Page 12 of Burn the Script

Carmen gathers her ponytail over a shoulder and pets the glossy strands. “There’s nothing wrong with admitting you miss him and want to be with him.”

Admitting either of those things would be the same as saying the breakup was a mistake. The grain of that truth planted itself in my mind the night I left him. But all the other grains, truths and lies alike, are the ones I nurture and cling to.

My head falls back on a defeated sigh. “We don’t work as a couple.”

“Keep lying to yourself.”

“We want different things.”

“Errrr.” She mimics a game show buzzer. “Try again.”

I aim an unforgiving glare at her. “You’re welcome to leave at any time…without the truffles.”

6

GRAHAM

THEN

February, Year One

Butterflies wreaked havoc in my stomach all week as the question of will he or won’t he weighed heavily on my mind. By the time Miguel climbed out of his compact sedan on Saturday at seven o’clock on the dot, the flutters felt more like bombs detonating.

He ditched his usual blazer, and the sweater he wore over a button-down shirt accentuated his slim physique. Was he always perfectly polished, or did he ever go for a casual look? Glancing at my feet, I silently chided myself for not wearing socks or shoes on our first date.

“How long have you lived here?” he asked, ascending the stone steps to the porch.

“A few months.”

My split-level house looked like a brown box and wasn’t the most aesthetically pleasing home on the street. The merman fountain in the center of the driveway didn’t work and was also an eyesore, but the backyard oasis with incredible views made up for the home’s lack of curb appeal.

Miguel fiddled with his car keys before shoving them in his pants pocket. Since the moment for a handshake or hug had passed, I opened the ornate front door and ushered him inside. A small foyer with a coat tree doubled as a landing between the two levels, and we headed upstairs, where he came to a swift stop in the living room.

“This is a lot of gold,” he said.

The gold wallpaper with foil detailing was a little blinding. It matched the striped sofas and gilded frames with generic landscapes, all courtesy of the previous owner.

“The house came furnished. I got a good deal on it, but it needs work.” Since he seemed like the type who wouldn’t take the news of someone dying in the house well, I omitted the minor detail.

“I know some interior designers if you need professional help,” he said, following me to the updated kitchen.

Modern cabinets and appliances earned his hum of approval. The interior hadn’t mattered to me because I spent most of my time outdoors, but impressing Miguel became a sudden priority.

“The back of the house is all windows, and this is my favorite feature…”

With the push of a button, a glass panel slid open to the balcony. My outdoor living space had dining and lounge areas with teak furniture, plush green cushions, and a fire pit.

The guardrail beckoned him, and he wrapped his hands around the weathered wood while looking out at the canyon. “Nice view.”

I kept several feet between us and pointed east. “You can’t tell from the road, but my property connects to Tate’s. We use a gap in the fence between our houses to sneak around when the paparazzi follow us home.”

“Who’s Tate?” The jealousy in his tone rang loud enough for him to wince.

I prowled toward him, dragging my fingertips along the railing, unable to contain the delight on my face. “Makenzie’s real name is Tatum. Guess you didn’t look her up when you did your research on me.”

“I don’t listen to pop music. She seemed irrelevant.” The rugged landscape stole his gaze again. “You’re committed to the ruse with her.”

“We look out for each other. Our Hollywood love story wasn’t the original plan, but her fans shipped us and our teams ran with it. We have our reasons for playing along. I won’t share hers, but mine are simple: privacy and a career boost.”