Finding Mr. Write, page 7
CHRIS
Chris lay in bed. Sun peeked out from the bottom of the blackout blind, where he hadn’t pulled it down far enough. His watch said it was 8:25. He’d originally set his alarm for eight, not wanting to laze in bed while Daphne made breakfast, but after their late night, he’d reset it for nine so he wouldn’t wake her by thumping around.
Last night…
When he’d first gone to bed, he hadn’t been able to sleep. The house was so quiet. Like, completely and eerily quiet. He’d spent the last eight years living in downtown Vancouver, where he slept with white noise to cover the traffic. Here, he’d almost been tempted to play the white noise to fill the silence. That had seemed sacrilegious, though, so he’d gotten up instead.
After that hour talking to Daphne and enjoying the night scenery, he’d zonked out and slept harder than he had in months. It was only when light blazed that he’d bolted up, the bright strip of sunshine screaming that he’d slept until noon. He hadn’t. The sun rose earlier here than at home.
Now he was awake and thinking of last night. Of their time on the deck. Of how he’d forgotten to be Chris Ainsworth. He’d been sleepy, not thinking straight, and just forgot. He should be in full-on panic mode right now, desperate to repair the damage. He wasn’t because… well, because there didn’t seem to have been any damage.
He’d been himself, and Daphne hadn’t reacted at all.
No, that wasn’t quite right. She hadn’t reacted negatively. She’d been more relaxed and comfortable than he’d ever seen her.
The early evening had started fine, with them on the couch talking about writing and accounting, but there’d still been an awkwardness because he had to play Chris Ainsworth. Later, when he’d forgotten the act, it’d been magic. He hadn’t felt that comfortable with anyone in years. He’d wanted to stay out there all night, talking and laughing and just being with her.
This could be something. He’d suspected that for a while, but now he was sure of it. He had something with Daphne. Something he’d been looking for, even if he hadn’t realized it. The possibility of a committed relationship. Not a fling. Not a brief affair. Something real.
And how would that work? She lives two hours away—by plane. Do you expect her to upend her life and move to Vancouver with you? Or are you going to leave your own life behind, leave all your family and friends, to come up here?
He pushed that aside. Just because he wanted more than a fling didn’t mean he had to work through living arrangements before the first kiss. Put the cart back behind the horse.
The point was that he wanted to start something with Daphne, and wherever it ended up, it had to start with intention.
That meant he had to take this slow. Let her get to know him.
Get to know Chris Stanton.
He needed to tell her the truth before the film crew arrived. Give her time to assimilate it before they got here.
I’m not actually an actor, Daphne. I’m an accountant.
It’s more than that. I’m not the guy I’ve been playing, either. I created Chris Ainsworth to be what I figured you’d expect. A little dense. A little self-absorbed. A little bit of a dick. Not too much, but yeah, Chris Ainsworth was a struggling actor who’d throw himself into the role of Zane Remington and be whatever you needed.
Yet he’d proven that he—Chris Stanton, chartered accountant—could be Zane Remington.
Or had he? This film segment would be his first live performance. Maybe he should wait until afterward.
No. He had to tell her so they could resolve this before the crew arrived. Give her all the time she needed to regain her equilibrium before those cameras turned on, because this segment was a huge deal.
So maybe he should get past the filming first? Not do anything to give her cause for concern?
Chris’s fingers itched for his laptop. This required a balance sheet—in favor and against coming clean pre-TV-segment. But he’d left his laptop at home because it wasn’t a Chris Ainsworth accessory. Maybe if he could find some paper? Daphne was a writer. She’d have paper, right?
He’d draw up a balance sheet to help him weigh—
Downstairs, Tika erupted in a canine Invasion! Invasion! alert. Chris strode into the bathroom and looked out the window to see a truck rolling down the long drive.
The vehicle stopped, and a woman got out of the passenger seat. A woman who looked like she shopped at the same place he had when assembling his outdoorsy Zane wardrobe. She wore an orange puffer vest over a long-sleeved shirt, trail shorts, thick hiking socks, and boots.
The film crew.
He was almost out of the bedroom before an odd chill stopped him. He looked down to remember he was still naked and snatched clothing from the chair as he raced past.
When he reached the hallway, he realized he’d grabbed his sweats, which was far too “Chris” for a first impression.
What would Zane Remington do, surprised by an early film crew first thing in the morning? He spotted his Zane glasses, and put them on along with his boxers. Glasses and underwear. Fully dressed. At least for Zane.
Chris galloped down the stairs to find Daphne trying to corral Tika. The dog barked ferociously at the door, as if the knocking signaled a battering ram.
“It’s the film crew,” Chris whispered, as if the crew might hear him through a solid steel door, with a dog barking.
Daphne’s eyes widened, and her watch-bearing arm shot up.
“They’re early,” he said. “Really early.”
She looked down at herself, dressed as she’d been last night, in track shorts and an oversize tee that didn’t disguise the fact she wasn’t wearing a bra. Not that he’d noticed.
Hell, yeah, he’d totally noticed. And was noticing again… and feeling the reaction of noticing.
“Tika!” He reached for the dog, his hand going to her collar. “Let’s greet our guests while Daphne changes.”
I am totally not using your dog as cover for a very inconvenient morning hard-on. Nope, nope, nope.
He led Tika to the door while mentally reciting bond-amortization-method formulas.
“Chris?” Daphne said.
He glanced over. She waved at his lower half, and his cheeks heated, certain she’d noticed—
“You’re, uh, only wearing boxers,” she said.
“And glasses.”
She sputtered a laugh. “Yes, and glasses.”
“Think they’ll object?”
She paused. “‘Object’ is not the word I’d use.”
“Then I’m good to go. Tika and I will distract them while you dress.”
He waited until she’d gone back into the room, and not at all because he was watching her track shorts ride up—
This dog isn’t going to shield you forever, buddy.
Chris turned away from the view and called “Just a moment” to the crew banging on the door. Did his voice drop an octave when he did? Possibly.
He got behind the door, his hand still on Tika’s collar. She’d quieted, and if he wanted, he could take pride in that. Her person was safely in her room, and Tika trusted that together, the two of them could protect Daphne from whatever lay beyond that door.
In truth, Tika probably only cared about the first part. Daphne was safe, and Chris… Well, whatever, dude. You’d make fine cannon fodder.
Chris unlocked the door and yanked it open. Something beeped. A camera? Already? He fixed on his best Zane smile, a little smug, a little Why yes, I am Zane Remington, newly minted #1 New York Times bestselling author. Tika twisted in his grip, and he glanced down to see the dog giving him serious side-eye.
He lifted his gaze to the newly arrived crew and let his smile grow a fraction. “Why hello. Welcome to my humble abode.”
The woman in the orange puffer vest stared for a second. Then her gaze slipped down him and back up.
“Well, hello, Mr. Remington,” she said.
“Please excuse my terribly inappropriate attire,” he said. “I didn’t expect you this morning, and I was up late writing.”
Tika wrenched from his grip, backing away and growling at the very moment an alarm wailed. A car alarm? His gaze shot to the truck outside, only to realize the wail came from the house.
That beeping, you idiot. It was the security system, warning you to disarm it after you opened the door.
Shit! He locked his knees before scrambling back into the house. He was Zane Remington, who would not panic, despite the siren wailing over their heads.
“My apologies!” he shouted to be heard over the alarm. “Let me fix that!”
He backed up, and Tika nearly knocked him over to get inside ahead of him. He thought she was running from the sound. Instead, she blocked his entry, her legs planted.
You are not the guy I let pet me last night. You are that jerk from yesterday, and you are not coming back into my house.
No, it was more like You are not getting near my person again.
“It’s okay, Tika!” he called, voice rising so everyone could hear. “I know you hate the alarm!”
He sidestepped, prepared for Tika to lunge, but she wasn’t that kind of dog. She just fixed him with a look that said she was not happy at this reversion of character. Not happy at all.
Chris strode to the alarm panel, its red light flashing. And then he remembered that Daphne had offered to show him the code… and he’d said no.
He didn’t know the security code for his own house.
Chris lifted his chin. Calm. Imperious. He lived in the wilderness. He was a bestselling author. He had an MFA.
He tapped random numbers on the keypad. Then he frowned, his most thoughtful, authorial frown. “How odd,” he said. He tapped the same numbers.
“Mr. Remington?” the woman said.
One bead of sweat formed at his temple. “How very odd,” he said, and prayed his voice sounded steady.
Uh, don’t worry about that, buddy. She can’t hear it over the screaming security alarm that you cannot turn off despite it allegedly being your house.
A blur appeared to his right. It was Daphne, running for the alarm.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said, wedging between him and the panel. Her fingers flew over the keypad, and the alarm stopped.
She shook her head at Chris. “You forgot the new code, didn’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned to the woman. “I changed it yesterday when we had a security concern. I told Mr. Remington the new code but…” She rolled her eyes. “You know writers. He was so caught up in work that he obviously wasn’t listening. Again.” She passed Chris an affectionately exasperated smile.
“And that is why I have you, my dear,” he said, finding his Zane voice and ignoring Tika’s warning growl. “You keep me on track even when the muse steals me away.” He turned to the woman. “May I introduce my incomparable and indispensable housekeeper—”
“—Dana,” Daphne said. “But the person you’re here to see is Mr. Remington. I’ll just trot upstairs and make coffee while he dresses.” She stage-whispered with a smile, “Clothing, sir. I know that brain of yours is busy plotting the next book, but you should probably put on some clothing.”
She headed for the stairs. “Coffee, tea, and freshly baked muffins will be ready in twenty minutes.”
DAPHNE
I’m not ready. I’m not ready at all.
As Daphne baked the prepared muffin batter, that was the refrain that kept running through her head, only to be countered with another.
You don’t need to be ready.
This isn’t about you.
It’s Zane. It’s all Zane.
And how did she feel about that? Such a good question. It was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Let a professional be the center of attention while she melted into the background, freed to focus on her work. That was what she did as an architect, and it was the way she liked to work.
Write the books. Stay in the background. Let Chris do his thing.
Yet she really was putting her career in his hands, wasn’t she? How much did she trust him to play Zane Remington?
Such a good question.
She’d come to trust him to do short interviews. They got the same questions on repeat, and he riffed on her database of answers.
But this was live. It was up close and personal… and he hadn’t even read the damn book.
The timer went off. As Daphne grabbed the oven mitts, voices drifted in from outside.
Chris took them outside?
She should have shown him around yesterday. A fifteen-minute tour of the property so he could give the same to the crew when they arrived.
When they arrived this afternoon. She thought she had time.
“A target?” the interviewer—Sofia—said down below. “Ooh, looks like someone knows how to hit a bull’s-eye. What kind of gun do you use, Zane?”
Daphne tripped over her feet running for the patio door. Even if Chris knew guns, he’d have no idea what kind she had.
“Whatever tool serves the purpose,” Chris said below. “That’s what guns are up here, whether it’s hunting or defending. They’re a tool. Never a toy.”
Okay, that was a good answer. Daphne held the patio door open a crack as she eavesdropped.
“Of course,” Sofia murmured. “But I’m sure our viewers would like a little insight into the tools you use. What’s your favorite gun?”
Daphne yanked open the door, ready to call… something. Anything.
“Actually,” Chris said. “This may come as a surprise, but I prefer the smaller weapons. I know, some men like them big, and I’m not going to say anything about that”—he fake-coughed into his hand while saying “overcompensation,” making everyone laugh—“but I prefer the smallest weapon that will do the job. Now, if you come over here, you’ll get the best view of the lake.”
“In a minute,” Sofia said. “Leaving guns aside for a moment, let’s talk about archery. Your bio says—”
Daphne lunged out the door just as an acrid smell tickled her nose.
The muffins! Shit!
She shouted, “Coffee break!” a little too loudly and then dashed to rescue the burning muffins.
CHRIS
Was there anything better than this? Sitting on a deck, overlooking a wilderness paradise of lakes and mountains, with a mug of freshly ground coffee in one hand and a freshly baked muffin in the other? There was even a dog. Tika was stretched on the deck, panting softly as the crew tried to coax her over with muffin bits. She was having none of it, having firmly planted herself at the feet of her person. Even that only added to the perfection of the scene, a gorgeous woman with her loyal canine standing guard.
The only thing that would make this moment better?
If he could choke down a bite of the muffin or a sip of the coffee. Oh, there was nothing wrong with either. The coffee smelled incredible, and he knew from yesterday that the taste lived up to the advertising. The muffin was a little brown at the edges, but that was how he liked them.
The problem was his stomach, which had twisted into a hard knot that refused to accept even a nibble.
He’d led Daphne to believe he could pull off the macho Zane stuff, and he couldn’t, and that was…
… humiliating.
Oh, he knew it shouldn’t be. Knowing how to chop wood or shoot a gun wasn’t a requirement for being male, but it kinda felt like it.
How did he admit he was nothing like Zane? That he hadn’t even camped since he was a kid?
He’d thought he’d dodged the gun question, but it was only a matter of time before Sofia returned to it. He had to tell Daphne the truth. Now. She had to know he didn’t have the experience he claimed and wasn’t an actor who could even be relied upon to act the part.
He only had so many chances before Sofia realized Zane’s bio was fake. That could ruin Daphne’s career. If Daphne knew the truth, they could come up with a plan, one she would be—he hoped—confident that her partner was competent and self-aware enough to follow.
Let’s just hope she agreed, and she didn’t kick his ass out for lying.
Oh, I’m sorry, Sofia, but Zane came down with a sudden illness and won’t be able to finish the interview. I hope you got enough footage.
“Zane?”
Hearing Daphne’s voice, he snapped out of it, only to see everyone looking at him expectantly, which suggested someone had been saying “his” name for a while now.
“Lost in plotting again, huh?” Daphne said, rolling her eyes for Sofia. “He is such a writer.”
“Occupational hazard,” he said with a smile.
Sofia leaned his way. “I was just saying that I’d love to get some footage of you holding a rifle. Can we do that? Show us your guns?”
He stretched his arm out and popped his biceps, but it only got polite laughs before Sofia lasered in on him again.
“I’d like to see you handling the rifles,” she said. “Talk about them, load them, maybe fire a few rounds at a target?”
Okay, he wasn’t overreacting. This line of questioning wasn’t going to end, and he needed Daphne’s collaboration to pull it off. For the sake of her book.
Chris hid his panic with a thoughtful frown. “Is that really such a good idea?” Before Sofia could speak, he continued, lowering his voice. “Edge is intended for young adults. Teenagers. Yes, in the book, Theo uses firearms for survival, and at some point, we could discuss that and I could show the sort of gun she might use. But, given the intended audience, I would hate to do anything that might seem like I’m glorifying firearms.”
“He has a point,” Daphne said quickly. “Readers might like to see what sort of rifle Theo uses, but it really should be framed as educational. Like showing the landscape she inhabits.” Daphne waved at the wilderness.
“What type of gun does she use?” Sofia said.
“A Browning composite rifle,” Daphne blurted. “Which Zane has in his locker—Oh, you were asking Zane. Sorry. I’m the keeper of his series bible, and I got excited by the chance to show off.”
“Yes,” Chris said. “I’ll show you Theo’s rifle. First, though, might I suggest you get some more footage of this lovely, pristine wilderness? I’m going to help Dana tidy up.”
