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“One that doesn’t torpedo my career.”
“That’s baseline,” Nia said. “As a lawyer, I want a solution that doesn’t hurt my client’s career. As a friend, I want one that makes you look good. We want to focus on why you did this without throwing your publisher under the bus by implying they wouldn’t have bought your book under your name.”
“They might have.”
“Yeah, not for that much and not with this positioning. But what do I know? I’m just the best friend of a writer who tried damned hard to get anyone to look at her amazing book, and then as soon as she put a guy’s name on it, she got a half-million-dollar deal. Sheer coincidence, I’m sure.”
“But since we don’t know what would have happened, no one else is to blame. I got frustrated. I sent it out using a male name. Then I panicked when it sold.”
“Which we’ll make clear,” Nia said. “We will fix this. Just give me time to come up with a strategy. And whatever we decide, Chris has to be part of the conversation.”
“Of course. I’ll talk to him. And thank you for finding him. He’s been amazing.”
“He’s a pretty amazing guy, huh?”
Daphne blushed. “He is.”
“And you like him?”
Her instinct was to deflect and dodge. To be clear she liked him as a person. Instead, she took a deep breath and said, “I like him.”
“Good.” Nia switched to her Pinky and the Brain voice. “Everything is going according to plan.”
Daphne sighed. But for once, she didn’t argue.
“Thank you,” she said.
“That’s what best friends are for. Now get up, do some writing, pack for tour, and call me from LA. I am dying to hear how those Hollywood meetings go.”
CHRIS
It was the last night before the tour, and Chris was soundly asleep after one final phone call with Daphne. They’d discussed ideas for Zane’s exit, which he was fine with—he couldn’t wait for everyone to know she was the real author. They’d also excitedly made plans for tomorrow. Well, he’d certainly been excited, and she’d seemed happy, so yep, they were both excited. He was going with that.
When the phone rang, he bolted up, certain he’d overslept and Daphne was calling from the airport wondering where he was.
Then he saw his sister’s name on his phone. He glanced at the clock—1:10.
With a groan, he answered. “Tell me it’s urgent,” he said. “Tell me something is on fire and that you are not calling at one in the morning to be a brat.”
“Me?” Gemma said. “I’m the older sibling. You’re the brat. And I’m calling because, if I’m right, you’ve done the brattiest of all bratty possible things.”
“Uh…”
“Worse than when you changed my alarm clock so you could find all the Easter eggs first. Worse than when you used my training bra as a slingshot. Even worse than when you threatened to tell Mom about my party if I wouldn’t give you a joint.”
“Beer. I said beer.”
“Whatever. Tell me this isn’t you.”
His phone buzzed with an incoming text. It was a still shot from the grizzly stare-down video.
His first thought: Oh shit.
Second thought: How’d she recognize me from a sliver of my profile?
Third thought: She’s your sister, dumbass.
“You sold a book?” she said. “Seriously, Chris? It’s not enough that I’ve spent the last few years having friends—friends, ew—asking for my little brother’s contact deets. Not enough that you’re running your own company. Not enough that all that hasn’t gone to your head. Now you’re an author? I’m the writer in the family. Me.”
