Because she’d thought those photos of their dinner together were his first real glimpse of her, and she didn’t know he’d already seen her by that point. Already admired her. Already found her unbearably sexy.
Not because of her size. Not despite her size. Because she was . . . April. Ulsie. Her.
And no, she hadn’t seemed especially bothered by the cruel opinions of Twitter randos. But she’d been clear about that distinction in her Twitter DMs, hadn’t she?
I don’t give a shit what strangers think. Just the people I care about.
Either he was still a stranger to her as Marcus Caster-Rupp, and she didn’t give a shit about him or his clumsy, ill-considered invitation—or she’d begun to care about him, if only a little, and he’d hurt her. Like Book!AeneasWouldNever had only last night.
Fuck.
This time, it was only a little after Alex’s usual bedtime in Spain. And since his friend wasn’t precisely an exemplar of impulse control himself, Marcus figured he’d be forgiven. Eventually. Once Alex got a good night’s sleep.
“Holy shit, I’ve fucked up so badly,” Marcus said as soon as his friend answered. “I didn’t mean to, but God, did I fuck things up.”
With admirable patience, Alex forbore calling him an asshole again. “What, specifically, did you fuck up?”
“Everything.” He scrubbed his free hand over his face. “Everything.”
“Such a freaking drama queen,” Alex muttered. “Maybe you could be a bit more specific?”
If Marcus was a drama queen, then Alex was a drama . . . whatever was more powerful and dramatic than a queen. Drama dictator? Drama deity? Still, kettle-pot-blackness issues aside, Alex was listening, and Marcus planned to take advantage.
The whole story didn’t take as long to relate as he’d expected. After it was done, Alex remained silent for a long, long time.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” he eventually said.
The phone should have splintered under the force of Marcus’s glare. “What?”
Even across a continent and an ocean, Alex’s sigh was audible.
Marcus stabbed an accusing finger at his best friend’s name on the screen. “Over the course of a single weekend, I’ve lost a dear friend and the only woman I’ve truly wanted in years”—or possibly forever, but that could just be the drama queen in him swanning forth yet again—“and she’s convinced I’m a fat-shaming dick as Marcus and a lying abandoner as Book!AeneasWouldNever. In what universe could that possibly be for the best?”
“Dude.” His friend smothered a yawn. “Think about what you just said. You answered your own question.”
Marcus scowled. “I did not.”
“Moments ago, you just referred to yourself in the third person. Twice. As two different identities.” The patience in Alex’s voice sounded a bit strained. “Doesn’t that seem a bit . . . overly complicated to you?”
Hmph.
“I’m a diamond of many facets.” Hadn’t April told him so earlier that day?
“Save the self-congratulatory shit for the camera, Marcus.” A scraping noise came down the line. Alex scratching his scraggly beard, most likely. “I’m just saying you could meet a nice woman who only knows you by one name, to whom you haven’t lied, and from whom you aren’t keeping various secrets.”
“I don’t want a nice woman. I want April. Ulsie.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, wincing. “Not that she isn’t nice. At least, when she doesn’t think I’m a dick who’s trying to steer her toward exercise-induced weight loss and diet food.”
Before Alex could say more, Marcus added, “I know, I know. I just referred to her as two different identities too. I don’t want to hear it.”
Yes, that was definitely a gusty sigh. “Then why did you call?” “Because I . . .” He dropped his chin to his chest.
“Because maybe I need to hear it, even if I don’t want to hear it.” Through a thick throat, he forced himself to say the words. “You think I should let her go, then? Not contact her again as Marcus, and avoid DMs with her on the Lavineas server after I get back from my theoretical, possibly-espionage-related business trip?”
“I think, based on everything you’ve told me, that she deserves someone who can be open and honest with her under a single name and identity.” His friend’s voice had gone raspy. Tired. “Can you do that? Even knowing what it might cost you?”
If he’d jeopardize his career for anyone, it would be her.
He was almost sure she wouldn’t reveal his secrets. Almost.
Even though he’d only met her face-to-face twice. Dammit.
Was he willing to bet two decades of work on that near-certainty? The professional reputation