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She wasn’t sure how she felt anymore. After Sakura left, she’d been a mess. A puddle of regret and guilt and, buried at the bottom, the tiniest spark of anger.
Milner had made her feel as if she’d committed the worst betrayal in the most brazen and thoughtless way. That wasn’t what she’d intended, and she was eager to fix her mistake. But no one seemed to be listening, much less giving her any clues as to how this could affect her career.
Before catching their flight, she’d called Nia for advice. Then Daphne and Chris had spent that flight sketching plans for every possible outcome and contingency. And now they were in their hired car heading to the hotel. She used the middle seat belt so she could sit right against Chris, taking comfort in his arm around her shoulders.
Had there been a moment when she’d wondered whether she should set him free in case he got caught in the crossfire? Yes, but it had only been a flicker of animal panic before she realized that he was an adult. If he wanted out, he’d say so.
When the car pulled to the curb, she peered through the window and frowned, not seeing a hotel. Chris opened the door and helped her out, his hand around hers as he led her toward…
“A bakery?” she said.
“Claims to have the best brownies in town,” he said. “We’re about to test that. Along with samples from two other places claiming the same.”
Her eyes teared up. She hadn’t shed a single one since the news dropped. She’d been too numb, too frightened, too humiliated. Now, standing outside this bakery, Chris’s hand in hers, the tears came.
He didn’t miss a beat, just shielded her from any passersby and hugged her.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said. “Even if I have to print out copies of Edge myself and stand on a street corner in a Speedo to sell them.”
She hiccupped a laugh. “You just might.”
“Then I will. Me, on the corner, in a skimpy bathing suit with a tray of baked goods, for those who prefer cupcakes to beefcake. But I won’t have to because the book will sell itself.”
She nodded, and she was glancing at the bakery when her phone rang. Every muscle tensed, and she yanked out her phone.
The number on the screen wasn’t in her contact list, but it was a New York area code.
She hesitated, and then answered carefully. “Daphne speaking.”
“Daphne McFadden, author of At the Edge of the World?”
Her hand gripped the phone tighter. Not her publisher. Someone from the media? Had Robbie’s niece gone ahead and leaked the story?
“It’s Lawrence Capano,” the man said. “Your agent.”
She crumpled. Chris caught her, alarm on his face, but she shook her head and stepped away.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Lawrence exhaled. “I know. Your message said that at least a half dozen times. I’m sorry it’s taken so long to call. I was out of cell range this morning, and after I got your message, I had to make some calls and check on a few things to prepare. Do you have a moment to talk?”
“Yes. Please.”
CHRIS
They were back where they’d begun the day. In bed. And “in bed” in a good way, not huddled under the covers waiting for this hellish day to end.
The call with Lawrence had helped a lot. The agent wasn’t thrilled, but he’d been more understanding than Daphne dared hope. Chris wasn’t as surprised. Lawrence had always seemed like a decent guy, and Chris suspected he had pulled up that first query letter and done a bit of soul searching. What if it had been signed “Daphne McFadden”? Would he have set it aside as just another grown-up Hunger Games and Divergent fangirl writing young adult dystopian? Did putting “Zane Remington, MFA” make him see the letter in a different light? Make him open the manuscript and start reading?
Whatever the reason, Lawrence had put aside any anger or embarrassment at being misled and told Daphne that unless this made her change her mind about being his client, he was still onboard. He advised her to wait for Milner’s call, which he had insisted on being looped in for, and then they’d see where they stood.
After that, Chris and Daphne had picked up brownies, checked into the hotel, and abandoned the treats in favor of another kind of comfort. Last night had been passion and hunger and abandon. This afternoon, it was pure lovemaking, sweet and slow and intimate beyond anything Chris had ever experienced, leaving him dazed and euphoric, like someone had slipped a little extra into those brownies they’d nibbled.
“We’re going to be okay,” he said, nuzzling her as they lay there, entwined. “You and me. You and your career.”
She nodded and snuggled closer.
He continued, “Whatever happens, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re a writer. Even if you’d never been published, you’d still be a writer. But you have been published, and you will stay published, and you will continue to get published—one way or another—until you want to stop. This is just a bump in the—”
