No way he’d ever actually go on AO3 and look for her fics. But still—
“Pretty Man, my prostitute/client modern alternate universe . . .” She crinkled her nose. “Yeah, don’t choose that one. You’d be skimming the whole thing.”
It was one of her earliest fics, written before her partnership with BAWN, and it wasn’t her best work.
Marcus looked up from another delicate spoon incursion into his dessert. His smooth cheeks—he must have shaved right before coming to the restaurant—creased in a sudden grin.
His brow quirked. “I take it I’m the prostitute?”
“Aeneas is the prostitute,” she emphasized.
“But he’s pretty.” He took his time savoring the spoonful of custard. “Thus the title.”
“Well, yes.” Obviously.
“And since you said Aeneas looks like me in your fics, that must mean—”
“Yes, yes.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re very pretty, Marcus. Which you well know.”
His grin abruptly died, and she had no idea why shadows seemed to gather beneath blue-gray eyes gone solemn. Intent. So unexpectedly vulnerable that something twisted inside her chest.
Not her heart. Definitely not her heart.
“In your story . . .” He played with his spoon, looking down as he rotated it in his grip again and again. “Is he only pretty?”
Ah. There it was. A new layer beneath that pristine surface of his.
And dammit, yes, that was her heart aching for him. Just a little.
“He’s very pretty. Gorgeous.” With a seemingly idle motion, she tapped her spoon against her porcelain ramekin until he raised his stricken eyes to her again. Then she told him the rest. “Also underestimated and honorable and quite intelligent. I have no interest in writing about a man who offers nothing but good looks and easy charm. But hidden depths fascinate me.”
There it was. One last chance.
And if he was as smart as she was beginning to suspect he was, he’d realize it.
Marcus blinked at her, lines scoring deep between his brows. But he didn’t say anything more, and she didn’t intend to push him anywhere he didn’t want to go.
She couldn’t resist one final nudge, though. “Have you ever been tempted to write a fix-it fic yourself? A story where you’d put right whatever went wrong in the show? After Dido and Aeneas’s relationship went off the rails, maybe?”
The throwaway remark was a bit rude, and she was sorry for that, but she wanted to hear his response. Wanted to see a bit more of the man under pressure.
He muttered something that sounded like, You have no idea.
“I’m—” Clearing his throat, he spoke more loudly. “I’m . . . uh, delighted with the talent and hard work of our scriptwriters, of course. And, um, that was the story we got. That was the script. It makes total sense.”
From his verging-on-pained expression, his stilted words, he might have been starring in an impromptu hostage video. Ironically, it was the worst acting she’d ever seen him do, and that included his hilarious feigned ignorance of what geology meant earlier that evening.
She smiled at him, highly entertained.
“There’s—there’s no alternative script, no alternate universe, so . . .” He spread his hands. “Yes, I’m thrilled with Aeneas’s story. Completely. Dido’s too.”
Yes. Very convincing. He was going to need to rehearse his answers a few more times before his press junket for the sixth season began.
Although . . .
Her smile widened.
Damn, he was smart. By playing Mr. Dim-and-Pretty all these years, he’d managed to avoid publicly discussing scripts and story lines and the way his show diverged from E. Wade’s books. Instead, he could focus on workout routines and grooming rituals, subjects that wouldn’t get him into trouble with his showrunners or costars.
She leaned conspiratorially close, propped on her elbows. “There’s no alternate universe, that’s true.” This time, she tapped her spoon against his ramekin. Winked at him. “Unless you write fanfic and come up with one. Like I do.”
He didn’t smile, as she’d anticipated.
Instead, head tilted, he gazed at her. Pressed his lips together. Rested his own elbows on the table and spoke haltingly, his voice barely audible despite the few inches separating them.
“Growing up, I—” His throat bobbed. “I was never much of a writer. Or a reader, for that matter.”
This . . . this wasn’t a tale she’d heard before. Not in any interview. Not in any blog post.
“I liked stories. Loved stories.” He gave his head an impatient shake. “Of course I do. I wouldn’t be an actor if I didn’t. But—”
This close, she dragged his subtle scent into her lungs with every breath. Herbal. Musky.
This close, she could measure the true length of his eyelashes, trace how they fanned and turned pale gold at their tips.
This close, she couldn’t miss the raw sincerity in his words, in his pained eyes.
She held very still, a steady presence as he seemed to struggle for words. “But?”
Softly. Softly. An invisible hand holding his as he faltered, not a shove in the back.
With his thumb and middle finger, he pinched his temples. Exhaled. “From the very beginning, there were issues. I took a long time to begin speaking. And once I started school, I kept, uh . . . kept reversing my letters and numbers.”
Oh. Oh.
She knew where this was going now, but he needed to get there in his own time. In his own way. “Okay.”
“My parents blamed the teachers, so they decided my mom should homeschool me. She taught at a nearby prep school, so she was more than qualified.” His little huff of laughter didn’t contain a single trace of actual amusement. “We all found out pretty quickly that the teachers weren’t the problem. I was.”
No, that couldn’t stand unchallenged. “Marcus, having d—”
He didn’t seem to hear her. “No matter how much she had me read, no matter how much she had me write, no matter how many vocabulary lists she made for me, I was a terrible speller. I had terrible handwriting. I couldn’t write or read quickly, couldn’t pronounce things correctly, couldn’t always understand what I’d read.”
Fuck. That early interview with Marcus, the one that had cemented his reputation as amiable but not especially bright, now seemed—
“My parents thought I was lazy. Defiant.” His eyes met hers, and they were defiant. Daring her to judge him, to second the condemnation of his family. “I only found out there was a name for my problem after I dropped out of college and moved to LA. A name other than stupidity, anyway.”
Chin haughty, no hint of a smile softening that famous mouth, he waited. Knowing, somehow, that he didn’t need to use the word himself.
“You’re dyslexic.” She pitched her voice low, to protect his privacy. “Marcus, I had no idea.”
That stony expression didn’t flicker.
“No one does, except Alex.” When her brows furrowed, he clarified. “Alex Woodroe. Cupid. My best friend. He’s the one who figured it out, since one of his ex-girlfriends had dyslexia too. Diagnosed, unlike mine.”
The bitterness in that last phrase painted the back of her tongue, and she pushed her panna cotta to the side. No need to get custard in her hair, and she wasn’t hungry anymore, not after hearing his story.
The skin over his knuckles seemed stretched to its limits, his fists almost as white as the tablecloth beneath them. When she rested a fingertip on one of those bony knuckles, a vein in his temple throbbed.
“Marcus . . .” Since he didn’t move away from her touch, she traced a gentle line across the back of his hand. “One of the smartest, most talented people I know is dyslexic. He’s an amazing writer too.”
Sometime after she’d beta-read and proofed a couple of his fics for the first time, BAWN had told her about his dyslexia via DM, amid a flurry of apologies for any spelling errors.
I have voice-to-text software, he wrote, but it sometimes has issues with homonyms. I’m sorry. I afraid I won’t be much help proofreading your fics.
I can deal with spelling on my own, she’d written back. Where I need help is plotting and making sure I remain true to the characters, even in a modern AU. Emotional depth too. All strengths of yours. If you could help me with those bits, I’d be very grateful.
He hadn’t responded for a long time.
I can do that, he’d eventually written.
“There are workarounds,” she said, when Marcus remained silent and still beneath her gaze, beneath her touch. “I’m sure you’ve found them already.”
When she withdrew her hand, he startled, then shifted restlessly in his seat.
At the heat lingering on her fingertip, the guilt churning within her gut at touching another man while thinking of BAWN, she did the same.
“Yes. Lots of workarounds.” He cleared his throat. “This person you know, the one with dyslexia. The smart, talented one. Does he write fanfic too?”
She had to smile. “That’s how I know what a great writer he is.”
“What name does he use?” As Marcus scooped out a perfect semi-oval of custard, his attention once more seemed entirely focused on his spoon. “For his stories, I mean. In case I ever visit your fanfiction site.”
Was that an offhand question? A test of her discretion?
Either way, she wasn’t answering.
The linen napkin was smooth and crisp under her fingers as she plucked it from her lap, folded it, and placed it next to her half-finished ramekin of panna cotta.
It was a gesture of finality, matching her firm tone. “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you that without his permission.”
“Ah.” After one final spoonful of the dessert, he nudged his ramekin aside too. “I understand.”
Olaf appeared from nowhere to remove their dishes, refill their water, and offer coffee or after-dinner drinks. Only moments after they both refused and their server faded into the gorgeous woodwork once more, her jaw cracked in a huge, unexpected yawn.