Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: No, don’t apologize. Angst is your thing. It works for you.
Book!AeneasWouldNever: Um
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: What
Book!AeneasWouldNever: Maybe he experiences PTSD because of his military background? Like, a bunch of his men died under his command?
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: Holy shit, BAWN.
5
“SO . . .” MARCUS DABBED HIS PERFECT MOUTH WITH HIS starched cloth napkin, then returned it neatly to his lap. “You have a Twitter account?”
April wasn’t entirely certain how to respond to that.
He hadn’t seemed quite this dim in DMs. But maybe he had a personal assistant handle his social media accounts, and she’d never really communicated with him at all before now. Or maybe, for a man like him, she was too insignificant to remember for long?
“Yes.” With her fork, she teased free a flake of the restaurant’s signature house-smoked salmon and dipped it in the artistic smear of her appetizer’s sour cream–dill sauce. “I do.”
Their server, Olaf, came to refill her water glass, as he seemed to do after every sip. Taking advantage of the distraction, she discreetly checked her watch.
Thirty minutes since she’d met Marcus? That was all?
Dammit.
It seemed like longer since she’d entered the candlelit confines of the exclusive, expensive SoMa restaurant and found him already sitting at their window-side table. Since she’d arrived ten minutes early and expected a bit of a wait—weren’t Hollywood types supposed to swan into events fashionably late?—she’d blinked at him in surprise when he’d risen smartly to his feet and greeted her with a placid smile on his handsome face.
“You look lovely.” His glance at her formfitting dress had lasted maybe a half second, no more. “Thank you for joining me tonight.”
He’d extended an arm toward the chair with the best view, his dark suit jacket molding attractively against his biceps, then helped seat her. Still smiling, he’d begun to make small talk. About the weather. About the traffic. About the beauty of the sunset that evening.
And that was what they’d been doing ever since, in between Olaf’s visits. She was half tempted to knock over a water glass or set her napkin on fire with their table’s candle, just for a little excitement. This dinner was going to be endless.
Heaving a small, silent sigh, she ate her bite of salmon. At least she no longer felt guilty about her preference for dinner with Alexander Woodroe over Marcus. Or—better yet—long-distance DMs with BAWN over in-person conversation with either famous actor.
Her online bestie didn’t know about this date, but she intended to tell him as soon as she returned to the hotel.
First, though, she had to remain awake through three courses with Marcus. Dammit.
“I imagine your notifications this past week have been, uh . . .” His broad brow creased as he appeared to search for the right word. “A lot?”
April had to laugh at the understatement. “Definitely. I’ve been Googling local hermitages. Also attempting to locate nearby empty caves suitable for a life of silence and solitude.”
“If you’re considering life in a cave, that’s probably not a good sign. I’m sorry.” For the first time all evening, his genial smile died. “Are you being harassed online? Or in person?”
“Neither.” Then she paused to reconsider. “Well, yes, on Twitter. Occasionally. But not in ways I can’t handle with the mute and block functions, at least so far.”
Yet more public exposure was coming soon. She might not be familiar with the rituals of fame, but even she knew enough to expect onlookers’ photos taken of her and Marcus at a dinner table together. Even her mother knew that much.
Once those photos appeared online, once she and Marcus posted their own selfies, there would be more blog posts. More entertainment television updates. She might even end up a brief mention on her mother’s favorite morning show.
If so, she was not looking forward to the subsequent phone call.
“If you do run into worse issues, please let me know.” For the first time all night, Marcus’s blue-gray eyes pinned her in place, their sudden alertness startling. “I mean that.”
It was a sweet offer. Also pointless. “What could you even do?”
His jaw worked for a bare moment, the shadows beneath that sharp jut shifting in the candlelight. “I don’t know. Something.”
Instead of arguing, she merely inclined her head and allowed him to take it for agreement. Then silence reigned for several minutes as they finished their first course. Which, to be fair, was utterly delicious. He—or his PA, whoever—had chosen well when it came to the restaurant.