Spoiler Alert (Spoiler Alert #1)(78)

In theory, there was a second movie script competing for Marcus’s attention, but that was blatant misdirection on his part and not worth her notetaking efforts.

She pushed aside her laptop. “You lied to me, Marcus.”

He jerked on the couch. Paled.

“April . . .” Sitting up in a rush of movement, he pressed his lips together. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t . . . I shouldn’t have . . .”

His words faltered as he stared at her, stricken.

That seemed like an overreaction to a harmless bit of deception, but she already knew Marcus was, well . . . sensitive. To his own emotions, but also hers. Alex might—in an epic example of pot/kettle fuckery—call him a drama queen, but she didn’t consider her boyfriend’s vulnerability a weakness.

If he ever decided to shed the masks he used to protect himself, she would be more than willing to serve as a different sort of shield for him. She’d happily guard his tender spots from the unkind scrutiny of outsiders. For his own sake, but also because—selfishly—she wanted him to need her.

More than that.

She wanted him to love her. She could admit it, at least to herself.

“It’s okay.” Moving over to the couch, she settled beside him and pressed a comforting kiss to his cheek. “Luckily for you, I don’t mind trick questions.”

“Trick . . . questions.” He let out a shuddering breath. “Yes.”

Once he’d relaxed against her, she poked his arm. “Despite what you said, you gave me two main contenders. Not three, you cheater.”

His face brightened at her declaration, a sun unshadowed by clouds once more, and that expression alone was enough to tell her she was right.

Still, he lifted an arrogant brow, his composure now restored in its entirety. “Maybe, maybe not. Let’s hear your reasoning.”

Turning to face him, she tucked one leg beneath her and let loose.

“No way you’re choosing Julius Caesar: Redux. You love ancient Rome, but not enough to work with that director. Even I’ve heard the rumors about him, which is saying something.” Her lip curled. “Besides, that script is shitty, and you don’t need to take roles simply to get a paycheck anymore. You can pick a project befitting your talent and intelligence.”

“Befitting my—” His mouth worked. “My talent and intelligence.”

He seemed stuck on that phrase, but she had a challenge to win, so she wasn’t lingering.

“It wasn’t a very convincing trick, honestly. If you want to fool me, you’ll have to do better than that.” She shook her head at him. “You’re too good for that movie, in every possible way. It’s not a contender. Your agent shouldn’t even have sent it to you.”

He stared at her then, blue-gray eyes wide and unexpectedly solemn.

When he eventually spoke, his voice was quiet. “I told her not to send me any more projects from that director, no matter how much his films make at the box office. Nothing else from that screenwriter, either, because the script was a misogynistic piece of shit. Just like you said.”

“Score one for Team Whittier.” Licking her forefinger, she traced an invisible tally mark in the air.

When he didn’t move, she indicated his clothing with a jerk of her chin.

“Make like a dancing firefighter on a Vegas stage,” she said, “and strip.”

His grin was slow as he straightened on the couch, and so was the peekaboo tease of his tee rising, then rising more, until that hard chest came into view. Finally, his bared muscles shifting with impressive fluidity under that hair-dusted flesh, he yanked the shirt over his head and flung it in her lap.

When she gathered it in her fist, it was still warm from his body heat.

She licked her lips with deliberate care, knowing his eyes would follow the movement. “One down. Two to go.”

Sitting back, he rested a hand on her knee. Traced the oval of her kneecap. “I can’t wait.”

There was a smile in his voice, even though his face was downturned, his eyes on his fingertip circling, circling, circling.

“The indie movie . . .” When she pressed her thighs together, he glanced up and slanted her a wicked grin. “It’s a limited commitment, more so than the TV series. That probably appeals to you. It’s cleverly written. It’s a chance to show your emotional range. It’d also be one of the few comedic roles you’ve taken, and your first since you became as famous as you are.”

His finger had strayed to the inside of her knee now, teasing the thin skin there through the flimsy barrier of her lounge pants. “Why haven’t I accepted, then?”

“It’s not much money, but I’d guess that isn’t your main concern.”

“No?” It was another near-purr, languid and sultry.

Those strong hands urged her to her feet and stood her between his legs, where he still sat on the couch. Without warning, he tugged down her wide-legged pants, his palms hot as they skimmed down the sides of her thighs, her calves.

She was still wearing panties, but she suspected that state of affairs might not last much longer, given the way he slipped a thumb under her waistband and stroked along her belly.

“No—oh.” When he settled her on his lap, positioning her so she straddled his hips, that bulge in his jeans pressed right there, where she was aching and growing hotter. “Th-the cast is such a large ensemble, you might not get enough chance to shine. I also wasn’t sure Ophelia had much of an identity outside her exes.”