Spoiler Alert

by Olivia Dade

  He couldn’t say he’d ever met a geologist before. To be fair, that was also true for geographers or cartographers, but he wasn’t having dinner with one of those.

  “Why rocks?” For once, the simplest question mirrored his honest curiosity.

  She tapped the tines of her fork against her plate, pausing to think before she answered. “I guess . . .” One last ting of metal against porcelain, and she looked up at him again. “The Northridge earthquake happened when I was a kid, and a geologist came on TV at one point. Everything she said was so fascinating. So smart. She impressed the hell out of preteen me. After that, I was into seismology for a while.”

  He remembered watching news coverage of that quake himself, but the Loma Prieta quake was a much more visceral memory.

  Most people had already tuned into the World Series game. He’d still been studying, though, seething with resentment all the while. And then: the ominous rumble from everywhere at once, the rattle of fragile glass and porcelain, the creak of their house moving around beneath them, the urgency in his mother’s voice as she pushed him under the dining room table where they suffered together day after day. The way she tried to tuck his head beneath her body, protecting him as best she could for those few seconds on a Tuesday evening.

  Why did that memory hurt so damn much?

  “Then, after a geology program I did one summer in high school, I realized seismology wasn’t my first love after all.” April took another bite of her chicken before continuing. “That would be sedimentary rocks.”

  Well, his ignorance this time wasn’t feigned. He wouldn’t know a sedimentary rock from . . . well, any other rock. Whatever other rock types there were. His parents’ desire to teach science had paled in comparison to their love of languages and history.

  Her wide smile shone with just a hint of wickedness, and he shifted in his seat. “It’s a love affair that continues to this day. A dirty one. Literally.”

  He took a hasty sip of water. Cleared his throat before speaking. “Okay. Why do you love supplementary rocks so much?”

  Her smile never wavering, she dipped her chin at that, as if she were giving him credit. Acknowledging his exemplary work in the Dunce Arts. Good one, Marcus, he could almost hear her say in that husky, warm voice of hers.

  Jesus, he was in such trouble.

  Olaf came by to refill their water, but Marcus couldn’t tear his gaze from April.

  When she leaned forward, her cleavage—

  No, he wouldn’t look at her cleavage. He wouldn’t.

  “I love sedimentary rocks”—to her credit, she didn’t emphasize the correct word—“because I love the stories they tell. If you study them closely enough, if you’ve trained enough, if you use the right tools, you can look at a particular spot and know whether there was once a lake there. You can know whether that area was part of a fluvial system, if a lahar came through after a volcanic event, if there was a landslide, a mudslide.”

  Her hands were tracing pictures in the air as she spoke, miming the movement of water and earth, a graceful visual shorthand for destruction and chaos and creation revealing itself under her scrutiny.

  Shit. Even with those telling gestures, he didn’t understand half of what she was saying, but he was so fucking turned on right now. Smart, accomplished, passionate women were his undoing, always, even though he knew—he knew—he’d never be enough for them. Not the fake him, and not the real him, either.

  She waited until he met her eyes before continuing. Each word precise. Each word the echo of a siren, and he meant that in every conceivable way.

  “You have to dig.” She didn’t look away, and he couldn’t. “You have to look carefully, but there’s a story waiting for you. It wants you to see the signs. It wants to be told.”

  Under that clear, calm gaze, he wanted to hide beneath the table once more. Cover his head and protect himself as the ground beneath him swayed and buckled.

  Then she picked up her fork and speared another bite of her haricot verts, and he could breathe again. Could ignore for another moment that under his feet, the earth wasn’t actually solid and still. It was moving, continually. And deep, deep below a placid, cool surface, even stone turned molten and fiery and liquid.

  “Also, geology is a culmination of various sciences,” she added in a casual aside. “Chemistry, physics, biology all come into play. I liked that too, because lots of different subjects interest me.”

  He shouldn’t ask. He definitely wasn’t going to ask.

  And yet—

  “Why do you say it’s a dirty love affair?” he asked.

  There it was.

  Closing his eyes, he dropped his chin to his chest and exhaled hard through his nose. Shit. He didn’t need yet more reason to want April, not when his gut already tightened with each glimpse of her pale, freckled skin bathed by candlelight. Not when she made a goddamn living spearing through surfaces and discovering what lay underneath, and he wanted to remain undiscovered. At least for the moment.

  “Up until now, I’ve spent a good chunk of my workdays handling soil. Looking for contamination at former industrial sites and coordinating whatever cleanup is feasible under the circumstances.” When he opened his eyes again, she was scraping the last bits of polenta from her plate. “The last few weeks, I’ve been dealing with a former pesticide facility, so the ground is contaminated with metals.”

  Well, that was a lot less sexy than he’d both anticipated and feared.

  Despite her matter-of-fact tone, though, her work sounded . . . dangerous. Technical. Physical, in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

  He braced his elbows on the table, fascinated. “What will happen to that land, once the cleanup is done?”

  She lifted a round shoulder. “Depending on what the owner of the site decides, it might become anything from a parking lot to a residential area.”

  He didn’t understand. He truly didn’t. How was such a transformation even possible? How could something so thoroughly poisoned became a place for a family? For a home?

  “But that’s not up to me, or even the consultant who’ll be taking over the site starting next week.” Her pale throat moved as she sipped her water, and he had to swallow hard himself. “Either the owner will devote the enormous amount of time and effort and money necessary to dig up all the contamination and dispose of it elsewhere, or they won’t. Can’t, in many cases.”

  He fiddled with the edge of his jacket cuff. “And if they won’t? Or can’t?”

  With an arc of her hand, her forearm going from vertical to horizontal, she mimed something being dropped from above. “They’ll tell the consultant to put a cap on the land. Two to five feet of clean soil over the contamination. It’s cheaper. Easier.”

  “But?” There was a catch. He understood that, even without a single smidgen of background in geology.

  “But under those circumstances, the land can never be used for any purpose that would require digging below surface level. The options for its use, its future, are limited forever.” There was no judgment in her tone. It was a statement of fact, not a condemnation. “At least until that owner, or the next one, makes a different decision.”

  His chest hurt, and he forced himself to inhale slowly. Blow out the breath in several extended beats of his rabbiting heart.

  Olaf came then to remove their plates, decrumb the tablecloth, and top off their water yet again. After he left, they sat without speaking and waited for dessert.

  “You were worried you’d bore me to tears talking about your work,” she finally said. “But you had it exactly backward, as it turned out.”

  She was watching him from across the table, her hair a silky wash of red-gold, her skin speckled with constellations, her wide mouth tilted at the corners. That wry, gorgeous smile caught at him, a hook towing him places he’d intended to avoid.

  He wanted to make a different decision, though. He did.

  “I’d like to go out with you again.” It was a sudden rush of words, t
umbling forth like the landslide she’d mentioned earlier. Mindless. Inexorable. “Dinner, if you want, or something else. An art gallery, or a museum, or . . .”

  What would hold the interest of a woman like her?

  How could he hold the interest of a woman like her?

  Could he maintain control of his narrative and date her?

  “Better yet, we can go to an indoor water park.” He winked at her, forcing a confident grin. “I’m always happy to show off my hard work at the gym.”

  Eventually, if all went well, if he decided he could trust her, he would let her dig further beneath his surface. In the meantime, he would entertain her the best way Well-Groomed Golden Retriever Marcus knew how. It could work. It would work.

  For the first time since he’d met her, April appeared stunned.

  Her lips were parted, her eyes wide, her body motionless. She didn’t make a sound, not one, before Olaf arrived in a burst of terrible timing to lay their desserts before them.

  He disappeared quietly, and then it was just the two of them again.

  She bit her lip, eyes downcast, and Marcus knew. Without her needing to say a word. He waited anyway, prepared to absorb the blow.

  The answer was as clear to her as it was to him, evidently.

  How could he hold the interest of a woman like her? He couldn’t. He didn’t.

  “I’m sorry, Marcus,” she began, her voice quiet and reluctant, “but I don’t think that’s a great idea.”

  And there it was. The kick to his chest he’d expected.

  “Okay.” He didn’t say more. Couldn’t, not through the ache beneath his ribs.

  “It’s just—” She hesitated. “It wouldn’t work. Not under the circumstances.”

  Even though he hadn’t asked for more of an explanation, it seemed she was giving him one anyway. He just hoped she was kind enough to cushion the blow, rather than saying it outright: You’re too shallow and stupid for me.

  And how could he blame her for thinking that, when she’d spent almost an entire meal in the company of his public persona?

  “I, um, write Gods of the Gates fanfic,” she said, her cheeks suddenly rosy. “Including some stories that are . . . kind of explicit.”

  Now he was the one startled into stillness and silence. She wrote fanfiction? Sexy fanfiction? And given both her Twitter handle and the photo she’d posted, her OTP must be—

  “I write almost exclusively about Lavinia. And Aeneas. So you can see how it would be a little weird to date you, after devoting hundreds of thousands of words to you—” She paused. “Well, not you, really, but an Aeneas who looks like you. Anyway, after devoting hundreds of thousands of words to a you-looking Aeneas falling in love and, um—”

  Fucking.

  The word she was looking for was definitely fucking.

  “—being intimate with Lavinia,” she finished.

  Hundreds of thousands of words about Aeneas and Lavinia. Which meant she wasn’t a short-timer or a newbie. No, she’d been posting for a while. And he’d be willing to bet her fics were as intelligent and incisive as she was, which meant she wouldn’t go unnoticed on AO3 by the Lavineas community.

  He’d almost definitely read her work, then.

  She might even—no. He’d know if she were on the Lavineas server. Somehow, he’d know.

  Still, he had to ask. Just to be certain.

  “I’ve read fanfic on occasion,” he said slowly. “Out of curiosity, what name do you post your stories under?”

  Her teeth had sunk into her lower lip again, and her flush had washed away her freckles. On the tablecloth, her fingers were clasped together tightly.

  She released her lip. Exhaled.

  Then, with clear reluctance, she finally answered his question.

  “I’m Unapologetic Lavinia Stan,” she said. “Don’t tell anyone, and don’t read my fics.”

  Lavineas Server DMs, One Year Ago

  Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: No matter what LavineasOTP might argue, I firmly believe that you can’t call your fic a “slow burn” if they bang in the first chapter. That’s a violation of all known slow-burn principles and subject to various penalties, including—but not limited to—major side-eyeing by yours truly.

  Book!AeneasWouldNever: I was a bit surprised too. To be fair, however, it’s an arranged-marriage AU. For succession purposes, they have to sleep together. The slow-burn part can refer to the emotional ties they form, maybe?

  Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: They banged and enjoyed it. If it’s a perfunctory boning, only mildly enjoyable for all involved, sure, I can overlook the transgression. But if multiple, mutual orgasms are had: NOPE.

  Book!AeneasWouldNever: I didn’t actually read the love scenes closely. Thus, I bow to your superior wisdom on this issue.

  Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: THANK YOU. Now, on to more important matters.

  Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: Speaking of slow burns: Are you feeling better? Fever all gone?

  Book!AeneasWouldNever: Yes. Thank you for asking, Ulsie. :-)

  7

  THE SEXY FICS WERE AN EXCUSE, OF COURSE.

  April definitely didn’t want Marcus reading them or telling his two million followers about them before she’d explained herself to the Lavineas community, but they didn’t constitute an insurmountable obstacle to a second date.

  What did: Marcus’s insistence on performing for her.

  Sometimes, on certain job sites, the driller used a direct push rig to collect soil samples, instead of a hollow-stem auger rig. It was easier that way. Cleaner too.

  The downside: They often couldn’t get beyond a certain depth with a direct push rig.

  On one job, they’d had to stop a mere three feet below the surface, because they kept getting refusal again and again. Until, in the end, they’d had to swap rigs, because they weren’t accomplishing anything.

  The experience was entirely too reminiscent of tonight’s date with Marcus.

  With their conversation about the Gods of the Gates crew, she’d gotten three feet down.

  Then she’d hit refusal. Again and again.

  If he didn’t want her to see below his very attractive surface, she wouldn’t. Simple as that. But since the surface didn’t interest her nearly as much as what lay underneath, she wasn’t courting frustration by going on a second date with him. No matter how much she suddenly wanted him.

  As shocked as she remained that he evidently wanted her. At least enough to request a second meeting.

  This was truly the oddest date ever.

  She’d eaten several bites of her lemon-lavender panna cotta—delicious, not soapy-tasting at all—before she realized he hadn’t spoken for quite a while. When she looked up, he was staring at her, his face . . .

  It was slack. Blank.

  Until, in a blink, it wasn’t anymore. Instead, that aggravating, empty smile beamed out at her once more. “You really don’t want me to read your stories?”

  She considered the matter for a few moments.

  “I mean, I guess you can. But it might be a little weird, like I said.” Getting weirder by the moment, actually. “If you do, check the ratings before you start. To avoid unnecessary awkwardness, I’d skip the ones rated E for explicit.”

  He seemed particularly intrigued by his panna cotta now. In a slow, careful movement, he delved into the custard and emerged with a perfect spoonful. “Maybe I’ll read one of your stories someday. I can always skim key portions, as needed.”

  No way he’d ever actually go on AO3 and look for her fics. But still—

  “Pretty Man, my prostitute/client modern alternate universe . . .” She crinkled her nose. “Yeah, don’t choose that one. You’d be skimming the whole thing.”

  It was one of her earliest fics, written before her partnership with BAWN, and it wasn’t her best work.

  Marcus looked up from another delicate spoon incursion into his dessert. His smooth cheeks—he must have shaved right before coming to the restaurant—creased in a sudden
grin.

  His brow quirked. “I take it I’m the prostitute?”

  “Aeneas is the prostitute,” she emphasized.

  “But he’s pretty.” He took his time savoring the spoonful of custard. “Thus the title.”

  “Well, yes.” Obviously.

  “And since you said Aeneas looks like me in your fics, that must mean—”

  “Yes, yes.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re very pretty, Marcus. Which you well know.”

  His grin abruptly died, and she had no idea why shadows seemed to gather beneath blue-gray eyes gone solemn. Intent. So unexpectedly vulnerable that something twisted inside her chest.

  Not her heart. Definitely not her heart.

  “In your story . . .” He played with his spoon, looking down as he rotated it in his grip again and again. “Is he only pretty?”

  Ah. There it was. A new layer beneath that pristine surface of his.

  And dammit, yes, that was her heart aching for him. Just a little.

  “He’s very pretty. Gorgeous.” With a seemingly idle motion, she tapped her spoon against her porcelain ramekin until he raised his stricken eyes to her again. Then she told him the rest. “Also underestimated and honorable and quite intelligent. I have no interest in writing about a man who offers nothing but good looks and easy charm. But hidden depths fascinate me.”

  There it was. One last chance.

  And if he was as smart as she was beginning to suspect he was, he’d realize it.

  Marcus blinked at her, lines scoring deep between his brows. But he didn’t say anything more, and she didn’t intend to push him anywhere he didn’t want to go.

  She couldn’t resist one final nudge, though. “Have you ever been tempted to write a fix-it fic yourself? A story where you’d put right whatever went wrong in the show? After Dido and Aeneas’s relationship went off the rails, maybe?”

  The throwaway remark was a bit rude, and she was sorry for that, but she wanted to hear his response. Wanted to see a bit more of the man under pressure.

  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.”