Page 9 of Burn the Script

Damn it. I love berries.

“One dinner. No funny business.” Brushing past him, I swiped the money off the table, then opened the door while waving it in the air. “I’m keeping my ten dollars.”

“Miguel.” The way he said my name, equally commanding and pleading, stopped me in the doorway. “Can I get your number?”

“Why do you need it?” If he compiled a dossier on me, I suspected he already had my number.

“So I can text you my address.” When I pursed my lips, he sighed and retrieved the pen from the floor. His hand moved with light, steady strokes as he scribbled on a notepad with the law firm’s logo before ripping the page off. “Saturday. Dinner and a cocktail. Seven o’clock?”

I smoothed the satin lapels of my jacket. “I only drink top-shelf.”

“And I wouldn’t dream of serving you anything but the best.”

My knees threatened to buckle under the mountain of filthy promises hidden behind his crooked smile. Seriously, those lips should’ve been labeled Rated R. With a trembling hand, I plucked the paper from his grip, spun on my heel, and marched from the conference room with my head held high. I walked right past the elevator.

When I turned back, he was leaning against the doorframe, fingers stuffed loosely in his front pockets. The damn smirk remained on his face. I focused on the flashing numbers and pretended he wasn’t there. The elevator doors took forever to slide open, and I leapt inside, clinging to the handrail while questioning my life choices.

Was I really contemplating a private rendezvous with a Hollywood star at his house? Not only was the idea leagues beyond a smart one, Graham and I weren’t a good match. I could admit his handsome looks, natural confidence, and subtle acquiescence made an irresistible combination, if not a confusing one. Even more baffling was his interest in me.

It wouldn’t take him long to realize I was a handful, according to my last boyfriend. After one evening in my company, Graham would put his nonsensical curiosity behind him and move on, which was for the best.

5

MIGUEL

NOW

Monday, January 2nd

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “No, Andrew. As we’ve already discussed, a curved wall isn’t functional in a standard apartment.”

“It would help with acoustics.” The whiny voice on the line belongs to an architectural engineer who forgets space planning is not his area of expertise.

Andrew Dupont has been a thorn in my side since college, and I avoid him at all costs. Lucky for me, he avoids the long commute to the office in LA traffic, which means I rarely have to see him.

“It’s too late to make schematic changes. You need to finalize the technical drawings and get them to the contractor. She’s losing patience.” My smart watch vibrates, warning me it’s nearly time for my ten o’clock cup of tea and a pastry. “Gotta go, Andrew. We’ll talk soon.”

I lock my laptop screen and organize my stack of floor plans. The architecture collective I work for rents a large conference room in a shared office space. We use it for collaborative projects or if we need to escape our home offices for a couple of hours. As the lead designer, I’m here on most weekdays because I like working with paper and need space to spread out.

Carmen suggested dating as a distraction, but sewing and work keep me busy. The collective specializes in designing apartment buildings for underserved communities and has many projects in the pipeline. My job isn’t lucrative, like the one I had at a private firm designing custom homes, but doing my part to solve LA’s affordable housing crisis is far more gratifying.

A woman in a black pantsuit follows me into the elevator. We claim separate corners and stare at the buttons. Everyone working on this floor keeps to themselves, which is fine by me. I may not like being alone, but that doesn’t mean I want to interact with other people.

Leaving the lobby, I slip through the revolving door and almost crash into a delivery guy with a large flower bouquet. Someone’s in for a lovely surprise. Yay them. Between his ball cap and having his head buried in a phone, the man misses my bitter eye roll.

I skirt around him and hustle to the coffee shop a few doors down. It sells raspberry Danishes on Mondays, and they disappear fast. When I step inside, a long line of customers stands between me and sweet bliss. I contain my frustrated growl and join the queue, peering between bodies to examine the remaining baked goods on display.

“Let me guess. Raspberry Danish.” The whisper comes from behind me. The same whisper that used to praise me in the dark and tease me in the light. “Meet me in the bathroom.”

My heart thunders as I slowly turn my head and catch him slinking into the men’s restroom, expecting me to follow. I slide my gaze to the display case and weigh my options: the pastry or the past. And god help me, I choose the latter.

As I push through the bathroom door, a hand clamps around my arm and drags me the rest of the way inside. The deadbolt clicks. Flowers land at my feet. Air gets trapped in my lungs when Graham cups my face in his hands.

Beneath the hat, haunted amber eyes suck me into their agonized depths—far deeper than I ever could’ve imagined. My trembling hands circle his wrists as threads of longing bind me to the moment, stitching my eyelids shut.

For weeks, I’ve asked Maisy to send me candid photos of Graham on the down-low, but she refuses. Now he’s here, in the flesh, and a glimpse of him could never satisfy. I’m aching for everything I forfeited the night I walked away.

“Darling, look at me.” His voice cracks, and the broken plea stabs me in the chest.