Page 30 of Burn the Script

She has no issue with invading my tidy space and leaving a path of destruction when she borrows my expensive facial cleanser or a blazer. Sometimes I think she’s testing me to see if I can resist putting everything back in order before her next visit. I never should’ve given her a key.

My socked feet whisper against the hardwoods, much quieter than my exasperated sigh. There’s no telling what other disaster awaits me tonight. Bracing for the worst, I squeeze the back of my neck and push the door open wider. My jaw drops, and my blood pressure spikes to critical levels.

Colorful candies are sprinkled across the white bedding. Bottles of ice cream toppings wait on the walnut nightstand like little soldiers geared for deployment. But the most shocking sight is Graham, shirtless and standing by the bed.

He’s wearing only jeans and not looking the least bit guilty as his face lights up. “Hey! You’re home early.”

I prop an elbow next to his hat and sunglasses on the tall dresser. “Explain yourself.”

“I’m a candygram. Or I had planned to be. Thought I’d recreate one of your favorite memories.” Poems could be written about his sultry eyes and provocative smile.

One year, on Valentine’s Day, I’d come home to find him lying in bed with his arms stretched across a throne of pillows. He was naked, aside from the whipped cream on his nipples and a caramel heart drizzled on his abs. I’d give anything to reenact the scrumptious moment and attach my tongue to his sugary, lean muscles, but his timing couldn’t be worse after the evening I’ve had.

“Valentine’s Day is a month away,” I say.

“It’s never too soon to celebrate love.”

“And you thought a chocolate arrow pointing at your dick again would be a good way to kick off the celebrations?”

His smile turns sheepish. “Actually, I thought we could enjoy the candy part of the Graham this time, without the sex.”

“Then why aren’t you wearing a shir—never mind. I forget who I’m dealing with.”

He shifts on his feet, which draws my attention to the bulge in his jeans. I clench my teeth, my fists, and my butt cheeks, stalking across the room with all the fluid grace of a corpse.

Bending down to gather his clothes tossed in the corner, I steal a moment for three deep breaths and a prayer for strength. When I spin around, the situation becomes even more dire as he closes the caramel bottle and licks a drop off his finger. My balls tingle.

If Graham possesses a greater talent than acting, it’s giving head. He loves getting on his knees for me, and I love the sinful things he can do with that perfect mouth.

I look away. “How did you get in here? Last I checked, breaking and entering was illegal.” The answer comes to me quickly as I march to the window. “Carmen, that traitor. Is anyone on my side?”

“Don’t be mad at her. She wants to see you happy.”

I scoff and scan the street below. “She wants to watch the drama unfold. Don’t mistake her scheming for compassion.”

His warmth at my back envelops me before he touches my shoulders. As his nose grazes the shell of my ear, my eyes close.

“Please don’t do this,” I beg, though my body defies me and drifts backward into his chest.

“I miss you. I miss hearing about your day, holding you at night, and waking up with you every morning.” Pressing in closer, he whispers, “Give me this one night. For one night, we can pretend the past year never happened.”

“You’re good at pretending.” Silence drops like an anvil, and he steps away, allowing me space to turn and confront his wounded expression. “Put your shirt on.”

“You have to give it to me first.”

I’d forgotten about the bundle I’m clinging to like a lifeline. The shirt smells like him—like earth and wild berries and the comforts of home. I relinquish it and lean on the wall with my arms crossed, staring at my feet while he gets dressed.

Fabric swishes before his voice punctures the quiet. “Look at me, darling.”

He’s spoken that phrase so many times over the years, I should get it stitched into my clothing labels. As intimate as we’ve been, sharing our secrets and bodies and dreams, I still have trouble looking into his eyes. They hold too much love. Too much reverence. And now, too many memories.

Even though it hurts to deny him something as simple as eye contact, I hug myself tighter and shake my head. White sneakers appear in my sight before his knuckle trails along my jaw and lifts my chin. His gaze stretches across the chasm I’ve placed between us, desperate for a way across.

“Please talk to me,” he says.

I want to tell him that I miss him too. Ask him to strip down and stay the night. But more than anything, I want to confide in my best friend, the person who held me through the lows and celebrated me through the highs.

Stepping around him, I sweep aside loose candy and sit on the bed with my hands wedged between my thighs. “The guy I met for dinner turned out to be an asshole. I left early.”