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Did Daphne really blame Nia for selecting Chris Ainsworth? This was a business decision, and if “arrogant and attractive white guy” would sell more books, then Nia would find her exactly that. Which she had.
Except Chris was more than merely attractive. He had a classically handsome face, with chiseled and perfectly proportioned features. Summer-green eyes and dark blond hair that curled slightly in the breeze. Even his body had that classic Y shape, with narrow hips, strong shoulders, and biceps that strained at his slim-fitting shirt as he leaned on his arms.
Daphne’s catnip was fit guys with wholesome good looks, charming smiles, and a twinkle that said, Don’t be fooled by my wildcat exterior—I’m a kitten inside. Chris fulfilled the first part just fine. But the last one? This guy was neither wildcat nor kitten. He was a feral tom, strutting around and pissing on everything in sight.
Still, in Nia’s defense, filling this role had been such a Herculean task that Daphne had been two days from giving up the charade and coming clean. Nia had found a way for her to sign the contract with a bunch of legal cartwheels that Daphne still didn’t quite understand. Basically, she was legally doing business as Zane Remington, whose name she’d registered as a corporation, with the copyright held by that. If everyone presumed the actual author was male, well, she’d never actually claimed that.
So she hadn’t needed an actor for the legal part or even for the early publicity. Then the publisher decided to move her release forward—by five months—which made the situation desperate. Nia had taken charge of that, and Daphne’s only stipulation was that she needed a professional actor—she couldn’t take the chance of having an ordinary guy play the part. Then, at the last minute, Nia called to say she had “the guy.”
This guy.
“After that,” Chris said, “I did a series of ads for high-end vehicles. Nothing you’d be familiar with.” He waved toward her car with a chuckle.
She bit back the urge to say it was a rental. Do not feed the trolls.
“Most recently,” he continued, “I played a bit role in—”
“You’ve established your acting credentials, Mr. Ainsworth. I want to talk about this particular job. It might not be your thing.”
Chris lounged in his chair, long legs so far into the aisle that the poor server had to go another way to get past. “I’m an actor. I play roles.”
“This one is primarily modeling. You would be the face of Zane Remington.”
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pair of glasses and put them on. “Alakazam. I am Zane Remington.”
He steepled his fingers, and maybe he was supposed to look intelligent, but his expression suggested he should order the prune smoothie.
Daphne continued, “There may also be situations where you are required to give very short, very simple interviews, which I would coach you to answer through an earpiece. In the event of technical issues, you’d have scripted answers. Most questions will be about the book, which Nia sent to you.”
“She did.”
“Will you be comfortable representing it?”
He leaned back again, forcing the man behind him to tug in his chair. “Oh, I didn’t read it.”
“Not the whole thing, but I’m presuming you skimmed a few chapters.”
“Is that necessary?”
Daphne opened her mouth. Shut it.
Chris continued, “I’m an actor. I emote the lines I am given. You tell me what you want me to say about your book, and I say it. I’m sure it’s wonderful, but”—he shrugged—“I’m not much of a reader.”
There it was, dangling before her. The excuse to say no. Hell no. This whole idea was absurd. Better for her to come clean to the publisher and—
Her phone buzzed. A text from her newly assigned publicist.
Melody: Haven’t gotten that pic I asked for.
Melody: Don’t be shy. It’s not your jacket photo. I know you don’t want that, and we are honoring your wishes.
Melody: We just want to get to know you. Put a face to your incredible book.
It was dangerously close to pub time, and Melody had to know what they had to work with. Could they send Zane’s official author pic out with release promo? Or was it best only displayed on the website after clicking through three links and watching an ad for a celebrity bio?
Daphne glanced at Chris, with his ridiculous good looks. She surreptitiously snapped a shot as he launched into a story about the time he’d been mistaken for Captain America while walking past Vancouver’s Fan Expo.
She hit Send. No message. Just the photo. Then she waited for her excuse to end this lunch from hell. Waited for Melody to LOL and tell her to send a real photo, because no way in hell did this man pen a dark zombie thriller with a teen girl protagonist.
