“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 heonlypretty?”
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 whatgeologymeant 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, hewassmart. 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.
