out onto the deck with a beer. Being early June in the north, the sun was still blazing down, even as the clock struck nine. The deck faced south, which meant it got hot, and he’d stripped off his shirt. Now he was lounging, shirtless, against the railing, gazing out over the lake as he chugged his beer.
At the risk of objectifying the guy, it was like coming home to find that a friend had snuck a cool new piece of tech into her home. A moment’s pause of Where did this come from? followed by a heartfelt I don’t care, but I know exactly what I want to do with it.
Her gaze sliding down his perfect abs to the button on his jeans.
Didn’t Nia insist there was something to be said for spontaneity?
Daphne shook her head sharply. There would be none of that. Even if she somehow declared herself ready for a fling, this was her employee. Thinking about him that way was wrong.
Right?
It was wrong, wasn’t it?
Forget about finding something to do with Chris. He was busy soaking up the evening sun and enjoying his beer.
She eyed him again and sighed. First stop: a cold-water splash. Then she’d pull out her laptop and get some work done. She had a few new scenes to write for the sequel, and none of them involved anything even mildly sexy, thank God.
Daphne settled in. It always took a few minutes for her muse to get going—like starting her pickup midwinter after forgetting to plug in the heating block. A few cranks of the engine, and it was primed, the scene roaring—
The hairs on her neck prickled, and she lifted her gaze to see Chris, still shirtless, now poised on the other arm of the sectional sofa, watching her.
She started to close her laptop.
“No no, keep going,” he said.
She shook her head. “I thought you were busy, so I was just finishing a scene.”
“Continue, please. I’ve never seen you write.”
“It’s not much of a spectator sport. How about we—?”
“I’d like to watch, if that’s okay with you.” He leaned forward with a quick grin. “That didn’t sound right, did it? Watch you write, I mean.”
Her mind hadn’t even peeked down that other possible path until he mentioned it. Damn him.
Was there any excuse that might convince him to put on his shirt?
We get a lot of mosquitos in the house. You may want to cover up.
He continued, “If I’m going to play a writer, I should know how it’s done. I won’t bother you. I promise.”
She opened her mouth to tell him, more firmly, that she could not write while being watched. Then she remembered her resolve not to snap at him.
“Okay,” she said. “But be warned, it isn’t very exciting.”
She twisted just enough that he was out of her line of sight. Then she resumed the scene, slowly at first, the motor cold again. After a few lines, the engine caught and—
“Why that word?”
Daphne jumped and twisted to find Chris leaning over her shoulder.
“I was noticing your word choices,” he said. “Like that one there. You used ‘ensnared’ instead of ‘caught.’”
“Uh-huh.”
He eased back. “I’ve often wondered that about authors. How do they decide when to use five-dollar words instead of five-cent ones? Is it to help readers build their vocabulary?”
Or to show off their own vocabulary?
He didn’t say that, but she heard it, and swallowed the snarky comeback.
Be nice.
Deep breath. “Sometimes a fancier word has a nuance the plain one doesn’t. Other times you’ve used the plain one twice already on that page, and you need a synonym to avoid echoes. In this case, it’s dialogue from a pompous ass. He’d use ‘ensnared.’”
