Page 78 of Burn the Script

I slipped a knuckle under his chin and raised his head, keeping my tone light. “Tate and I have been renting this villa for years. Doña Patricia has never sold us out.”

“Well, Tate’s not here, is she? Your fiancée is on the other side of the world, and you’re getting dicked down at the beach. Imagine the scandal!”

“Don’t—” I closed my eyes and drew in a calming breath. “Please don’t demean our love, Miguel.”

He threw his arms around my neck. “I’m sorry. I’m freaking out, Graham. What if she tells someone?”

With the full weight of his trembling body pressed into mine, I kissed him on the cheek and helped him stand. At the sink, he wet a cloth and added soap, or tried to. His hands were shaking so bad, I took over and finished the job, erasing the remnants of our afternoon fun from his skin.

“Darling, listen to me. We can’t worry about what-ifs. Right now, we need to act before the plumber gets here. Do you want me to talk to Patricia, or should we do it together?”

“What would you say?”

I handed him a fresh towel, and he patted himself dry. His movements were robotic, face devoid of emotion when he dropped the towel on the floor and pulled on the sweatpants. Anytime he became overloaded from stress, he’d shut down, and I was at a loss for a way to help.

“I’ll explain the truth about me and Tate. I’ll tell Patricia I’m in love with you, but we aren’t ready for anyone to know. She’s always been kind to us, and I’d rather try honesty before bribery.”

He shoved his arms through the tank top and dragged it over his head. Something changed in his expression, a spark of determination he snapped into place with a stiff nod. “I’ll talk to her. Your Spanish is abhorrent.” The bathroom door bounced off the stopper when he threw it open.

“She’s fluent in English,” I said, rushing after him.

“You’re not. Let me handle this.”

Miguel marched to the front door, a barefoot man on a mission. I hung back in the living room and watched the exchange through a gap in the curtains. He gestured wildly with his hands, and Doña Patricia looked close to tears, shaking her head.

A thought crossed my mind—a wild one. For a brief moment, I hoped Miguel couldn’t get us out of this mess. Maybe on a subconscious level, I’d been reckless on purpose. If Doña Patricia told people about us, the burdens of living in secret and deciding when to come out would be taken off my shoulders.

Just as quickly, the guilt came. It was selfish of me to have such thoughts after asking Miguel to bear with me all these years. He’d gone above and beyond to protect my career. I owed him the same protection and consideration.

Whatever he said next made Doña Patricia smile, and the conversation ended with a long hug. When he returned, I crowded him in the entryway.

“Are you okay? What did she say? Will she keep our secret?”

Growling, he pushed past me. “She said you’re a terrible actor and never had her fooled because you stare at me like you’re hungry. Hungry, Graham! And if we don’t have our wedding here, she’ll never rent to us again.”

I stayed on his tail as he rushed around the living room, cleaning up our mess. “That was it?”

He snagged my speedo and the wand off the floor. “Yes. Also, you have to move the heliconias outside before we leave. That’s your punishment for the distress you caused everyone. It’ll save her nephews the time and effort.”

My voice rose high. “Me? Why only me? There’s, like, fifteen plants in here.”

“Twenty-two. I made the offer on your behalf because you”—he jabbed a finger in my chest—“forgot to tell me about the plumber, and you didn’t lock the fucking door.” Miguel turned and stormed away, arms loaded with an empty food container, clothes, and sex toys. “I’m taking a shower and a nap. Alone!”

As I gawked at his retreating back, laughter bubbled out of me. Our close call wasn’t the least bit funny, but I couldn’t believe our stroke of luck. However, when I looked around at the big potted plants taking up half the space, all humor died.

I raked both hands through my hair and let them fall to my sides, nodding to myself. A cold shoulder and a few hours of manual labor were the least I deserved as punishment for being so careless. The day was ruined, but I knew I’d have fond memories of it any time I saw a pineapple.

33

MIGUEL

NOW

Tuesday, February 21st

“I’m proud of you,” Carmen says, laid out on my sofa while flipping through video thumbnails on the TV.

“For what, risking jail time?”