Page 102 of Burn the Script

He pinches my chin and turns my head toward him. “Didn’t you buy new shoes for this trip?”

“Yes.” I sigh. “When do we leave?”

“After one of us wakes Maisy up.”

Mama Mary, not it. My angel is a devil in the mornings.

Plastering an innocent expression on my face, I ask, “Rock, paper, scissors?”

“Or”—he pulls the sheet over our heads—“we reduce your orgasm debt and let her wake up on her own. Then everyone’s happy.”

Wriggling lower, he unties my robe and kisses my stomach, paying special attention to my belly button. And I can’t argue with his logic.

Maisy shrugs in an attempt to push my head off her shoulder. “I’m not a body pillow.”

“Accept my apology, and I’ll move to the other seat.”

When we got in the car, she climbed in the back. I joined her, choosing the middle seat. To her dismay, we’ve been cuddling ever since.

For two days, I wallowed in guilt while she celebrated my reunion with Graham. So I’ve used this time in a locked, moving car to confess my transgressions.

“Your apology for what?” she asks. “The time you thought it was funny to block my number, then forgot about it for two weeks. Then got mad at me for not texting or calling you? Or for not telling me, one of your best friends, why you really broke up with Graham.”

“All of it.”

She uncrosses her arms and brushes curls off her face. “The first offense is unforgivable. As for the second, it hurts me to think you were carrying all that anxiety around the whole time and no one knew, Miggy. It’s shitty what you did to Graham, but if he forgives you…”

“I forgive him,” Graham says from the driver’s seat.

Our eyes connect in the rearview mirror, and I see only love and devotion in his.

The strap of Maisy’s denim overalls cuts into my cheek, so I lift my head off her shoulder. She groans. “Finally. Why are you being so clingy?”

“I’m a hugger now. Get used to it.”

Looking out the window, she opens her mouth to respond with something snarky, but a strangled noise comes out, like if a kitten tried to growl.

I tap her on the nose. “You’re adorable.”

She elbows me in the ribs as Graham beeps the horn and yells, “Welcome to Walford!”

I lean between the front seats as we enter the town limits. Walford is…tiny. The neighborhoods go by in a blink before he parks the rental car on Main Street. Graham is the first to get out; Maisy’s the last.

My chest expands on a deep inhale, breathing in the scents of dirt and mesquite. Scanning the area, I note the cute coffee shop, an antique store, and a bar called Bruno’s. Other small businesses occupy Main Street, capped off by a hardware store at the far end.

“Where’s the rest of the town?” I ask.

Maisy leans against the trunk of the car, inspecting her nails. “This is it.”

“Huh.” Needing further clarification, I turn to Graham. “And you want us to move here one day? Where would we live? I don’t want neighbors.”

“We’d see about buying land outside of town. You could design our dream home,” he says.

“Well, that’s a given.”

All in all, Walford is nothing like I had expected. We’ve only seen a few people out and about, and none of them are wearing cowboy boots. There’s not a rodeo or county fair in sight. The peace and quiet are welcome surprises, but one thing bothers me.

Inching closer to Graham, I speak without moving my lips. “Don’t look, but there’s a man in an apron staring at my moccasins.”