“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—
Yes. Yes, he appeared to be stripping.
Moving another step away from her, he grinned at their audience. “It’s damn hot in the sun today.”
Reaching down, he crossed his arms and tugged his henley upward, the friction of fabric on fabric pulling the tee underneath higher at the same time and exposing bare flesh.
It was a cool spring day. No way he couldn’t feel the chill against his skin.
He knew what he was doing. Oh, he knew.
His abdomen appeared first, flat and firm and bisected by a line of silky-looking golden-brown hair, lovingly bracketed by those lickable diagonal furrows. His jeans rested lower on his hips than she’d imagined, low enough that she had to swallow hard.
Then, as he kept dragging his henley higher—slowly, so slowly—his chest came into view, muscled and lightly furred, and . . .
Nipples. Jesus, nipples. They all got a flash of those too, hard in the chill, before the henley was over his head and gravity dragged his tee back down a few inches.
The paparazzi were capturing everything, their cameras clicking away.
One of them finally managed to recall the reason for their presence, however. “Are you here on a date, Marcus? What’s your lady friend’s name?”
“Well, we all know I have no interest in museums.” At his wink, one of the paparazzi actually blushed behind her camera. “But anything to impress a pretty woman, right? I suffered for the sake of beauty, as I so often do.”
Yes, it was definitely an impressive show.
At least, April assumed he was putting on a show. Hoped.
Because otherwise, he’d only been acting today. Pretending to enjoy the museum, enjoy her company, in hopes of riding their obvious—if surprising—sexual compatibility into the orgasmic sunset.
Would she even know? Hadn’t she been thinking only days ago that he should have won an award for his dramatic abilities? How could she assume the man she’d seen today, the man she’d briefly glimpsed at the end of dinner, was the real Marcus, and not merely another role?
He gifted their onlookers with one last gleaming smile before taking her hand again and tugging her toward a taxi just arriving at the museum’s entrance. The paparazzi trailed after them, shouting more questions, taking more pictures, but he merely waved and grinned.
They were sliding into the back seat of that taxi before the elderly woman inside even managed to finish paying the driver.
To give the woman enough room, Marcus drew April down onto his lap, and she wished she could relax into the contact, melt against the heat emanating from his honed, strong body, but she couldn’t. Not right now. Instead, she remained stiff against him, her back ruler-straight.
Was he thinking how heavy she was, compared to other women he’d dated?
Or—and this was somehow, illogically worse—was he thinking, Finally, we can stop talking about fucking rocks and just get down to actual fucking?
Marcus smiled apologetically at the wide-eyed taxi patron perched on the other side of the back seat. “Sorry to intrude. We’d be happy to pay the tip for your ride, if you’ll allow it.”
At that, a smile crinkled her papery cheeks, and she rapped his knee lightly with her cane. “I already put the tip on my card. Besides, I saw your performance as we drove up. That was more than sufficient compensation, young man.”
He laughed, his mirth rattling through April on his lap, and he accepted the free hand the woman held out. They chatted for another minute, hands clasped the entire time, before she began to exit the taxi.
Awkwardly, attempting not to elbow him, April nudged Marcus toward the center of the back seat and maneuvered out of his lap. Sliding across, he supported the elderly woman’s elbow as she slowly climbed out.
“That Lavinia girl seems nice.” One more rap of her cane against his shin. “Don’t screw things up.” Her eyes flicked to April. “That goes for this one too.”
Then she was safely on the sidewalk, and Marcus shut the door behind her, blocking out the clamor of questions and the blinding strobe of camera flashes in an instant.
His gaze immediately returned to April, now huddled against the far door. A line appeared between his brows as his smile faded to nothing.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“I’m sorry, but we need a moment to figure that out. Feel free to start the meter.” Marcus didn’t look away from April. “Um . . . this taxi ride was my idea, not yours. Please let me pay for it. I’ll take you back to your hotel, or wherever you want to go. We could hang out at—”
Whatever he was going to suggest, she didn’t want to do it. Not until she’d had the chance to think. And their surreal duo of dates had already taken up entirely too much of her time and her thoughts, given her current circumstances.
“I need to get back to my apartment and prep a little more before my furniture starts arriving Wednesday. Sorry.” She leaned forward to speak to the driver. “Please drop me off at the Civic Center station.”
“Let me take you directly to your apartment instead. If that’s okay with you.” Marcus sounded tentative. “I’d like to save you some hassle.”
It was a kind offer, and she was too tired to turn it down. “Thanks.”
After she gave the driver her new address, the cab began moving, Lizzo’s voice now the only noise in the vehicle.
Maybe she’d have a few minutes that night to write and get out all her tangled feelings about BAWN, about Marcus, about being on camera in ways sure to trickle into her private life. She should have plenty of time. After all, she wouldn’t be spending an hour or two corresponding with her best online friend anymore.
The view outside the window blurred, for just a moment.
“Hey.” Lightly, Marcus touched her elbow with a fingertip. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said, and let him interlace their fingers on his firm thigh.