Spoiler Alert (Spoiler Alert #1)(109)

Frankly, he got the sense they were terrified of his fiancée. Which, given her opinion of them, wasn’t necessarily inappropriate.

“Nope. Not Ian’s wife.” Oh, this was the best part. He couldn’t wait to see her face. “He was sharing scripts with his personal tuna purveyor in exchange for a discount.”

Slowly, she closed her laptop screen, staring at him.

“He . . .” Her head tilted, her coppery hair falling over her shoulder. “You’re telling me Ian violated his contract in exchange for lower seafood prices? Did I understand that correctly?”

“Yup.” He popped the closing consonant for emphasis.

“Wow. Wooooow.” Sliding her glasses off her nose, she blinked at him. “The show’s been over for months. Why is this coming out now?”

“Ian’s playing someone less fit in his new show, so he stopped training as hard. Less need for training, less need for protein. Less need for protein, less—”

“—need for tuna.” She tapped the arm of her glasses against the table. “Huh. Ian got ratted out by a newly impoverished, vengeful tuna salesman. I have to admit, I didn’t see that coming.”

He grinned. “I don’t think Carah has stopped cackling since we found out this morning.”

Fishy motherfucker, she’d written in the cast chat. Literally and figuratively. HahahahaHAHAHA.

He and his Gates colleagues had remained friends, some closer than others. All of them, however, closer to him than he’d have expected two years ago, possibly because now they actually knew him. Every few days, someone would post an update, and they’d talk about their new movies and shows, or their families, or possible group get-togethers.

They had, however, kicked Ian out of the group chat that morning, because really? A tuna purveyor?

“Oh, and Summer says hi, by the way.” Idly, he scratched his chest hair. “She wants to have dinner with you the next time we’re in LA.”

Since that first convention together, his former on-screen wife and his real-life fiancée had become good friends, in part because they’d had so many opportunities to spend time in each other’s company. At awards shows and cons. During visits to LA. Also for a few weeks last spring, as he and Summer filmed in San Francisco.

Much to his parents’ bewilderment and April’s amusement, his initial post-Gates project had involved playing a very familiar character: Aeneas. Specifically, Aeneas from Virgil’s Aeneid, rather than Wade’s version or—he suppressed a shudder—Ron and R.J.’s iteration.

For the first time, he’d helped produce his own film. A two-hour movie for a big-budget streaming service willing to invest in somewhat quirky projects, as long as big-name stars were attached. Stars such as, for instance, Marcus and Carah and Summer.

His fans had stuck with him after he’d discarded his public persona, so he’d had his choice of other quality roles. But moving behind the camera was his way of ensuring greater say in the script and his characters and coworkers. It was also a challenge and a set of new skills to master. And much to his satisfaction, he’d been able to coordinate shooting a few key scenes in San Francisco, as close as possible to the woman he loved.

Not that April couldn’t do without him when he was filming elsewhere. He’d been lonely so many years before meeting her, though. Too many to easily accept months spent apart, especially if alternatives were available.

When he’d first tentatively broached the idea of coproducing and starring in a new version of the Aeneid alongside Carah as Dido and Summer as Lavinia, April had laughed and laughed until she’d literally collapsed onto their bed and cried with yet more laughter.

“You—” After wiping her face, she’d tried again. “You realize this is basically one big fix-it fic in response to Gods of the Gates, right?”

Well, he hadn’t thought about it that way, but . . .

“Kind of?” He’d winced. “I guess?”

“God, you are the cutest,” April had informed him, and then she’d pulled him down onto the bed on top of her, and the conversation had abruptly ended.

The memory of that evening was more than pleasant. It was downright motivational.

Accordingly, he rearranged his body slightly on the couch, angling himself toward April. She was still watching him, rather than ducking behind her laptop screen and tapping on her keyboard, and he took full advantage of his opportunity.

One hand still behind his head, he trailed the other down the center of his bare chest, stopping just above the waist of his low-slung jeans.

Her breath audibly caught, and he grinned at her, slow and hot.

Then a phone dinged. “Yours or mine?” he asked.

She glanced across the table. “Mine. My mom.”

It went to voicemail, as her mother’s calls often did.

Only now, after two years, was JoAnn able to conduct occasional conversations without a single reference to weight loss or exercise. As soon as those subjects arose, April promptly hung up, but the older woman never seemed to learn.

Nevertheless, April continued giving her mother chance after chance to change.

“In the end, it’s not really about me,” she’d explained after yet another truncated conversation. “It’s about her own fears. I’m not sure she even realizes she’s doing it.”