Spoiler Alert (Spoiler Alert #1)(11)

His lush, sandy-blond hair, just starting to silver at the temples, set off his cloudy blue eyes like—

Well, like a television star’s hair should set off his eyes.

He was a damn good actor too. A couple of seasons ago, his character had followed Jupiter’s stern order to secretly gather his fleet and leave Dido—the woman he’d loved and lived with for a year—in the middle of the night, with no warning or even a final word. CasterRupp had conveyed Aeneas’s naked grief and shame and reluctance with such skill, April had cried.

Then Aeneas had spotted the glow of Dido’s funeral pyre in the distance, across the choppy water, and understood the implications. Because of what he’d done, she was either dying or dead, and he couldn’t do anything to stop her or help. Dropping to his knees on his ship’s deck, his face crumpled in agony, he’d clutched his hair and bowed his head, his breath rough pants as he grappled with horror and self-loathing at his beloved’s fate.

At that, April hadn’t merely cried anymore. Sobbed, more like it.

She still thought he should have won a little gold statue for that episode.

In the actor’s capable hands, no one could deny Aeneas’s intelligence, his huge, lonely, scarred heart—or his reluctant, growing respect for and attraction to Lavinia in the last three seasons of the show.

But there was a reason April didn’t follow the dude on Twitter.

She didn’t think he’d ever said an interesting word in any interview she’d seen with him. And she’d seen plenty, because the Lavineas shippers hungrily pounced on any media coverage that might discuss their favorite pairing. Unlike Summer Diaz, the woman who so ably portrayed Lavinia, though, CasterRupp never fed the fandom with insight or analysis or even a bare mention of the Aeneas-Lavinia relationship. Not that he mentioned the Aeneas-Dido relationship, either.

He kept things vague. Enthusiastic and one hundred percent generic.

After the first season of the show aired, most reporters simply gave up on interviews with him and just flashed a few of his biceps-flexing pics on-screen whenever they mentioned his character.

His ability to portray such intelligence on camera, such emotional depth, was a wonder. In real life, the man was all hair-flipping, cheerful vapidity, a walking, talking, gleaming, preening, Hollywood-pretty-face stereotype.

Not her kind of date, in short.

But spurning him, rejecting his kind gesture, in public would be churlish. And how could she call herself a Lavineas fan if she turned down the chance to talk with him?

Then again, maybe he was looking for a way out.

They needed to talk. Not in front of his two million followers, either.

She followed his account. Then she slid into his DMs, half expecting to find out she had been hallucinating, or Twitter’s notifications had gone bonkers somehow and told her he’d followed her account and asked her out when he definitely hadn’t.

But up the DM screen popped.

She had permission to send direct messages to Marcus CasterRupp. Because he’d followed her. In reality.

Weeeeeird. Exciting, but weird. Not to mention awkward. So much so that composing her initial message took several minutes.

Uh . . . hi, she eventually wrote. Nice to meet you, Mr. CasterRupp. First of all, and most importantly, thank you for being so kind just now. It was very sweet of you to defend me like that. That said, I want you to know: you don’t have to go through with the dinner. I mean, I’m probably willing if you are, but I don’t want you to feel obligated.

While she waited for a response, she quickly checked the Lavineas server.

With a groan, she flopped back against her headboard. Dammit, BAWN had responded to her earlier messages, and she didn’t have time to answer him right now.

But she had a responsibility to the fandom. If he knew the situation, BAWN would understand.

Still, she wrote him a quick message. Taking care of a few last-minute tasks. Then I’ll be back to chat. Sorry!

By the time she maximized her Twitter window again, CasterRupp had written her back.

I don’t feel obligated. You’re obviously very talented at making costumes, and as I said, you’re also quite lovely. I would be proud to take you to dinner. P.S. Please call me Marcus.

Despite her better judgment, she beamed a little at the compliments.

Still, she called bullshit on at least one part of his message.

So this has nothing to do with wanting to spite those dicks in our mentions, Marcus? P.S. I’m April.

His response came almost immediately. I have to admit, I would also be happy to disoblige some of my more obnoxious fanboys.

She frowned.

Disoblige? What kind of vapid, pretty-boy actor used a word like disoblige?

Three blinking dots appeared on the DM screen. He was writing more.

That came out wrong. Sorry. I meant to say, I think this would be good PR for me too. You know, socializing with the fans.

That was more what she’d expected of a man like him. A well-intentioned, good-natured, but ultimately surface-oriented publicity stunt.

That makes sense, she wrote.

More dots, this time blinking for several minutes.

Fair warning, April. If we do go out, it’ll probably end up in the tabloids, or at least a few online blogs. So if you’re protective of your privacy, you might want to turn me down. If so, my feelings won’t be hurt.

She bit her lip. I’ll need a few minutes to decide. Is that okay?