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Chris glanced around for an escape and noticed Daphne still watching him from her bistro table. This was his audition, and if he fled from this magnificently pissed-off Amazon, he could never be Zane Remington. Daphne’s book required a salesman who was 100 percent confident in the masterpiece he’d penned. Chris really needed this job, which meant he needed to be that salesman.
“Hey,” he said as the woman drew close enough to hear. “Sorry about that. If I’d known you wanted that spot?” He emphasized the you while giving her an appreciative once-over.
Distaste oozed from her every pore. Were those freckles across her aquiline nose? He was a sucker for freckles.
“You mean stealing a spot from an elderly woman with a cane would have been all right?” she said, not even pausing as she strode past him.
“Depends on how good she looked for her age,” he said, falling in stride with her.
He had a grin and a wink ready for when she glanced his way. She only picked up speed. He cast an uncertain look at Daphne, but the author watched him with continued interest.
“Looks like we’re going to the same place,” he called to the Amazon.
The woman didn’t respond, just strode onto the patio and took the table beside Daphne’s before pushing her shades onto her forehead.
Chris leaned onto the woman’s table, letting his shoulders square and muscles ripple beneath the plaid designer shirt. He lowered his voice. “I really do feel bad about stealing your spot. How about you let me buy you dessert later?” His gaze trailed down her form. “You do eat dessert, right?”
Her golden-brown eyes flashed in outrage, and he replayed what he said and inwardly winced. Paired with his once-over, she’d taken it as a pointed comment on her figure. Shit. This was why Chris didn’t flirt.
He opened his mouth to backtrack. Backtracking, however, was Chris. It wasn’t Zane. And Daphne was still watching from the next table.
“That’s a yes, then?” He smiled. “Excellent. Dessert, on me.” His smile sparked, wicked. “Take that any way you like.”
“You’re blocking my view.” She flicked her fingers, shooing him off.
He resisted the urge to slink away and tossed her a smirk as he straightened. Then he sauntered over to Daphne, who looked very pleased with his audition so far.
Chris slid into the seat across from the author and extended his hand. “Chris Ainsworth.” He grinned, hoping it extended to a twinkle in his eyes. “But you can call me Zane Remington.”
Her gaze crawled over him as she shut her tablet. “I’ll call you anything you like.”
“And I can call you… Daphne? If I’m not being too presumptuous.”
“My name’s actually Nora.”
“Ah, a pen name within a pen name. Clever. So you prefer Nora?”
“No,” said a husky voice behind him. “I prefer Daphne.”
Chris turned, slowly, to see the woman whose parking spot he’d stolen.
“Daphne McFadden,” she said. “And I believe”—she inhaled sharply, as if the next words pained her—“that you are at the wrong table.”
DAPHNE
As Chris Ainsworth regaled her with stories of his acting career, Daphne’s fingers itched to pick up her phone and text Nia.
What did I ever do to you?
What secret grudge had her best friend been nursing that compelled her to inflict Chris Ainsworth on Daphne? It was a prank. It had to be. She’d finish lunch with this boor, and when she texted the inevitable WTF to Nia, her friend would reply with instructions to a coffee shop for a latte with the real actor she’d selected to play Zane. Compared to Lumberjack-Hipster here, whoever Nia had really chosen would seem perfect.
Yet the more Daphne thought about it, the more she was convinced that—to Nia—Chris Ainsworth was perfect for this job.
Nia and Daphne both hated to complain about men getting the edge in business. The obvious comeback from others was “Maybe it’s not them, maybe it’s you.” How did you insist that you knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you were just as good? Women weren’t conditioned for that kind of confidence.
Daphne remembered going to the signing of a very famous male author who wrote romances, despite his insistence otherwise. While waiting to hear him talk, she’d overheard him telling the store staff how he lifted weights in the hotel gym pre-signing because “the ladies” loved firm biceps.
Then there was the online forum where librarians had been complaining about how some of their colleagues fawned over a good-looking male author, and how they couldn’t get a popular female writer in for a visit, because everyone wanted the guy, who charged twice as much.
