The only time she seemed hesitant, unsure of herself, was after lunch, when they exited the museum and lingered outside the entrance in the spring breeze.
“Was this . . . okay?” A strand of her coppery hair had worked free of her ponytail, and it fluttered against her cheek. “I know it wasn’t exactly a water park, but . . .”
Carefully, he took hold of that silky lock, moving it away from her face.
“I told my parents I hated museums,” he told her. “I refused to go, after a while.”
Her head bowed. “I’m sorry. I should have—”
“It wasn’t true.” He played with the end of that loose tendril. Stroked it between his thumb and forefinger, watching the way it shone in the sun. “Saying that was easier than saying I couldn’t read the tiny text on all those signs as quickly as they wanted.”
Easier than saying, Your impatience makes me feel as small as those letters.
“Marcus . . .” Her brow was pinched. “I’m sorry.”
As he followed that red-gold strand of hair down to its end, he brushed his thumb along her jaw and down her neck. Lingered in the dip of pale skin between neck and shoulder, her flesh giving and soft and getting warmer by the moment.
He stroked that shadowy arc. Traced her freckles, connecting one to another to another. “Don’t be sorry. I’m trying to say thank you, for showing me I could love museums.”
She was gripping his hips now, head tilted to ease his thumb’s path, lips parted, eyes half-closed behind her glasses. With every breath, she edged closer. Closer, until—
He couldn’t stand it. He had to know.
Leaning forward, he pressed his mouth to the vulnerable curve of flesh beside his thumb, so his every word became a caress of his lips against the fragrant skin of her neck. “Thank you for a perfect afternoon. Thank you for being so patient. So smart. So gorgeous. Thank you for . . .”
Her fingers sifted through his hair, her capable hand cradled his skull and urged his mouth harder against her, and he shut up and obeyed the unspoken order.
Against his tongue, she tasted like roses and sweetness, salt and sweat. He cupped her nape to steady them both as she shuddered, then fitted his mouth more tightly to her. When he drew on her flesh and grazed her neck with his teeth, she gasped and arched against him.
That would leave a mark. Good.
And then, just as her thighs parted to let one of his in between, and he groaned in heedless want—
He heard them.
“Marcus, look this way!” one of them called out. “Is that the girl from Twitter?”
When Marcus raised his head, another man was moving closer to April, his camera lens enormous and expensive and trained entirely on her. “What’s your name, sweetheart? How long have you two known one another?”
She stiffened, and Marcus didn’t blame her for shifting away from him under the onslaught, but she had to know: this was just the beginning.
The paparazzi had found them at last.
JULIENNED BY LOVE
INT. RESTAURANT KITCHEN – MIDNIGHT
MIKE and JULIE are kissing passionately, Julie pressed up against the metal countertop. Unexpectedly, she sways, ill and near crumpling, and the kiss breaks. She lays her hand against her forehead and looks at him, tears swimming in her eyes. When he reaches for her, she dodges.
JULIE
I can’t be your sous chef anymore.
MIKE
But . . . why? Why, Julie?
JULIE
What we have can never be. Trust me. It’s as impossible as perfecting my jambalaya-cheesecake fusion dish.
She backs away from him, step by step, supporting herself with one hand on the counters, the walls, the doorway to the dark dining area.
MIKE
Julie! Julie, don’t leave me!
She is almost to the restaurant exit, crying.
MIKE (O.S.)
Don’t leave me. Without you, I’ll be in the weeds . . . forever.
As he stands alone in the echoing kitchen, Mike clutches her discarded hairnet to his chest.
MIKE
Goodbye, my sweet, spicy sous chef. Goodbye.
11
SINCE ACCEPTING MARCUS’S DINNER INVITATION, APRIL had wondered how she might react to the appearance of actual, real-life paparazzi. Would she freeze? Cringe? Try to hide? Ignore them entirely and get on with things, as she’d visualized doing over the past couple of days?
In the end, none of the above.
Instead, she was entirely occupied watching Marcus put on one hell of a show. Somehow, he’d managed to draw their attention away from her in mere seconds, through sheer charisma and unabashed flirting and—