He muttered something that sounded like, You have no idea.
“I’m—” Clearing his throat, he spoke more loudly. “I’m . . . uh, delighted with the talent and hard work of our scriptwriters, of course. And, um, that was the story we got. That was the script. It makes total sense.”
From his verging-on-pained expression, his stilted words, he might have been starring in an impromptu hostage video. Ironically, it was the worst acting she’d ever seen him do, and that included his hilarious feigned ignorance of what geology meant earlier that evening.
She smiled at him, highly entertained.
“There’s—there’s no alternative script, no alternate universe, so . . .” He spread his hands. “Yes, I’m thrilled with Aeneas’s story. Completely. Dido’s too.”
Yes. Very convincing. He was going to need to rehearse his answers a few more times before his press junket for the sixth season began.
Although . . .
Her smile widened.
Damn, he was smart. By playing Mr. Dim-and-Pretty all these years, he’d managed to avoid publicly discussing scripts and story lines and the way his show diverged from E. Wade’s books. Instead, he could focus on workout routines and grooming rituals, subjects that wouldn’t get him into trouble with his showrunners or costars.
She leaned conspiratorially close, propped on her elbows. “There’s no alternate universe, that’s true.” This time, she tapped her spoon against his ramekin. Winked at him. “Unless you write fanfic and come up with one. Like I do.”
He didn’t smile, as she’d anticipated.
Instead, head tilted, he gazed at her. Pressed his lips together. Rested his own elbows on the table and spoke haltingly, his voice barely audible despite the few inches separating them.
“Growing up, I—” His throat bobbed. “I was never much of a writer. Or a reader, for that matter.”
This . . . this wasn’t a tale she’d heard before. Not in any interview. Not in any blog post.
“I liked stories. Loved stories.” He gave his head an impatient shake. “Of course I do. I wouldn’t be an actor if I didn’t. But—”
This close, she dragged his subtle scent into her lungs with every breath. Herbal. Musky.
This close, she could measure the true length of his eyelashes, trace how they fanned and turned pale gold at their tips.
This close, she couldn’t miss the raw sincerity in his words, in his pained eyes.
She held very still, a steady presence as he seemed to struggle for words. “But?”
Softly. Softly. An invisible hand holding his as he faltered, not a shove in the back.
With his thumb and middle finger, he pinched his temples. Exhaled. “From the very beginning, there were issues. I took a long time to begin speaking. And once I started school, I kept, uh . . . kept reversing my letters and numbers.”
Oh. Oh.
She knew where this was going now, but he needed to get there in his own time. In his own way. “Okay.”
“My parents blamed the teachers, so they decided my mom should homeschool me. She taught at a nearby prep school, so she was more than qualified.” His little huff of laughter didn’t contain a single trace of actual amusement. “We all found out pretty quickly that the teachers weren’t the problem. I was.”
No, that couldn’t stand unchallenged. “Marcus, having d—”
He didn’t seem to hear her. “No matter how much she had me read, no matter how much she had me write, no matter how many vocabulary lists she made for me, I was a terrible speller. I had terrible handwriting. I couldn’t write or read quickly, couldn’t pronounce things correctly, couldn’t always understand what I’d read.”
Fuck. That early interview with Marcus, the one that had cemented his reputation as amiable but not especially bright, now seemed—
“My parents thought I was lazy. Defiant.” His eyes met hers, and they were defiant. Daring her to judge him, to second the condemnation of his family. “I only found out there was a name for my problem after I dropped out of college and moved to LA. A name other than stupidity, anyway.”
Chin haughty, no hint of a smile softening that famous mouth, he waited. Knowing, somehow, that he didn’t need to use the word himself.
“You’re dyslexic.” She pitched her voice low, to protect his privacy. “Marcus, I had no idea.”
That stony expression didn’t flicker.
“No one does, except Alex.” When her brows furrowed, he clarified. “Alex Woodroe. Cupid. My best friend. He’s the one who figured it out, since one of his ex-girlfriends had dyslexia too. Diagnosed, unlike mine.”
The bitterness in that last phrase painted the back of her tongue, and she pushed her panna cotta to the side. No need to get custard in her hair, and she wasn’t hungry anymore, not after hearing his story.
The skin over his knuckles seemed stretched to its limits, his fists almost as white as the tablecloth beneath them. When she rested a fingertip on one of those bony knuckles, a vein in his temple throbbed.
“Marcus . . .” Since he didn’t move away from her touch, she traced a gentle line across the back of his hand. “One of the smartest, most talented people I know is dyslexic. He’s an amazing writer too.”
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.”