Page 104 of Burn the Script

“Maybe. I’m still trying it on, but it feels right.” Turning my head, I kiss his cheek and leave the closet.

My therapy journey has been enlightening and empowering. Victor and I meet weekly by video call, and we’re methodically approaching my recovery from narcissistic abuse. In other words, I’m still taking baby steps, along with anxiety medication. I have a small army of trained professionals and a long way to go, but I was relieved to learn that my ex may not be the only reason I spent years without feeling sexually attracted to anyone.

Graham follows me to the bedroom with a pair of boxer briefs dangling from his hand. “So Graham-sexual has been retired from your vocabulary?”

“I told you it was a placeholder.” Pulling my phone from my pocket, I check the time. “You have ten minutes. Now put your damn clothes on, or we’re gonna be late.”

“Fine.” He whips the towel off his head and trudges back to the closet, where his tux hangs on the door.

This time, I follow him. “Are you pouting because I’ve retired the word?”

“No.” He gives me his back and a nice view of his ass while he pulls on the underwear. “Actually, yes. First, I spent years without a nickname. Now I don’t get to have a special word.”

As he reaches for the shirt, I intercept his arms and wrap them around my waist. “Do you need to feel special, baby?”

“Every once in a while.” His hug is loose because he’s still pouting.

“I’ve designed you a house with a ridiculous number of windows for the square footage. There’s no wall space, which means you’ll basically be living outdoors. That should make you feel special.”

We’re moving to Walford. The original plan was to have a second home, but the town has become my new sanctuary. I’ve switched to a consulting role at the architecture collective, working part-time and remote. Plus, Maisy and Tatum live in Walford now, so we’ll be together again. I asked Carmen to come with us, but she’d never abandon Los Angeles. A lot of change is happening, but the one constant in all the scary unknowns is Graham.

With his lips attached to my jaw, I look at the little glass box on the shelf above the mirror. Inside, nestled in silk the color of golden sand, lies my princess shell. Shortly after returning home from Costa Rica, he gave me the shell in its display case, and I didn’t ask questions.

Every time I see the shell, I’m reminded that my safest, most comfortable place on earth is in Graham’s arms. And there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

He detaches his mouth from my face and notices what has stolen my attention. “Check in with me for real, darling. Are you good?”

My gaze shifts from the shell to him, and his beautiful amber eyes lock me in. “I’m focusing on one thing tonight, and that’s you. So, yeah, I’m more than good.” Stepping out of his embrace, I smooth out the front of my brocade jacket. “How do I look?”

A growly moan rumbles in his throat as he grabs my hips and pulls me close again. “Please wear a tux every day.”

“Only if you wear clothes to your premiere. We’re leaving in five minutes.” I shove the shirt into his chest and walk away.

GRAHAM

“I’m relaxed. I’m calm. My pits aren’t as sweaty as they feel.”

Miguel’s eyes are closed, arms loose at his sides and ankles crossed while he chants affirmations in the back of the limo. His spirits were high until we veered onto the highway. The longer we’ve sat in LA traffic, the longer he’s had to get inside his head.

I squeeze his thigh. “Breathe, darling. Imagine it’s like the other events you’ve been to.”

“I was always Maisy’s date, and we never walked the red carpet. Tonight, I’m your arm candy. It’s a big responsibility.”

“Speaking of candy…” I pat down my pockets and find what I’m looking for, then reach across Miguel to grab his left hand. His eyes pop open when I slide the ring on his finger. “Marry me.”

He blinks at the sparkling, diamond infinity band. “You have the worst timing. Do you not know how to read a room?”

“I’m trying to distract you. I was planning to do this later tonight.”

Leaning into me, he breathes deeply. I’m wearing the new cologne he bought me, a subtle scent that enhances my natural musk, according to him. After I got dressed earlier, he styled my hair and tied my bow tie. I let him do his thing because he needed to expend nervous energy, and because I like when he fusses over me.

These past few months, Miguel has been a pillar of bravery and my rock when I hit a low point. He tried to warn me what was coming, but in my ignorance, the hate online blindsided me. While we avoid social media, Jonathan keeps me informed as a matter of awareness for our safety, and he holds nothing back. Miguel and I have many supporters, but my eyes have been opened to the cruelty in the world. I’ve also learned that some people out there are really fucking weird.

There are no boundaries online, so we’ve created our own. For the most part, we stay offline. His sewing account remains anonymous and still brings him joy, but he limits his screen time. And gossip sites and tabloids are completely forbidden in our household.

Miguel lifts his hand, fingers splayed to view the bejeweled digit in isolation. “I’ll wear the ring tonight because it looks great with my outfit, but I’m withholding my answer until you propose somewhere other than the back of a limo.”

Laughing, I toss an arm around his shoulders and drag him halfway into my lap. “Name the time and place, and I’ll make it the best proposal you’ve ever arranged.”