Spoiler Alert (Spoiler Alert #1)(82)

She didn’t understand yet, but she would.

He loved her, loved her, and she was his reward. Touching her was a gift to him.

That night, he’d finally understood just how effectively she’d managed to shield her own vulnerabilities, despite all her seeming openness and the wattage illuminating them both.

The next morning, he’d been determined to learn more. To understand her better.

When he’d woken in darkness, an hour before her alarm was due to sound, she was already awake. At his movement, her head had turned toward him, and her eyes weren’t heavy-lidded with sleep, as they should have been following such a late night.

She was fully alert. Thinking so hard, he was surprised he couldn’t hear the friction.

“Tell me,” he’d said, and gathered her into the crook of his body, an arm under her neck, the other stroking her arm, her hip, her flank as he eased her into the unfamiliar role of little spoon. “Tell me about the call.”

The sheets smelled like them. Like sex and roses, and everything he’d dreamed of.

“My parents . . .” Unexpectedly, she laughed, the sound jarring in the predawn stillness. “The irony, Marcus. The fucking irony.”

“I don’t understand.” He nosed the crown of her head. Pressed a kiss there.

“They’re going to love you. Love you. They’ll approve of you more than they ever approved of me.” She paused. “But not just the real you. The fake you too, the public you. Even if they saw the difference, I don’t think they’d count it as important. Maybe my mom would. Not my dad, though.”

The thought hadn’t occurred to him before, but—“My parents would have killed to have you as their child, instead of me.”

Maybe that should have hurt, but somehow it didn’t. The knife’s edge of his grief had blunted since he’d shared it with April. Since he’d realized he had a choice in how his relationship with his parents would proceed in the future, if it proceeded at all. Since she’d told him he didn’t owe them forgiveness or anything he didn’t want to give.

Besides, how could he begrudge some alternate-universe version of his parents for adoring and admiring April, when he did the same?

“Thus the irony.” She wiggled closer. “All your best qualities, everything that makes you remarkable—that’s not what my father cares about. He’s all about appearances. Surfaces and selling himself to clients. We’re estranged, but my mother is absolutely loyal to him, and she has her own—” As she hesitated, her breathing became a bit ragged. “She has her own concerns. So things can get complicated.”

When she’d fallen silent after her predawn confession, he hadn’t pushed her.

Instead, he’d asked her what she needed from him, and she’d whispered into the darkness.

They’d made love slowly, and not just because she was already tender and slightly sore from their night together. Without urgency, in the dim coolness of her bedroom, in the shared warmth of her bed, he covered her, moved over her, took her beloved face between his hands and made certain—absolutely certain—she saw him seeing her.

Because that was what she’d needed.

Yes, he was beginning to understand her now. It had taken him longer than it should have, but he would make up for lost time today.

She hadn’t asked for his help, because that wasn’t her way. He was helping anyway.

If she needed space from her father, Marcus could give her that space, and she’d already told him how to do it. Her father cared about appearances. That being the case, there was literally no one better suited to occupy his attention and keep him away from April than the Well-Groomed Golden Retriever.

He had his character. He had his script and plenty of motivation.

As soon as they arrived at her parents’ house, he’d be ready for action.

It shouldn’t be much longer, either. The traffic was moving steadily, so they had maybe twenty more minutes to go. April kept glancing in her rearview mirror, as if longing to turn back, but she also kept driving.

After chatting about several more of the latest Lavineas fics—most of which he’d already, secretly, read—April fell silent.

Not for long, though.

“I saw you looking over the scripts again yesterday,” she said, adjusting the fan speed up another notch, then back down again a moment later. “Did you make any decisions?”

Discussing his career might help distract her a bit longer, but there honestly wasn’t much to report. “Nope.”

Some of his options no longer existed, not after such a long wait. Others he still couldn’t make himself commit to, despite all logic and common sense.

When she made a sort of encouraging hum, he willingly elaborated. “I fully understand how lucky I am to have access to those kinds of scripts, and I’m grateful. I really am. I don’t take my ability to make a living from acting for granted, and I appreciate the opportunities and experiences I’ve had more than I can easily express.”

“I know you do.” She flashed him a quick smile before turning back to the road. “When you talk about your work, your gratitude shines through every word. It’s endearing as hell.”

Her regard, her affection, settled softly within his chest, as it always did.

With her, he was always warm. Always full.