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“Of course. We don’t really want someone walking in. We’ll just pretend they could.” He cupped her breasts again. “Or I could spend the next twenty minutes continuing to make up for yesterday. While last night’s sex was great, I don’t think it constituted a proper apology.”
“And what does constitute a proper apology?”
He reached to set the alarm on his phone and then flipped her down beside him. “You’re about to find out.”
DAPHNE
Daphne took her usual assistant’s seat at the signing table, in charge of the sticky notes and Sharpies. Chris was at the podium, and Daphne was trying very hard to keep her smiling assistant face on and not freak out, knowing what was to come.
Not that she knew exactly what was to come. They’d spent half the day discussing this—with Sakura, with Alicia, with Lawrence—sometimes individually, sometimes together via video chat. A lot of that discussion was about the higher-level issues, like how to handle previously signed stock, readers who wanted refunds, and so on. When it came to how to do the actual reveal, Daphne had worked herself into knots until Chris asked whether he could handle it.
While Daphne hated handing it over, she had to admit that was best for all. Her plan would be to throw herself on the mercy of the audience and beg forgiveness, and no one wanted her doing that. Not even Daphne, if she were being honest.
She would apologize. She would accept blame. But she was past the point of wanting to grovel. If people chose not to read Edge because she wasn’t Zane Remington, that was their right. They were consumers. She supplied a product. It was on her to provide the best product she could, and she believed she had, and now the book had to stand or fall on its own merits, without viral videos of the author staring down grizzlies.
As for exactly how Chris was handling the reveal, she hadn’t wanted details. The plan was Sakura-approved, and that was what mattered. He’d admit that he didn’t write the book, and then she’d get up and explain.
Their event was at an independent bookstore, in an offsite auditorium. The crowd was nearly double the size of the previous night’s. Well over three hundred people, the manager had told them, vibrating with delight. Each attendee had bought a book, and some bought two.
“I think we’ll hit five hundred books sold for a single event,” the manager had said. “That doesn’t count all the signed stock we’ll sell later.”
The manager had suggested Chris come in early to sign stock, and normally, they’d have jumped at the chance to get back to their hotel faster. Tonight, though, Sakura had demurred, because they all knew that after Chris’s announcement, the store might not want that signed stock.
They waited for the audience stragglers to find spots to stand—the seats were long filled.
At the podium, a staff member stepped forward to introduce Zane. Chris intercepted her with a few words, and she looked confused, but smiled and nodded and moved aside. He didn’t want to be introduced as Zane. Not tonight.
“Good evening,” Chris said. “Thank you all so much for being here. It’s truly an honor to see so many people take time out to come tonight.” He paused for a round of polite applause.
Chris continued, “Now, normally, I talk about the book and then answer questions. Tonight, I’m switching it up.”
He lifted the podium and moved it aside, to a few whistles and laughs, as if this was part of the show—buff author carrying heavy objects.
Chris returned to center stage with a cordless mic. “Who here likes PowerPoint presentations?”
Silence. Then a strained laugh or two, from those who felt obligated to humor him.
“No one?” he said. “That’s a shame. I love PowerPoints.”
Daphne frowned. What was he doing?
Chris turned, walked to the back of the stage, and pulled up what looked like a screen. Then he reached behind the curtain and wheeled out a laptop.
A click of a button, and a slide was illuminated on the screen. It was a blank template with three words.
Chris’s PowerPoint Demonstration
He hit the button. A photo filled the screen, one of Chris in a tuxedo. A few people whistled. Patches of laughter followed.
“This is me,” Chris said. “Chris Stanton.” He waited through the audience murmur, as the name surprised some people while others whispered to neighbors that Zane Remington was a pen name.
He continued, “I live in Vancouver.”
Another click. A photo of Chris on a tiny balcony overlooking a busy street. He was shirtless and lifting a beer to whoever was taking the shot. Another whistle. More laughter, still sporadic and confused, as the audience tried to figure out where this was going.
You and me both, Daphne thought.
“This is where I work.” A shot of Chris in an office, at a computer, surrounded by papers. “I’m a chartered accountant,” he said.
