Emma went still. “I’m sure no one...” she began, but trailed off at the look he gave her. Too warm to be reproachful, but without illusions.
“You get to a point where you wonder who you’re doing it for,” he went on. “Yourself, or just for other people’s expectations. Maybe it’s time for something else.” He shrugged, but the set of his jaw stayed tight. “Like playing a good guy for once. Or something else entirely.”
She studied him across the table, trying to make the pieces fit. If he wanted something different, why chase Lucen at all?
Maybe it was just talk. Like when middle-aged people swore they were moving to Costa Rica to open a surf shack someday.
“Like what?” she asked.
He leaned forward, folding his arms over the table. “Directing, maybe. Or photography. I always bring a camera with me on set. I love catching people when they don’t notice. Unguarded, completely themselves. That’s when they’re at their most beautiful.”
“You like things that are real,” Emma said. She hadn’t meant to—the words slipped out before she could stop herself.
A hint of bitterness pulled at his mouth. “Who doesn’t? Especially when you’ve been doing this for as long as I have. Some days, I forget what real even looks like.”
Emma set her fork down, the licorice and lemon suddenly too sharp on her tongue.
Nothing about him made sense.
If he hated pretense, why flirt with the fans—and with her—to get a part he didn’t even seem to want? Ordidhe want it and was running some kind of reverse-psychology thing?
God, this lunch was starting to feel likeInception.
Darren shrugged, expression smoothing too fast. “Someday, maybe. We’ll see. You’re no stranger to changing careers yourself, I presume,” he continued, pulling Emma out of her confused thoughts. “What did you do before you were a writer?”
“Still do, technically,” she admitted. “I’m a financial controller.”
He blinked, thrown. “You’re . . . still working a corporate job?”
She nodded. “Twin City Industrial Components. We manufacture, well—shocker, industrial components. Tough market currently.”
For a second, he looked genuinely at a loss, like she’d just told him she ran a circus on the side. Which, honestly, some days it felt like she did.
“Are you serious? You have a bestseller and a Netflix deal. Yet you still...spend your days chained to an office desk?”
The intensity of his reaction hit closer than she cared to admit. She deflected with a measured eye roll.
“I don’t know if you’ve ever worked a normal-people job, Darren Cole, but they don’t actually tether us to our desks. The company’s in rough shape, and I’m the only one who really knows the numbers. We’ve got an investment round coming up, and if we don’t run a tight ship...people could lose their jobs.”
Darren didn’t respond at once. His quiet attention made her feel exposed.
“Besides—” She gestured vaguely, trying for a lighter tone. “You never know how long a book career will last. Given my spectacular lack of progress with the sequel, I might want to keep both doors open.”
He frowned, not letting her off the hook. “The Bonds of Lightis hardly a one-hit wonder, Emma. Trust me. This is what you were meant to do. Not...paper-clipping things.”
Emma let out an indistinct sound, eyes dropping to a spot on the table.
“I mean, the responsibility you feel toward your coworkers, that I get.” His voice softened. “But the rest...there’s something else. Isn’t it?”
The smile she gave was just a faint curve of her lips, with a twinge of sadness slipping into it. He reminded her of Leah, minus the intimidating blazers. Finding every loose thread as if it were visible to the naked eye. Tugging lightly at things that were better left in peace.
It should have been unnerving.
Somehow—it wasn’t.
“We have some...family history,” she said, leaning her arms on the table, still avoiding his gaze. “About the writing thing. My grandfather on my mom’s side wanted to be a writer more than anything. Quit his job, told my grandmother he was working on the great American novel. That once it was done, he’d buy her a castle and treat her like a queen.”
She reached for her wineglass, twirling it slowly. “My grandmother was a seamstress, practical to the bone. Didn’t care about castles, but she cared about him. So she let him try.”
