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“Does that make it a North American tour?”
“It does.”
Chris fist-pumped the air. “Next up, international!”
The audience whooped.
“Thank you for coming out tonight,” he said. “We’re so excited to be here, celebrating the launch of At the End of Tomorrow, the sequel to At the Edge of the World.” He held up the hardcover. “My name is Zane Remington, and I wrote—”
He made a show of glancing at the book. “Wait, I didn’t write this.” He reached back to the table and picked up a copy of Edge. “Fine. I wrote…” He made a show of looking at the new cover, emblazoned with both “#1 New York Times bestseller” and the byline “Daphne McFadden.”
“Huh, seems I didn’t write this, either.” He peered out. “Does anyone have a copy with Zane’s name on it?”
A few hands rose in the audience, some waving old copies.
“You know those are collector’s items now,” he said. “You can get, oh, maybe fifty bucks for them on eBay.”
“A hundred!” a voice called. “I have two. One for me, one for eBay.”
The audience laughed. Chris flashed a thumbs-up.
Behind him, Daphne picked up her mic. “We can probably get you even more than a hundred. Just get Chris—whoops, Zane—to sign it.”
Laughter, and then the young woman called, “Will you do that?”
“Absolutely,” Chris said. “That’s what I’m here for. To sign old books. To replace D’s worn-out markers. To be sure she spells your name right. And to play photographer.”
“What if we want you in the photo?” someone called.
He gave an exaggerated eye roll. “If you insist. But I have to keep on my shirt. I have been warned that under no circumstances may I remove my shirt. The best I can do is this.” He rolled up his T-shirt sleeves to his shoulders and flexed to hoots and laughter.
“Now that I’m done clowning around, let me introduce the person you really came here to see.” He held out a hand toward Daphne. “The actual author of these books. Daphne McFadden.”
The audience roared their approval, and he bowed and stepped aside, ceding his place at center stage for good.
Chris was still massaging her hand when their town car dropped them off at the state campground. Not that her hand really hurt that much—she just liked the massage. As for the campground, they were doing what Chris had joked about last year—renting an RV for tour.
When they neared the RV, a dog started barking. Chris unlocked the door, and a gray-and-white ball of fur launched itself at him. With a laugh, Chris scooped up the puppy—Kai—and reached in to grab the leash and a light jacket.
Tika came out more solemnly. With a puppy in residence, she seemed determined to set herself apart as the calm, mature dog who did not chew anyone’s slippers. She waited for Daphne’s hug and leaned into it with a sigh that seemed to say, Never leave me alone with him again. Daphne hugged her tight and then snapped on her leash.
They headed out, each with a leash in one hand, their other hands clasped together as they walked down the empty path. The night was still, with a blanket of stars above, the chirp of frogs the only sound. When they reached the lake, they stood on the edge as the dogs snuffled at something, Tika grumbling at Kai when he got in her way.
Daphne stood there, feeling Chris’s hand, warm and tight on hers, and looked out at the star-dappled water. She felt… happy. So damned happy.
“Hey, is that a bottle?” Chris said.
She turned to see an old glass pill container floating on the current. As it headed out, Chris yanked off his shoes and socks and handed her Kai’s leash.
“You’re chasing garbage?” she said.
“Litter. I’m a conservationist in training.”
She shook her head.
He scooped up the bottle and then stopped. “Wait, there’s a note in it.” He waved it over his head. “A message in a bottle.”
“Someone stuck trash into trash, Chris.”
