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They still weren’t sure whether they’d spotted Stephen King. Daphne had even grabbed a program, and he wasn’t on it, but when you were that big of a name, maybe you stayed incognito until your event.
Speaking of events… They found where Zane’s would be held before they went hunting for Mr. King, and they both set alarms to get him there fifteen minutes early. The whole time Daphne kept Sakura in the loop via text:
Found the panel tent!
Heading to the tent now!
Dropped off Zane and confirmed he’s in the right place!
Made sure he’s wearing his name tag right-side-up and carrying a copy of his book!
Chris was now waiting backstage, after being directed there by staff. It was just him and a young woman clutching a book. He considered introducing himself, but she seemed to be studiously avoiding his gaze, so he decided approaching her would be unwelcome and possibly creepy. He settled for a friendly Chris nod and smile.
He was reading the program when an older woman walked in, headed straight over, and pointedly looked at his book.
“Mr. Remington, I presume,” she said.
While her tone seemed sharp, she smiled when he looked over. He tried to read her name tag, but it was facing backward, intentionally or otherwise. Daphne had meant to find out who else he was on the panel with, but they’d both forgotten. Now he realized that was an inexcusable oversight.
“I started your book on the flight,” the woman said.
Yep, definitely inexcusable. He should not only have checked out his co-panelists but at least tried their books.
He opened his mouth and then shut it.
She smiled. “Not going to ask me how I like it?”
“I was, and then realized that’s awkward. If someone likes it, they’ll say so. Otherwise, I should just smile and say thank you.” He smiled. “Thank you.”
“Good call. Never ask someone how they liked your book. Yours is good so far. I like the dog. And the girl, obviously. I’m reserving judgment on the boys. I’m not sure if they deserve her, and I’m quite sure she doesn’t need them.” She paused. “That is to say, she doesn’t need their help. Their companionship is another thing. Everyone needs that.”
“They do.”
“Be prepared to hear all about the boys from readers, though.”
“I am.”
He glanced at her name tag again, as if it might have miraculously flipped over.
She noticed it and flapped a hand. “Damn thing.”
He saw the name. Blinked. Read it again. “You’re… you’re Tara Palmer?”
“Let me guess. You have a sister who read my books when she was young?”
“No, I mean, yes, she did. But I did, too. Well, one of your series. When I was sick and ran out of books.” He made a face. “That sounds bad. I mean I started the series when I raided her room for books, and then I swiped the rest, until she caught me and accused me of bending the spines. So Mom had to buy me my own set. It was the one about the girl who wanted to be a blacksmith and could sing to animals and had a wolf…” He stopped, inhaling sharply. “I’ll stop gushing now. Sorry about that.”
“Ah, right. You’re the Canadian. Always apologizing about things that don’t require apologies.”
“Which definitely includes gushing to an author about their books,” said a voice. Another man walked in. A little older than Chris. Bald. Black.
As the newcomer embraced Tara, Chris snuck a glance at his name tag. Dwayne Foster. He recognized the name from Christmas gifts he’d bought a preteen cousin. Dwayne wrote middle grade, mostly sports themed.
Okay, two fellow authors down. Two to go.
He was glancing around for the young woman, hoping to entice her over now that it wasn’t just one creepy dude paying too much attention to her. Then the curtains parted, and a man walked in. White. Maybe late fifties. Dwayne murmured, “And that is my cue to go. Have fun.”
As the older man looked around, the staff member appeared and told them all to head onto the stage and take a chair. They filed out. The young woman whose name Chris hadn’t gotten zeroed in on the farthest chair. Dwayne took the next one. Chris realized that put him in the middle, and he stepped back, motioning for Tara to take it.
