Spoiler Alert (Spoiler Alert #1)(39)
“Marcus, look this way!” one of them called out. “Is that the girl from Twitter?”
When Marcus raised his head, another man was moving closer to April, his camera lens enormous and expensive and trained entirely on her. “What’s your name, sweetheart? How long have you two known one another?”
She stiffened, and Marcus didn’t blame her for shifting away from him under the onslaught, but she had to know: this was just the beginning.
The paparazzi had found them at last.
JULIENNED BY LOVE
INT. RESTAURANT KITCHEN – MIDNIGHT
MIKE and JULIE are kissing passionately, Julie pressed up against the metal countertop. Unexpectedly, she sways, ill and near crumpling, and the kiss breaks. She lays her hand against her forehead and looks at him, tears swimming in her eyes. When he reaches for her, she dodges.
JULIE
I can’t be your sous chef anymore.
MIKE
But . . . why? Why, Julie?
JULIE
What we have can never be. Trust me. It’s as impossible as perfecting my jambalaya-cheesecake fusion dish.
She backs away from him, step by step, supporting herself with one hand on the counters, the walls, the doorway to the dark dining area.
MIKE
Julie! Julie, don’t leave me!
She is almost to the restaurant exit, crying.
MIKE (O.S.)
Don’t leave me. Without you, I’ll be in the weeds . . . forever.
As he stands alone in the echoing kitchen, Mike clutches her discarded hairnet to his chest.
MIKE
Goodbye, my sweet, spicy sous chef. Goodbye.
11
SINCE ACCEPTING MARCUS’S DINNER INVITATION, APRIL had wondered how she might react to the appearance of actual, real-life paparazzi. Would she freeze? Cringe? Try to hide? Ignore them entirely and get on with things, as she’d visualized doing over the past couple of days?
In the end, none of the above.
Instead, she was entirely occupied watching Marcus put on one hell of a show. Somehow, he’d managed to draw their attention away from her in mere seconds, through sheer charisma and unabashed flirting and—
Yes. Yes, he appeared to be stripping.
Moving another step away from her, he grinned at their audience. “It’s damn hot in the sun today.”
Reaching down, he crossed his arms and tugged his henley upward, the friction of fabric on fabric pulling the tee underneath higher at the same time and exposing bare flesh.
It was a cool spring day. No way he couldn’t feel the chill against his skin.
He knew what he was doing. Oh, he knew.
His abdomen appeared first, flat and firm and bisected by a line of silky-looking golden-brown hair, lovingly bracketed by those lickable diagonal furrows. His jeans rested lower on his hips than she’d imagined, low enough that she had to swallow hard.
Then, as he kept dragging his henley higher—slowly, so slowly—his chest came into view, muscled and lightly furred, and . . .
Nipples. Jesus, nipples. They all got a flash of those too, hard in the chill, before the henley was over his head and gravity dragged his tee back down a few inches.
The paparazzi were capturing everything, their cameras clicking away.
One of them finally managed to recall the reason for their presence, however. “Are you here on a date, Marcus? What’s your lady friend’s name?”
“Well, we all know I have no interest in museums.” At his wink, one of the paparazzi actually blushed behind her camera. “But anything to impress a pretty woman, right? I suffered for the sake of beauty, as I so often do.”
Yes, it was definitely an impressive show.
At least, April assumed he was putting on a show. Hoped.
Because otherwise, he’d only been acting today. Pretending to enjoy the museum, enjoy her company, in hopes of riding their obvious—if surprising—sexual compatibility into the orgasmic sunset.
Would she even know? Hadn’t she been thinking only days ago that he should have won an award for his dramatic abilities? How could she assume the man she’d seen today, the man she’d briefly glimpsed at the end of dinner, was the real Marcus, and not merely another role?
He gifted their onlookers with one last gleaming smile before taking her hand again and tugging her toward a taxi just arriving at the museum’s entrance. The paparazzi trailed after them, shouting more questions, taking more pictures, but he merely waved and grinned.
They were sliding into the back seat of that taxi before the elderly woman inside even managed to finish paying the driver.
To give the woman enough room, Marcus drew April down onto his lap, and she wished she could relax into the contact, melt against the heat emanating from his honed, strong body, but she couldn’t. Not right now. Instead, she remained stiff against him, her back ruler-straight.
Was he thinking how heavy she was, compared to other women he’d dated?
Or—and this was somehow, illogically worse—was he thinking, Finally, we can stop talking about fucking rocks and just get down to actual fucking?
Marcus smiled apologetically at the wide-eyed taxi patron perched on the other side of the back seat. “Sorry to intrude. We’d be happy to pay the tip for your ride, if you’ll allow it.”