First: I’m confident and sexy, but not trying too hard. Because, yes, he might be vapid and vain, but he was also a famous actor and fucking hot, and she had her pride. Like her mother, she also anticipated more than a few candid shots of the dinner ending up online before she finished her last bite of dessert. She intended to look good in those photos, as well as in the pics she and Marcus would post on their own social media accounts.
To make that kind of statement required a formfitting dress. Not one in black, either. It required heels, loath as she was to torture her feet. It required dangling earrings.
But that was all her standard big-date garb, despite her mother’s advice. Nothing too complicated.
No, it was the second statement, one directed toward Marcus alone, that was proving tricky: You should share confidential details about the final season of your show, despite the legal and professional consequences you’d suffer upon doing so.
And making that kind of statement—well, she wasn’t entirely sure what kind of outfit would suffice. It should probably involve a hypnotist’s watch. You’re getting sleepy, very sleepy, and also very prone to telling me whether you and Lavinia finally fuck, and whether it’s awesome, and is there any full-frontal male nudity?
Absent such a watch, her best bet was cleavage. Last year, the mere sight of her dress’s plunging neckline had caused a date to stride confidently into a lamppost outside the Fairmont. Later, when she’d bent over to retrieve a dropped napkin during dinner, he’d stabbed himself in the cheek with his fork and yelped loudly enough to summon a nearby waiter.
Before that ill-fated evening, Blake had spent hours bragging about the intensity and thoroughness of his long-ago special forces training. Apparently, however, SEALs didn’t prepare for Advanced Mammary Warfare Tactics back in the early 2000s, and neither did present-day internet security experts.
When she’d teased him about that oversight, he’d scowled petulantly at her. Right before spilling half a glass of white wine over his suit jacket when she fiddled with the pendant hanging just above her breasts.
She’d snickered then, and she snickered again at the memory. Sucker.
Okay. A wrap dress, then. Cleavage Central.
She flipped through the hangers in the closet, contemplating her two main options. That colorful medallion print or the gorgeous seafoam green?
The green dress slipped to the floor, and she could barely put it back on the padded hanger.
Shit. Her hands were shaking.
She shouldn’t be nervous. She wasn’t. Only—
Jesus, those Twitter notifications, blog posts, and entertainment news programs. Her mother’s doubts. April’s own fears.
Despite her excitement, despite her hard-won confidence, she was still human. This sudden exposure of her private life to the public eye had left her feeling . . . odd. As if she were watching herself from the outside, evaluating every nuance of what she said and how she looked.
And even apart from the public uproar and her new self-consciousness, she was meeting a man she’d seen for years on television, for fuck’s sake. The same man whose terrible movies she’d occasionally watched with a bucket of popcorn in hand, his handsome face on the screen almost as big as the house she’d just sold.
The same man various magazines proclaimed the sexiest man alive. The same man who’d starred in countless fics she’d written, grinning and flirting and fucking his way to guaranteed happy endings, both literal and metaphorical. At least, in her imagination.
In less than two hours, she was meeting him in actual reality, and she needed not to hyperventilate. Somehow.
She should pick a dress with a soothing color.
One last glance at her closet, and she had her answer: seafoam green. No one hyperventilated while wearing seafoam green. It was the Valium of dress colors, in the prettiest possible way.
Or so she fervently hoped.
Lavineas Server DMs, Eighteen Months Ago
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: I think I’m going to pack as many tropes into this one-shot as possible. Help me think of more, please. I already have oh-no-there’s-only-one-bed, fake dating, one-bang-will-get-this-out-of-our-systems, big brother’s best friend . . .
Book!AeneasWouldNever: Wow. That’s quite a lineup.
Book!AeneasWouldNever: Maybe “kissing for the sake of science”?
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: NICE. Done!
Book!AeneasWouldNever: How about some pining too?
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: Oh, here we go.
Book!AeneasWouldNever: Unrequited love? Or he inadvertently led to his ex’s death? Maybe she died in a fire he could have prevented, if only he hadn’t been so caught up in duty?
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: Jesus Christ.
Book!AeneasWouldNever: Sorry.
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: No, don’t apologize. Angst is your thing. It works for you.
Book!AeneasWouldNever: Um
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: What
Book!AeneasWouldNever: Maybe he experiences PTSD because of his military background? Like, a bunch of his men died under his command?
Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: Holy shit, BAWN.
5
“SO . . .” MARCUS DABBED HIS PERFECT MOUTH WITH HIS starched cloth napkin, then returned it neatly to his lap. “You have a Twitter account?”
April wasn’t entirely certain how to respond to that.
He hadn’t seemed quite this dim in DMs. But maybe he had a personal assistant handle his social media accounts, and she’d never really communicated with him at all before now. Or maybe, for a man like him, she was too insignificant to remember for long?
“Yes.” With her fork, she teased free a flake of the restaurant’s signature house-smoked salmon and dipped it in the artistic smear of her appetizer’s sour cream–dill sauce. “I do.”
Their server, Olaf, came to refill her water glass, as he seemed to do after every sip. Taking advantage of the distraction, she discreetly checked her watch.
Thirty minutes since she’d met Marcus? That was all?
Dammit.
It seemed like longer since she’d entered the candlelit confines of the exclusive, expensive SoMa restaurant and found him already sitting at their window-side table. Since she’d arrived ten minutes early and expected a bit of a wait—weren’t Hollywood types supposed to swan into events fashionably late?—she’d blinked at him in surprise when he’d risen smartly to his feet and greeted her with a placid smile on his handsome face.
“You look lovely.” His glance at her formfitting dress had lasted maybe a half second, no more. “Thank you for joining me tonight.”
He’d extended an arm toward the chair with the best view, his dark suit jacket molding attractively against his biceps, then helped seat her. Still smiling, he’d begun to make small talk. About the weather. About the traffic. About the beauty of the sunset that evening.
And that was what they’d been doing ever since, in between Olaf’s visits. She was half tempted to knock over a water glass or set her napkin on fire with their table’s candle, just for a little excitement. This dinner was going to be endless.
Heaving a small, silent sigh, she ate her bite of salmon. At least she no longer felt guilty about her preference for dinner with Alexander Woodroe over Marcus. Or—better yet—long-distance DMs with BAWN over in-person conversation with either famous actor.