Spoiler Alert (Spoiler Alert #1)(25)

Sometime after she’d beta-read and proofed a couple of his fics for the first time, BAWN had told her about his dyslexia via DM, amid a flurry of apologies for any spelling errors.

I have voice-to-text software, he wrote, but it sometimes has issues with homonyms. I’m sorry. I afraid I won’t be much help proofreading your fics.

I can deal with spelling on my own, she’d written back. Where I need help is plotting and making sure I remain true to the characters, even in a modern AU. Emotional depth too. All strengths of yours. If you could help me with those bits, I’d be very grateful.

He hadn’t responded for a long time.

I can do that, he’d eventually written.

“There are workarounds,” she said, when Marcus remained silent and still beneath her gaze, beneath her touch. “I’m sure you’ve found them already.”

When she withdrew her hand, he startled, then shifted restlessly in his seat.

At the heat lingering on her fingertip, the guilt churning within her gut at touching another man while thinking of BAWN, she did the same.

“Yes. Lots of workarounds.” He cleared his throat. “This person you know, the one with dyslexia. The smart, talented one. Does he write fanfic too?”

She had to smile. “That’s how I know what a great writer he is.”

“What name does he use?” As Marcus scooped out a perfect semi-oval of custard, his attention once more seemed entirely focused on his spoon. “For his stories, I mean. In case I ever visit your fanfiction site.”

Was that an offhand question? A test of her discretion?

Either way, she wasn’t answering.

The linen napkin was smooth and crisp under her fingers as she plucked it from her lap, folded it, and placed it next to her half-finished ramekin of panna cotta.

It was a gesture of finality, matching her firm tone. “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you that without his permission.”

“Ah.” After one final spoonful of the dessert, he nudged his ramekin aside too. “I understand.”

Olaf appeared from nowhere to remove their dishes, refill their water, and offer coffee or after-dinner drinks. Only moments after they both refused and their server faded into the gorgeous woodwork once more, her jaw cracked in a huge, unexpected yawn.

Marcus snorted.

“Good thing we’re almost done for the evening.” He pointed a scolding finger at her. “Don’t stay up too late on the computer, either. After cleaning all day, you need your rest.”

She shook her head at him, exasperated and amused.

So he did remember their Twitter DMs, where she’d briefly described her plans for the weekend. Because of course he did.

His gaze held a new warmth, a fondness she wouldn’t have anticipated. Not after one evening together, not given how carefully he guarded himself. At least until just a few minutes ago.

If he asked her on a second date again, after that conversation—

Well, he wouldn’t. Instead, he’d asked for the check.

When it arrived, he wouldn’t let her see the total, much less pay her half.

“I can get the tip, at least,” she protested.

Brows high in a silent rejoinder, he pinned her with a look that said everything.

I’m starring in the most popular television show in the world. I have a multimillion-dollar home in LA. According to fashion magazines, I pay four hundred dollars per haircut and use seven different styling products every day, each of which costs more than you make per hour.

Okay, so maybe she’d filled in a few of the specifics herself, but still. Those were some damn expressive eyebrows. No wonder the man could afford that home nestled in the Hollywood hills.

Out loud, he said only, “I believe I can afford dinner.”

She didn’t argue further. Her exhaustion was dragging at her shoulders now, turning her legs into aching pillars, and she couldn’t help a sense of . . .

Deflation, maybe.

This was over. Whatever had happened between them tonight, it was done as soon as he handled the credit card receipt and stood to go.

But after he signed his name and closed the little leather book, he didn’t stand. Instead, he took a sip of water, those cloudy blue eyes—if she was judging the angle of his gaze correctly—resting on her hair. Her cheeks. Her bare arms.

Then he met her own gaze. His chest expanded in a huge inhalation, and he reached across the table. Laid his fingertips lightly on the back of her wrist and spoke as she tried not to shiver at his touch.

“If you don’t want a second date with me, that’s absolutely fine, and I promise not to bother you again. We can take a few selfies before leaving, post them tonight or tomorrow, and go our separate ways.” That knife-sharp jaw was working again, but he managed to sound calm. Sure. “That said, I want to make certain you understand something before we leave.”

With her free hand, she fumbled for her water glass. Sipped away the dryness in her throat before responding.

“Okay.” Whether he knew it or not, his fingertips were moving on her flesh. Just a millimeter back and forth, in the subtlest caress she’d ever known, and it burned. “What should I understand?”

“Your fanfiction, whatever you’ve written—” His fingers stilled. “It may make things a bit awkward, a bit more complicated, but it doesn’t bother me. It doesn’t stop me from hoping to see you again. If that was your main reason for turning me down, I wanted you to know.”