Page 19 of Burn the Script

Kissing on the first three dates went against my principles. Physical intimacy must be earned, along with my trust and access to my insecurities. But since I couldn’t rip my focus from his tempting mouth either, I made an exception.

“Maybe one kiss. To test for chemistry,” I said.

Without hesitation, he gripped the side of my neck. The warm, possessive touch should’ve made me want to duck, tuck, and roll away. I leaned into it as his sinfully soft lips descended on mine. He stroked my jaw with his thumb, a hypnotic motion that coaxed my guards to drop themselves. Little traitors.

When his tongue glided along the seam of my lips, asking me to invite him in, I opened. Right away, I knew it was a decision I’d never regret.

Like everything about Graham Kingston, the kiss embodied a duality, languid and demanding at once. He tasted like cheesecake with a hint of reverence that could fool me into believing I was worthy of someone as lovely as him.

A moan slipped out of me, and he echoed it, grabbing my waist to draw me closer. My hands were pinned between us, palms flat on his chest. They drifted lower, eager to explore the shapes he was made of beneath the clothes. But he broke the kiss, ending my journey too soon.

Satisfaction danced on his low hum. “Our chemistry is sweet. I could get addicted.”

“Do it again.” My breathless demand made him smile.

“You said ‘one kiss.’ If you’d give me your number, we could arrange for more.”

“Extortion,” I whispered, but he made a good point. Texting and calling between our seven o’clock meetup times would make things easier and more interesting.

With a chuckle, he stepped away, releasing me to stand on my own. “The only crime I plan to commit is making you fall for me, Miguel Espinoza. And I can guarantee I won’t feel the least bit guilty for it.”

The promise in his steady gaze threatened to topple me, but when he brought my hand to lips and kissed the back of it, I knew I was well and truly fucked.

9

MIGUEL

NOW

Thursday, January 5th

The needle hammers as I guide the fabric beneath the presser foot, placing the stitches evenly apart. Ever since I was a kid, the rhythmic whir of a sewing machine has soothed me. Not tonight. The televised interview playing in the background has replaced my top-secret playlist of classic bolero songs that bring me peace.

The Starlight Show, hosted by Angie Kent, airs daily with prerecorded and live segments filled with celebrity interviews and gossip. At one point, entertainment news simply existed in the same timeline as me. Now, my phone pings with a notification any time the media mentions Graham’s name. Keeping tabs on the progress of his movie is an obsession and a punishment.

“…rooting for Hollywood’s favorite leading man as he takes on a new role. Graham Kingston has joined us, live from Texas, to talk about his transition from actor to director. Graham, thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule, and congratulations. You start filming in Austin next week, but all the details have been hush-hush. What’s the movie about, who will star in it, and how excited are you for this new endeavor?”

“Thanks for having me, Angie. Which question would you like me to answer first?”

I hear the smile in Graham’s voice but keep my back to the TV. My socked foot adds pressure to the pedal, speeding up the needle and drowning out the interview. My chosen form of therapy also satisfies my need to design and construct. I inherited my passion for sewing from my abuela, a talented seamstress who altered fine clothes for the rich. Her mother taught her to sew, and she passed the skill to me.

I’d sit beside her for hours while she worked. She told stories about her childhood in Mexico while 1960s bolero hits poured from her old cassette player. The romantic music was her guilty pleasure, so it naturally became one of mine.

Once I got older, she promoted me to the role of apprentice. Cutting and joining shapes sparked my interest in geometry, which led to my career in architecture. I have a lot to thank her for.

She also encouraged me to be myself and never let anyone diminish my spirit. Her favorite saying was “En la vida, no se trata de cuántas veces caes, pero cuántas veces te levantas.” Since her death, I often hear her voice telling me to get back up when life knocks me down. Abue Valentina would be extremely disappointed if she knew I’d fallen so hard I’ve been writhing on the ground for a year.

I ease my foot off the pedal, slowing the needle before the speedy pace goes haywire and ruins the stitching. Unfortunately, the interview continues hounding me like a self-inflicted torture session.

“Your friends and family must be proud of you,” Angie says.

When Graham hesitates, I hold my breath.

“I’m lucky to have many people who support me, even from a thousand miles away.”

Angie pounces, her tone rife with delight. “Is there a special someone close by offering you support?”

My lips tighten in annoyance. The leading, invasive questions irritate me as much as they do him, but he’s mastered the art of redirection and never takes the bait.