Page 7 of Burn the Script

A huge smile split my face in half. “I could easily switch roles.”

His staccato laugh returned, and I preened from earning the sound. This pretty architect with dimples pumped adrenaline into my veins. For the first time in years, I allowed myself to flirt openly with a man and had no regrets after taking the risk.

“My car is close by, if you need a ride somewhere.”

“I’m good,” he said. The bike made a grinding noise as he guided it to the pavement, where he looked back with a tender smile. “A wise woman once told me to always get up when life knocks you down. I hope you find your footing, Graham.”

As Miguel’s silhouette faded into the distance, I rubbed my fingers across my lips and replayed our encounter. I couldn’t recall the last time I chatted up a stranger without a request for a selfie, an autograph, or details about my personal life. If given another shot, I’d stretch those quiet, precious minutes with Miguel into hours. I’d get to know him and learn what made him tick. He’d smile and laugh, up close and personal and because of me. Not the celebrity, but the guy away from the spotlight.

“Damn it,” I whispered, using the toe of my sneaker to fluff the blades of grass where he left an imprint.

It was reckless to entertain such thoughts. My hetero public image had been curated to sell movie tickets and serve my career goals. Pursuing any type of meaningful relationship with a man would’ve jeopardized my childhood dream.

I was also being foolish. The chances of seeing Miguel again were slim. In LA, the odds of us crossing paths that day were one in millions.

The ambitious part of me, however, remembered I had the resources to track him down.

4

MIGUEL

THEN

February, Year One

I jabbed the elevator button with my finger. Two weeks after my near-fatal bicycle accident, a wannabe fashion model showed up at my apartment and flirted his way past my cousin. He slapped a manila envelope against my chest and said I’d been served with a lawsuit.

According to the paperwork, Graham Kingston a.k.a. Hollywood Prick claimed my accident had caused him “severe emotional distress.” Mr. Kingston preferred to resolve the matter through private mediation, and I was about to mediate his entitled ass straight into the gutter.

An older white man with a receding hairline greeted me on the eleventh floor. Given his tailored dark suit and the late hour, I concluded he wasn’t the law firm’s receptionist. The Mafia vibe rolling off the whole situation was a definite red flag.

The man confirmed my name and offered me a drink, which I declined as he escorted me into a pretentious conference room with a mahogany table, a stocked bar cart, and real leather chairs. As much as I wanted to ride one across the carpet and test the quality of the caster wheels, I chose to stand near the door in case I needed to run for my life.

A minute later, Graham strolled in with the same lazy aura he exuded at the beach. Gone were the black hoodie and sweatpants that hid everything but his face and hands. With tousled sandy-brown hair and features as sharp as they were soft, he was stunning. I briefly debated whether to punch his jaw or rub my cheek against it.

I rolled my eyes internally at his current outfit. The grey cardigan over a white tee hugging his chest wasn’t the worst choice, but he wore relaxed jeans and sneakers to a legal proceeding. So unprofessional. And try as he may, this man would not become a lithe, lean threat to my common sense.

My heart rate spiked when he caught me ogling him and winked. On the beach, his eyelids rested at half-mast, and I thought he was sleepy or high. Nope. He had permanent bedroom eyes, and they held me captive as he dismissed the henchman with a nod.

When the door closed, sealing us in the room alone, I broke free from his eye prison. Digging in my jacket pocket, I pulled out a bill and slapped it on the table. “There’s your money. The matter is settled.”

Graham pressed a finger on a document and casually slid it my way. “Can you sign this? It’s a nondisclosure agreement.”

If he thought his smooth baritone would affect me, he was in for a rude awakening. Despite my sweet tooth, I was impervious to honey traps.

“You think I want people to know I’ve been sued for ten bucks? It’s an insult!”

His lips twitched. “The NDA protects my privacy.”

If he would’ve mentioned his name after the crash, my clueless reaction would’ve been the same. Movies were low on my list of favorite pastimes. So when I read the legal paperwork, and my cousin screeched loud enough to burst my eardrums, I did my research.

For hours, I scoured Graham’s digital presence, set up fake social media accounts to follow him on all platforms, and hardcore judged the beautiful women on his arm. I kept those investigative measures to myself.

He stepped closer, conjuring a gold pen out of nowhere. “Sign it. Please. The NDA prevents you from telling anyone about the lawsuit or what we discuss in this room. It doesn’t cover anything that happens after tonight.”

“You must be used to getting your way.”

I swiped the pen from his fingertips and signed my name with an elegant flourish. When I tossed the pen aside, it bounced to the floor instead of rolling across the table like I had envisioned.