by: Olivia Dade
Series: Spoiler Alert
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Date: October 6, 2020
Publisher: Avon
Amazon | Paperback | Barnes & Noble | iBooks | Kobo | Google Play | Goodreads
Olivia Dade bursts onto the scene in this delightfully fun romantic comedy set in the world of fanfiction, in which a devoted fan goes on an unexpected date with her celebrity crush, who’s secretly posting fanfiction of his own.
Marcus Caster-Rupp has a secret. While the world knows him as Aeneas, the star of the biggest show on TV, Gods of the Gates, he's known to fanfiction readers as Book!AeneasWouldNever, an anonymous and popular poster. Marcus is able to get out his own frustrations with his character through his stories, especially the ones that feature the internet’s favorite couple to ship, Aeneas and Lavinia. But if anyone ever found out about his online persona, he’d be fired. Immediately.
April Whittier has secrets of her own. A hardcore Lavinia fan, she’s hidden her fanfiction and cosplay hobby from her “real life” for years—but not anymore. When she decides to post her latest Lavinia creation on Twitter, her photo goes viral. Trolls and supporters alike are commenting on her plus-size take, but when Marcus, one half of her OTP, sees her pic and asks her out on a date to spite her critics, she realizes life is really stranger than fanfiction.
Even though their first date is a disaster, Marcus quickly realizes that he wants much more from April than a one-time publicity stunt. And when he discovers she’s actually Unapologetic Lavinia Stan, his closest fandom friend, he has one more huge secret to hide from her.
With love and Marcus’s career on the line, can the two of them stop hiding once and for all, or will a match made in fandom end up prematurely cancelled?
Marcus was looking down at his empty plate. When he glanced back up at her, he flicked his fingers through his hair, rumpling it attractively as he positioned his arm in a way that outlined all those muscles she’d admired from the safety of her laptop screen.
And yes, his muscles were still rather impressive face-to-face, and he was very polite, and his hair was thick and golden in the candlelight, but Jesus, the tedium.
For a moment, April contemplated talking about her move, her new job, or anything she was doing over the weekend apart from this dinner, just to pass the time. If the man couldn’t remember either their Twitter exchanges or the food he’d ordered minutes ago, though, that seemed like wasted effort. So instead, the two of them sat in silence once more until Olaf arrived to remove their empty dishes and refill their water glasses.
Immediately after their server’s departure behind a set of swinging doors, arms piled high with plates, a sudden flash of light from the side made her flinch. Turning, she scanned that swath of the restaurant for the source of the white spots now dancing behind her eyelids.
Ah. Of course.
A man at a neighboring table had taken a photo of them with the cell phone he was now hurriedly placing in his lap, safely out of sight. That photo would probably end up on Insta or Twitter within minutes. Maybe less, if they turned their attention from his increasingly red face and he felt free to use his phone once more.
“I was wondering how long it would take,” she murmured.
“Usually people are smart enough not to use their flash in a place like this.” Marcus tilted his head in the direction of the maître d’ station, where the suit-clad man who’d greeted her at the door was now hustling toward their photographer’s table. “The management here values customer privacy and discretion, or at least the appearance thereof.”
If she hadn’t been so curious about the forthcoming confrontation at the other table, she’d have side-eyed Marcus for his choice of words. The appearance thereof?
But she couldn’t spare him that amount of attention, not when the most interesting thing that had happened all night was occurring only feet away. Her elbow propped on the white tablecloth-covered table, she rested her cheek on her fist and waited for the show to begin.
The maître d’ swooped in and bent low, all sotto-voce scolding, only to be met by hushed denials. Eyebrows furrowed in dismay, the man gestured at the phone in his lap, its innocent location apparently meant to serve as incontrovertible proof that he couldn’t possibly have taken a flash photo inside the restaurant.
Marcus’s words were barely audible. “And people call me an actor.”
Finally, after more whispered discussion, the man at the table slid his cell into the inner pocket of his jacket, patting it as if to promise he would keep it there the rest of the meal. With one final, narrow-eyed look, the maître d’ returned to his station.
Her entertainment over, April turned regretfully back to Marcus. “I don’t care about the pictures, really. I figure there’s no good way to avoid them. I’d just prefer not to be blinded by a flash.”
Whether she’d be able to maintain such equanimity in the face of unflattering candid shots, she didn’t know. But she was certainly going to try.
“I’m sorry. Again.” Mouth tight, he caught her eye from across the table. “I chose this restaurant in part because the paparazzi hadn’t found me here yet. I’d hoped you could control tonight’s narrative online, if at all possible.”
Huh.
Her mouth opened, then closed.
“It’s fine. No need to apologize,” she finally said. “Marcus, I have a random question for you. Do you handle your own social media accounts, or do you have an assistant do that?”
A deep line appeared between his handsomely arched brows. “I handle them myself. Badly, for the most part. Why?”
Sitting back in her cushioned chair, she tilted her head and studied her date.
I’d hoped you could control tonight’s narrative. Not something a man lacking the capacity for deep thought would generally say.
Interesting.
That was the third time he’d said something surprisingly incisive. At this point, she either had to conclude that someone had given him a Smart-Sounding Phrase of the Day calendar, or acknowledge that he wasn’t quite so dim after all. Not nearly as dim as he’d been pretending to be, anyway.
Time to dig deeper. Take more samples.
When their main course arrived moments later—yum—she smiled at him and picked up her fork and sharp-bladed knife. Her pair of chicken thighs lay in the middle of the plate, their skin crisp and browned and perfect. So perfect, in fact, a random observer might never realize there was something more than chicken beneath that surface.
With a precise cut, she halved a deboned thigh, exposing the stuffing beneath that pristine skin. Then she carved a slice and took the time to taste it thoroughly.
The dish was complex. Deeply savory, with tart and sweet notes and unexpected texture from those toasted pine nuts. Exactly what she’d wanted, although she’d had doubts about the wisdom of ordering something as unexceptional and boring as chicken thighs at such a fancy restaurant.
But she wasn’t bored. Not in the slightest. Not anymore.
“I would love for you to tell me more about your work on Gods of the Gates.” As he winced apologetically, she held up a hand. “I know you can’t say anything about the final season, and I’m not asking. I’m more interested in behind-the-scenes stuff, anyway. Your daily routine and what your actual job has entailed all this time. How you train for swordfights, whether you already knew how to ride a horse when you joined the cast, things like that.”
This time, when he pushed his hair back from his forehead, the motion didn’t look quite so studied. Not paired with that crinkled brow.
“I’d bore you to tears, I’m afraid.” His smile was still bright, still genial, but now a wee bit tighter. “Why don’t we talk about my exercise routine instead? Or maybe I can tell you about working with Summer Diaz and Carah Brown?”
Those topics, he’d addressed numerous times, in countless articles and blog posts, and she didn’t care to discuss either one. The exercise stuff would, in fact, bore her to tears, and when it came to his costars, the man was a font of good-natured platitudes.
I’m lucky to work alongside such talented colleagues, and ones nearly as pretty as I am.
They’re true professionals, and as beautiful inside as outside. Like me!
The show couldn’t have found more lovely, gifted actors to play Lavinia and Dido. Or Aeneas, for that matter.
No, she wanted to tackle topics that didn’t allow for generic, surface-only answers.
“I won’t be bored, I promise.” Another neat slice of the chicken thigh, and she paused with her forkful of food just above her plate. “Did you ride horses before being cast on the show?”
“No. I didn’t.”
He was pushing a tiny cube of apricot around his plate with his own fork. Studying the circles it made with unusual focus as she chewed and waited for words that weren’t coming.
She swallowed before digging deeper. “Do you like riding?”
“Yes.” Instead of elaborating, he shoved a hasty bite of food into his mouth.
All right, no more yes or no questions. “What do you like about it?”
He pointed to his full mouth, and she nodded in understanding and waited. And waited. And waited.
His chewing had become extraordinarily thorough in the last minute or so. But if he was hoping she’d say something more or change the topic while he endlessly chewed his mouthful of polenta—polenta, which didn’t actually require chewing—he was doomed to disappointment.
She’d seen beneath the pretty-man shell now. She wasn’t about to let him escape her sights again.
And yes, his muscles were still rather impressive face-to-face, and he was very polite, and his hair was thick and golden in the candlelight, but Jesus, the tedium.
For a moment, April contemplated talking about her move, her new job, or anything she was doing over the weekend apart from this dinner, just to pass the time. If the man couldn’t remember either their Twitter exchanges or the food he’d ordered minutes ago, though, that seemed like wasted effort. So instead, the two of them sat in silence once more until Olaf arrived to remove their empty dishes and refill their water glasses.
Immediately after their server’s departure behind a set of swinging doors, arms piled high with plates, a sudden flash of light from the side made her flinch. Turning, she scanned that swath of the restaurant for the source of the white spots now dancing behind her eyelids.
Ah. Of course.
A man at a neighboring table had taken a photo of them with the cell phone he was now hurriedly placing in his lap, safely out of sight. That photo would probably end up on Insta or Twitter within minutes. Maybe less, if they turned their attention from his increasingly red face and he felt free to use his phone once more.
“I was wondering how long it would take,” she murmured.
“Usually people are smart enough not to use their flash in a place like this.” Marcus tilted his head in the direction of the maître d’ station, where the suit-clad man who’d greeted her at the door was now hustling toward their photographer’s table. “The management here values customer privacy and discretion, or at least the appearance thereof.”
If she hadn’t been so curious about the forthcoming confrontation at the other table, she’d have side-eyed Marcus for his choice of words. The appearance thereof?
But she couldn’t spare him that amount of attention, not when the most interesting thing that had happened all night was occurring only feet away. Her elbow propped on the white tablecloth-covered table, she rested her cheek on her fist and waited for the show to begin.
The maître d’ swooped in and bent low, all sotto-voce scolding, only to be met by hushed denials. Eyebrows furrowed in dismay, the man gestured at the phone in his lap, its innocent location apparently meant to serve as incontrovertible proof that he couldn’t possibly have taken a flash photo inside the restaurant.
Marcus’s words were barely audible. “And people call me an actor.”
Finally, after more whispered discussion, the man at the table slid his cell into the inner pocket of his jacket, patting it as if to promise he would keep it there the rest of the meal. With one final, narrow-eyed look, the maître d’ returned to his station.
Her entertainment over, April turned regretfully back to Marcus. “I don’t care about the pictures, really. I figure there’s no good way to avoid them. I’d just prefer not to be blinded by a flash.”
Whether she’d be able to maintain such equanimity in the face of unflattering candid shots, she didn’t know. But she was certainly going to try.
“I’m sorry. Again.” Mouth tight, he caught her eye from across the table. “I chose this restaurant in part because the paparazzi hadn’t found me here yet. I’d hoped you could control tonight’s narrative online, if at all possible.”
Huh.
Her mouth opened, then closed.
“It’s fine. No need to apologize,” she finally said. “Marcus, I have a random question for you. Do you handle your own social media accounts, or do you have an assistant do that?”
A deep line appeared between his handsomely arched brows. “I handle them myself. Badly, for the most part. Why?”
Sitting back in her cushioned chair, she tilted her head and studied her date.
I’d hoped you could control tonight’s narrative. Not something a man lacking the capacity for deep thought would generally say.
Interesting.
That was the third time he’d said something surprisingly incisive. At this point, she either had to conclude that someone had given him a Smart-Sounding Phrase of the Day calendar, or acknowledge that he wasn’t quite so dim after all. Not nearly as dim as he’d been pretending to be, anyway.
Time to dig deeper. Take more samples.
When their main course arrived moments later—yum—she smiled at him and picked up her fork and sharp-bladed knife. Her pair of chicken thighs lay in the middle of the plate, their skin crisp and browned and perfect. So perfect, in fact, a random observer might never realize there was something more than chicken beneath that surface.
With a precise cut, she halved a deboned thigh, exposing the stuffing beneath that pristine skin. Then she carved a slice and took the time to taste it thoroughly.
The dish was complex. Deeply savory, with tart and sweet notes and unexpected texture from those toasted pine nuts. Exactly what she’d wanted, although she’d had doubts about the wisdom of ordering something as unexceptional and boring as chicken thighs at such a fancy restaurant.
But she wasn’t bored. Not in the slightest. Not anymore.
“I would love for you to tell me more about your work on Gods of the Gates.” As he winced apologetically, she held up a hand. “I know you can’t say anything about the final season, and I’m not asking. I’m more interested in behind-the-scenes stuff, anyway. Your daily routine and what your actual job has entailed all this time. How you train for swordfights, whether you already knew how to ride a horse when you joined the cast, things like that.”
This time, when he pushed his hair back from his forehead, the motion didn’t look quite so studied. Not paired with that crinkled brow.
“I’d bore you to tears, I’m afraid.” His smile was still bright, still genial, but now a wee bit tighter. “Why don’t we talk about my exercise routine instead? Or maybe I can tell you about working with Summer Diaz and Carah Brown?”
Those topics, he’d addressed numerous times, in countless articles and blog posts, and she didn’t care to discuss either one. The exercise stuff would, in fact, bore her to tears, and when it came to his costars, the man was a font of good-natured platitudes.
I’m lucky to work alongside such talented colleagues, and ones nearly as pretty as I am.
They’re true professionals, and as beautiful inside as outside. Like me!
The show couldn’t have found more lovely, gifted actors to play Lavinia and Dido. Or Aeneas, for that matter.
No, she wanted to tackle topics that didn’t allow for generic, surface-only answers.
“I won’t be bored, I promise.” Another neat slice of the chicken thigh, and she paused with her forkful of food just above her plate. “Did you ride horses before being cast on the show?”
“No. I didn’t.”
He was pushing a tiny cube of apricot around his plate with his own fork. Studying the circles it made with unusual focus as she chewed and waited for words that weren’t coming.
She swallowed before digging deeper. “Do you like riding?”
“Yes.” Instead of elaborating, he shoved a hasty bite of food into his mouth.
All right, no more yes or no questions. “What do you like about it?”
He pointed to his full mouth, and she nodded in understanding and waited. And waited. And waited.
His chewing had become extraordinarily thorough in the last minute or so. But if he was hoping she’d say something more or change the topic while he endlessly chewed his mouthful of polenta—polenta, which didn’t actually require chewing—he was doomed to disappointment.
She’d seen beneath the pretty-man shell now. She wasn’t about to let him escape her sights again.
Purchase Spoiler Alert from:
The Spoiler Alert Series:
All the Feels releases October 26, 2021
Olivia Dade grew up an undeniable nerd, prone to ignoring the world around her as she read any book she could find. Her favorites, though, were always, always romances. As an adult, she earned an M.A. in American history and worked in a variety of jobs that required the donning of actual pants: Colonial Williamsburg interpreter, high school teacher, academic tutor, and (of course) librarian. Now, however, she has finally achieved her lifelong goal of wearing pajamas all day as a hermit-like writer and enthusiastic hag. She currently lives outside Stockholm with her patient Swedish husband, their whip-smart daughter, and the family’s ever-burgeoning collection of books.
Places to find Olivia Dade:
Follow
No comments:
Post a Comment
STOP!
Did you just copy and paste your previous comment? Please don't. Duplicate comments will be deleted.
Comments that include links to other sites, or names including links WILL BE CONSIDERED SPAM AND DELETED.