Carah:saving that for my fucking MEMOIRS, bitches
Ian:whoever hid my tuna, it’s not funny
Carah:hahahahahaha
Ian:give it back, assholes, Jupiter needs protein for this last week of shooting
Summer:I don’t know why we need a new reminder about the confidentiality clause in our contracts each season
Summer:it’s a little insulting
Summer:@Carah: looking forward to reading that, hon
Alex:no one wants your pocket tuna, Ian, you probably just ate it without realizing
Maria:THIS
Alex:I mean, it was like your twelfth serving of fish today, so
Peter:yeah, probably not very memorable, all things considered
Maria:do you know the symptoms of mercury poisoning, and do they involve referring to yourself in the third person as a god
Atthat point, the conversation derailed because of Ian’s extended, defensive seafood-related rant, as per usual. The man could use a few more carbs, as well as a bit more distance between himself and his role. At least enough so that he could cease referring to himself asJupiterwhen the cameras weren’t rolling.
As Marcus slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket, he spotted another cell’s camera pointed in his direction. Not the same one as earlier, though. This time, a woman from the table behind April was taking the opportunity to get an unobstructed, flash-free shot of him during his date’s absence. When he looked around, at least a couple of other customers were eyeing him speculatively, leaning close to their dinner companions and whispering.
But at least they were all amateurs, rather than actual paparazzi. He’d half expected to be greeted that night by a shouting handful of people with enormous cameras clustered outside the restaurant entrance, as had happened on so many of his other dates.
Not because the paparazzi had followed him to those restaurants. Because his dates had told the media beforehand where to go.
It was unforgivably stupid. Naive. He knew it. But each time, blinking against the harsh strobe of the flashes, overwhelmed amid the roar of voices calling his name and telling him tolook over here, the realization that his date hadn’t wanted him, really, but rather the dubious perks of his odd, transient fame—
Each time, he’d floated outside himself for a moment. Disoriented. Lost.
Tonight, he’d walked into the restaurant undisturbed, illuminated only by the lingering glow of sunset and streetlights just flickering to life. Even though, if April had alerted them, countless reporters would have raced to cover the much-anticipated date.
STARMEETSSTAN, one blogger had termed the momentous occasion.
BeforeApril had even arrived, then, he’d already considered their date more enjoyable than most he’d had since being cast onGods of the Gates. Her eventual entrance into the restaurant hadn’t shaken that assessment, either. This might be an evening spent together out of necessity, rather than any real attachment on either side, but he could still appreciate her company, the opportunity to admire her across the table for an hour or two, and the convenience of her location near San Francisco and his parents.
When their dinner ended, they’d take a few pics to post on Twitter and prove her haters wrong. Afterward, once they went their separate ways, all the buzz would slowly diminish. Until their meal together became simply a footnote in his Wikipedia entry, a reminder of that time he went on a date with a fan of his show, because he might be dim, but he was also kind.
That was how everyone was interpreting this dinner. As a sympathetic gesture, rather than an expression of real attraction.
They weren’t wrong, obviously. But the easy assumption thatof coursehe couldn’t be attracted to April,of coursehe couldn’t truly want to date her, pricked some raw spot within him. Made him bristle a bit. After that ugly thread the other day, he couldn’t avoid knowing why everyone had made their assumptions. And if he understood, April did too.
The irony: they weren’t entirely right, either.
Yes, he would have asked out anyone in her position. A troll living under a bridge. A beauty queen. Whomever.
But April was no troll. By candlelight, her hair was a gleaming sheet of copper flowing just past her shoulders, her eyes dark and sparked by fire. She hadn’t covered her freckles with whatever makeup she was wearing, and he was trying very hard not to count each adorable speckle on her nose and the tops of her round cheeks. Much as he’d forced himself not to stare for longer thana heartbeat at her body, lush and faithfully outlined by that green dress she wore.
Those braying fanboys weren’t just cruel. They were fools.
April Whittier was a goddess. And as the son of Lawrence Caster and Debra Rupp, as a man who played a demigod himself, he would know.
As she circled other tables on her way back to theirs, her confident stride matched her up-tilted chin. Maybe she didn’t notice the stares, the way at least one cell phone camera followed her progress. Maybe she didn’t care. Or maybe she was pretending not to care.
