Page 26 of Burn the Script

I’ve met with the actors several times, but they haven’t accepted that I’m a regular person. After a couple of grueling, twelve-hour days on set, I’d wager they’ll no longer be starstruck in my presence.

Pasting on a fake smile, I sing, “Good morning. Who’s ready to make a movie?”

12

GRAHAM

THEN

April, Year One

Miguel and I were strolling across Tatum’s lawn when he brought us to a halt and pulled my thumb from my teeth. “Please stop. If I’m not nervous, you shouldn’t be either.”

He was about to meet my family. The chosen members, at least. Tatum would think the world of him and vice versa because she was a sweetheart. But Maisy…she and Miguel had similar personalities. Their first encounter would end one of two ways: as best friends or mortal enemies. A middle ground didn’t exist for no-nonsense people like them. You were in, or you were out.

“I want everyone to click,” I said.

“We will.”

He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a leather cord. I stood there like a confused garden gnome while he tied it around my neck and situated a black pendant in the center of my chest.

“What is it?” I asked, pinching the flattened stone between my fingers.

“Onyx. It goes with your earthy aesthetic. When you get anxious, rub the stone instead of eating your thumb.”

In the span of a blink, I felt the overwhelming urge to propose marriage. Miguel’s thoughtful gift had come with two realizations. He expressed his feelings for me in subtle, meaningful ways, and I might have fallen in love.

“Thank you,” I whispered through the emotion clogging my throat.

“There’s no guarantee it’ll work, but you’re welcome.” He left me to my epiphanies and strode toward the house like he hadn’t rocked me to my core.

I came to my senses and caught up with him on the porch, where I punched in the code to the front door. “Here we go,” I muttered under my breath.

The Mediterranean-style villa was brighter and more open than my house. A grand foyer boasted a soaring ceiling, and a curved staircase climbed one wall. Tatum had the entire house redecorated within months of moving in, and she wasn’t even in the country while it happened.

Miguel’s low whistle heralded his approval. “Not bad.”

“Honey, you’re home!” A bleach-blonde messy bun flopped on Tatum’s head as she rushed over and leapt into my arms.

We met when I played the love interest in her first music video. Maisy, her best friend since high school, was also on set that day as her stylist. The three of us became an instant, unbreakable trio.

With Tatum wrapped around me like a koala, I laughed and spun us in a circle. “It’s the other way around. You’ve been gone for months. Let me look at you.”

She planted her bare feet on the terracotta tile and smiled up at me. The shadows beneath her blue eyes contrasted with her fair skin, highlighting her exhaustion. And the tan hoodie she always wore swallowed her skinny frame.

Tatum toured nonstop, running from the painful loss of her stillborn son. When she wasn’t touring, she spent time locked in a studio, recording songs she’d written about the baby’s father, her first and only love. Her overall health suffered in the process.

I brushed the stray hairs out of her face. “You good, Tot? Sleeping okay?”

“The last leg of the tour was insane, but I’m recovering. A few days of rest, and I’ll be ready to get back on the road.”

As we hugged again, I glanced at Maisy, who leaned against the banister, shaking her head. Even as Tatum’s stylist and personal assistant, she had no influence over our friend’s questionable decisions.

“Don’t ask about Manchester,” Maisy said, attempting to keep the mood light. “I’m surprised the new bodyguards we hired didn’t quit on the spot and leave us there.”

Tatum turned on her, gasping in fake outrage. “Pouring glitter in their socks was your idea. But you conveniently forgot to mention that the head bodyguard can’t take a joke.”

Before they started bickering like sisters, I said, “Hey, so this is Mig—” I searched the foyer for my missing man. “Where did he go?”