by Olivia Dade
But April was done cringing and hiding. The opinion of fatphobic randos on Twitter didn’t matter, and she wouldn’t make herself small just to avoid their notice. “I like showing everyone the costumes I’ve put together.”
JoAnn responded carefully, worry and good intentions in every syllable. “That dress . . .” She hesitated. “It didn’t show your figure to its best advantage. Maybe you can make one that doesn’t cling to—”
It could be anything. April’s arms. Her back. Her stomach. Her ass. Her thighs.
“I’m good,” she repeated, her tone more curt than she’d intended.
Another long silence.
When JoAnn spoke again, her voice quavered slightly. “You said you were picking out what to wear tonight?”
April had hurt her mother’s feelings, and a flush of shame crawled up her neck.
“Yes. I brought a few options, and I’m trying to decide between them.” Her hands were clenched into fists, and she knew, she just knew—
“I imagine people will take pictures of you during your dinner tonight.” JoAnn’s faux-cheer lodged under April’s skin like splinters. “A black dress is always in style, you know. And the color disguises so many sins, especially if you find a design that doesn’t fit too tightly.”
Black to disappear. Extra fabric to disguise.
As always, fatness was a sin, most likely mortal rather than venial.
Bowing her head, April didn’t respond for fear of what she might say.
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone about the date,” JoAnn continued. “Other than your father, of course. But I’m sure he won’t spread the—”
Okay, they were done. “I’d better go. I need to take a shower now so I have enough time to get ready for dinner.”
“All right. Have fun tonight, honey,” JoAnn said, although she didn’t sound as if she expected fun to be had by anyone involved. “I love you.”
Her mother meant it. April had never questioned that.
“Thanks, Mom.” Her nails were biting into her palms so hard, she was surprised she hadn’t broken the skin. “I love you too.”
And that was the hell of it. She did.
FRESH FROM THE shower, clad in a loose nightgown, April stood in front of her tiny hotel room closet and dithered.
As she’d told her mother, she’d brought plenty of date-outfit options from her half-packed home in Sacramento. Good ones. And under normal circumstances, she wasn’t prone to indecision—but these were far from normal circumstances. Whatever she chose to wear for her dinner with Marcus Caster-Rupp later that night, it had to make two simultaneous statements.
First: I’m confident and sexy, but not trying too hard. Because, yes, he might be vapid and vain, but he was also a famous actor and fucking hot, and she had her pride. Like her mother, she also anticipated more than a few candid shots of the dinner ending up online before she finished her last bite of dessert. She intended to look good in those photos, as well as in the pics she and Marcus would post on their own social media accounts.
To make that kind of statement required a formfitting dress. Not one in black, either. It required heels, loath as she was to torture her feet. It required dangling earrings.
But that was all her standard big-date garb, despite her mother’s advice. Nothing too complicated.
No, it was the second statement, one directed toward Marcus alone, that was proving tricky: You should share confidential details about the final season of your show, despite the legal and professional consequences you’d suffer upon doing so.
And making that kind of statement—well, she wasn’t entirely sure what kind of outfit would suffice. It should probably involve a hypnotist’s watch. You’re getting sleepy, very sleepy, and also very prone to telling me whether you and Lavinia finally fuck, and whether it’s awesome, and is there any full-frontal male nudity?
Absent such a watch, her best bet was cleavage. Last year, the mere sight of her dress’s plunging neckline had caused a date to stride confidently into a lamppost outside the Fairmont. Later, when she’d bent over to retrieve a dropped napkin during dinner, he’d stabbed himself in the cheek with his fork and yelped loudly enough to summon a nearby waiter.
Before that ill-fated evening, Blake had spent hours bragging about the intensity and thoroughness of his long-ago special forces training. Apparently, however, SEALs didn’t prepare for Advanced Mammary Warfare Tactics back in the early 2000s, and neither did present-day internet security experts.
When she’d teased him about that oversight, he’d scowled petulantly at her. Right before spilling half a glass of white wine over his suit jacket when she fiddled with the pendant hanging just above her breasts.
She’d snickered then, and she snickered again at the memory. Sucker.
Okay. A wrap dress, then. Cleavage Central.
She flipped through the hangers in the closet, contemplating her two main options. That colorful medallion print or the gorgeous seafoam green?
The green dress slipped to the floor, and she could barely put it back on the padded hanger.
Shit. Her hands were shaking.
She shouldn’t be nervous. She wasn’t. Only—
Jesus, those Twitter notifications, blog posts, and entertainment news programs. Her mother’s doubts. April’s own fears.
Despite her excitement, despite her hard-won confidence, she was still human. This sudden exposure of her private life to the public eye had left her feeling . . . odd. As if she were watching herself from the outside, evaluating every nuance of what she said and how she looked.
And even apart from the public uproar and her new self-consciousness, she was meeting a man she’d seen for years on television, for fuck’s sake. The same man whose terrible movies she’d occasionally watched with a bucket of popcorn in hand, his handsome face on the screen almost as big as the house she’d just sold.
The same man various magazines proclaimed the sexiest man alive. The same man who’d starred in countless fics she’d written, grinning and flirting and fucking his way to guaranteed happy endings, both literal and metaphorical. At least, in her imagination.
In less than two hours, she was meeting him in actual reality, and she needed not to hyperventilate. Somehow.
She should pick a dress with a soothing color.
One last glance at her closet, and she had her answer: seafoam green. No one hyperventilated while wearing seafoam green. It was the Valium of dress colors, in the prettiest possible way.
Or so she fervently hoped.
Lavineas Server DMs, Eighteen Months Ago
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: I think I’m going to pack as many tropes into this one-shot as possible. Help me think of more, please. I already have oh-no-there’s-only-one-bed, fake dating, one-bang-will-get-this-out-of-our-systems, big brother’s best friend . . .
Book!AeneasWouldNever: Wow. That’s quite a lineup.
Book!AeneasWouldNever: Maybe “kissing for the sake of science”?
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: NICE. Done!
Book!AeneasWouldNever: How about some pining too?
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: Oh, here we go.
Book!AeneasWouldNever: Unrequited love? Or he inadvertently led to his ex’s death? Maybe she died in a fire he could have prevented, if only he hadn’t been so caught up in duty?
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: Jesus Christ.
Book!AeneasWouldNever: Sorry.
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.
Also to his credit, he hadn’t tried to influence her order in any way. There’d been no subtle steering toward so-called healthier options, no pointed references to the salads, none of the food-policing that stung most when it came from people who were supposed to care about her.
Instead, when the discreet server now hovering in their peripheral vision, water jug in hand, had taken her order—the three-course, fixed-price menu—Marcus had merely said it was an excellent decision and ordered the same.
Sometime while they’d been eating, his placid smile had returned. “That was tasty. What did we order for the main course again? More salmon?”
Oh, God. Compared to this meal, the half-life of radium was going to seem short.
Food, she reminded herself. You’re getting amazing food out of this.
“Roasted chicken thighs stuffed with goat cheese and an apricot relish, alongside creamy garlic polenta and sautéed haricot verts with thyme.” She paused. “Oh, and toasted pine nuts . . . somewhere. Probably as part of the relish. I can’t remember for certain.”
He blinked at her.
She lifted a shoulder. “I like food.”
His smile broadened. Warmed his eyes.
“So it seems.” There was no mockery in his voice, at least none that she could detect. Just amusement. “You also have a hell of a memory.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “I checked out the restaurant last night. I’m staying in a local hotel while I deep-clean my new apartment, so I had plenty of time to study the menu online.”
“I’m glad you found something you wanted to order.”
He was looking down at his empty plate. When he glanced back up at her, he flicked his fingers through his hair, rumpling it attractively as he positioned his arm in a way that outlined all those muscles she’d admired from the safety of her laptop screen.
And yes, his muscles were still rather impressive in person, and he was very polite, and his hair was thick and golden in the candlelight, but Jesus, the tedium.
For a moment, she contemplated talking about her move, her new job, or anything she was doing over the weekend apart from this dinner, just to pass the time. If the man couldn’t remember either their Twitter exchanges or the food he’d ordered minutes ago, though, that seemed like wasted effort. So instead, the two of them sat in silence once more until Olaf arrived to remove their empty dishes and refill their water glasses.
Immediately after their server’s departure behind a set of swinging doors, arms piled high with plates, a sudden flash of light from the side made her flinch. Turning, she scanned that swath of the restaurant for the source of the white spots now dancing behind her eyelids.
Ah. Of course.
A man at a neighboring table had taken a photo of them with the cell phone he was now hurriedly placing in his lap, safely out of sight. That photo would probably end up on Insta or Twitter within minutes. Maybe less, if they turned their attention from his increasingly red face and he felt free to use his phone once more.
“I was wondering how long it would take,” she murmured.
“Usually people are smart enough not to use their flash in a place like this.” Marcus tilted his head in the direction of the maître d’ station, where the suit-clad man who’d greeted her at the door was now hustling toward their photographer’s table. “The management here values customer privacy and discretion, or at least the appearance thereof.”
If she hadn’t been so curious about the forthcoming confrontation at the other table, she’d have side-eyed Marcus for his choice of words. The appearance thereof?
But she couldn’t spare him that amount of attention, not when the most interesting thing that had happened all night was occurring only feet away. Her elbow propped on the white-tablecloth-covered table, she rested her cheek on her fist and waited for the show to begin.
The
maître d’ swooped in and bent low, all sotto voce scolding, only to be met by hushed denials. Eyebrows furrowed in dismay, the man gestured at the phone in his lap, its innocent location apparently meant to serve as incontrovertible proof that he couldn’t possibly have taken a flash photo inside the restaurant.
Marcus’s words were barely audible. “And people call me an actor.”
Finally, after more whispered discussion, the man at the table slid his cell into the inner pocket of his jacket, patting it as if to promise he would keep it there for the rest of the meal. With one final, narrow-eyed look, the maître d’ returned to his station.
Her entertainment over, April turned regretfully back to Marcus. “I don’t care about the pictures, really. I figure there’s no good way to avoid them. I’d just prefer not to be blinded by a flash.”
Whether she’d be able to maintain such equanimity in the face of unflattering candid shots, she didn’t know. But she was certainly going to try.
“I’m sorry. Again.” Mouth tight, he caught her eye from across the table. “I chose this restaurant in part because the paparazzi hadn’t found me here yet. I’d hoped you could control tonight’s narrative online, if at all possible.”
Huh.
Her mouth opened, then closed.
“It’s fine. No need to apologize,” she finally said. “Marcus, I have a random question for you. Do you handle your own social media accounts, or do you have an assistant do that?”
A deep line appeared between his handsomely arched brows. “I handle them myself. Badly, for the most part. Why?”
Sitting back in her cushioned chair, she tilted her head and studied her date.
I’d hoped you could control tonight’s narrative. Not something a man lacking the capacity for deep thought would generally say.
Interesting.
Disoblige could be a lucky choice of word. Even the most misguided squirrels occasionally located acorns.
The appearance thereof was pushing the bounds of belief, but he could still be parroting someone else. His agent, a scriptwriter, a director, someone.
