“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.
Control the narrative, though . . .
That was the third time he’d said something surprisingly incisive. At this point, she either had to conclude that someone had given him a Smart-Sounding Phrase of the Day calendar, or acknowledge that he wasn’t quite so dim after all. Not nearly as dim as he’d been pretending to be, anyway.
Time to dig deeper. Take more samples.
When their main course arrived moments later—yum—she smiled at him and picked up her fork and sharp-bladed knife. Her pair of chicken thighs lay in the middle of the plate, their skin crisp and browned and perfect. So perfect, in fact, a random observer might never realize there was something more than chicken beneath that surface.
With a precise cut, she halved a deboned thigh, exposing the stuffing beneath that pristine skin. Then she carved a slice and took the time to taste it thoroughly.
The dish was complex. Deeply savory, with tart and sweet notes and unexpected texture from those toasted pine nuts. Exactly what she’d wanted, although she’d had doubts about the wisdom of ordering something as unexceptional and boring as chicken thighs at such a fancy restaurant.
But she wasn’t bored. Not in the slightest. Not anymore.
“I would love for you to tell me more about your work on Gods of the Gates.” As he winced apologetically, she held up a hand. “I know you can’t say anything about the final season, and I’m not asking. I’m more interested in behind-the-scenes stuff, anyway. Your daily routine and what your actual job has entailed all this time. How you train for sword fights, whether you already knew how to ride a horse when you joined the cast, things like that.”
This time, when he pushed his hair back from his forehead, the motion didn’t look quite so studied. Not paired with that crinkled brow.
“I’d bore you to tears, I’m afraid.” His smile was still bright, still genial, but now a wee bit tighter. “Why don’t we talk about my exercise routine instead? Or maybe I can tell you about working with Summer Diaz and Carah Brown?”
He’d addressed those topics numerous times, in countless articles and blog posts, and she didn’t care to discuss either one. The exercise stuff would, in fact, bore her to tears, and when it came to his costars, the man was a font of good-natured platitudes.
I’m lucky to work alongside such talented colleagues, and ones nearly as pretty as I am.
They’re true professionals, and as beautiful inside as outside. Like me!
The show couldn’t have found more lovely, gifted actors to play Lavinia and Dido. Or Aeneas, for that matter.
No, she wanted to tackle topics that didn’t allow for generic, surface-only answers.
“I won’t be bored, I promise.” Another neat slice of the chicken thigh, and she paused with her forkful of food just above her plate. “Did you ride horses before being cast on the show?”