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I lift the menu, partly to choose my food, but mostly to block the view of Marcus and regain my composure. I can’t believe how he affects me. It’s not right.

I'm mulling over my thoughts about Marcus when I catch a glimpse of movement to my left. Marcus notices too. Another customer is approaching our table. Marcus goes to stand and his knee bumps mine and then the table. A zing of something shoots up my leg and down my arms—not exactly electricity, but something fizzy. He must have hit a nerve.

I run my hand down my thigh as Marcus stands and greets the woman who is fawning over him like he’s the second coming of the Messiah right here in the Fork and Fiddle.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” she says to him.

“Not a problem,” he says, practically preening under her adoration.

“Can I get a selfie? My whole family and I are huge fans. They’re over there.”

Marcus glances across the room and without even a blink in my direction, he offers, “I’m glad to come to your table. We can take a picture with the whole family.”

Of course he will. Did he forget he’s on a date?

Is this what Winona endures in public? Is it how it will be for her with Declan from now on? I’m guessing Declan looks to her for permission when a fan approaches, and he probably tries his best to protect their time together.

Not that Marcus and I are on a date, but we’re not not on a date either.

I study the menu while he struts across the restaurant, greeting people as they acknowledge his greatness along the way.

I’m getting a burger. This is a steakhouse, but I want something juicy and messy. Something not dateish. Something that says I wouldn’t consider this a date if my life depended on it.

I ask myself if I’d be this upset if Treyvon were here and fans swarmed him. I know the answer. I wouldn’t. But Treyvon would probably include me. And he isn’t a repeat offender like Marcus.

Marcus returns as I’m setting my menu down.

He has the decency to say, “Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “I get it. You’re famous. People want you wherever you go.”

He studies me, seemingly trying to ferret out any note of sarcasm. I mean what I said, though. People do want him wherever he goes. I’m not talking about whether that has gone to his head over time. It obviously has. But at least he apologized afterward. I’ll give him that.

The server comes to our table, a young guy in his early twenties.

“Oh! They were right! Dude. You’re Marcus Delaney. Dude. Man. Wow!”

His pointer finger flicks between me and Marcus. “Are you? You’re out on a date?”

Marcus’s foot taps mine under the table, and not even lightly.

Is he for real right now? I know he's not supposed to contradict the assumptions about us. Who does he think I am? I would never undermine him or the Thunder.

His knee bumps mine again, and I’m not sure if it’s a second warning or an accident. He’s far too large for this table.

“Wow,” the server says again. He just stares at Marcus, glances at me, stares at Marcus again.

“Did you want a selfie? An autograph?” Marcus offers.

Maybe I should organize a line. I could move a few tables, get people to stand in an orderly fashion. He could smile and sign things all night. That would certainly make the hour pass more quickly.

“Could I?” the server says with an awestruck expression. “I mean … Yeah.” He’s already grabbing his cell out of his pocket.

Marcus smiles a dazzling smile that makes it clear why he was included in People Magazine’s sexiest men of the year last year.

He’s more careful about extracting himself from the table this time. The waiter holds up the phone and extends his arm out. At that angle, with Marcus’s size, he’s liable to end up with a solid photo of Marcus’s ear.

I stand and offer, “Want me to take it for you?”