Page 36 of Burn the Script

Clearing his throat, he says, “You look nice tonight.”

I run a hand along my orange silk jacket. “Thank you. This color reminds of the heliconia plants in Costa⁠—”

The whistle blows. Graham flinches before forcing a smile. “Be gentle with the next one, darling. He seems nervous.”

As he slides out of the chair and joins the person at the next table, I give his new friend a sidelong glance. Anyone who wears a long-sleeve polo shirt without a corporate logo isn’t a threat to me.

A man with sweat dotting his brow drops into Graham’s vacated seat. “Oh, thank god. Someone I know.”

I slide a napkin toward him. “Hello, Preston.”

“You remember my name.” His eyes nearly pop out of his head. When I point to the tag on his shirt, he blushes and dabs his forehead with the napkin. “Right. So…it’s good to see you again. I like your jacket.”

My skin prickles, feeling the force of Graham’s stare from several feet away. Perhaps he gets jealous after all. And after he crashed my dating event, I’m in the mood to test theories.

Giving Preston my undivided attention, I plant my chin on a fist and stir my drink in a coy fashion. “The navy plaid brings out your eyes. I prefer it to the red you wore last time.”

He puffs out his chest. “Thanks. I tried on seven shirts before I left my apartment.”

Anything my table mate says next goes in one ear and out the other. Graham’s exaggerated country drawl overpowers all the voices in our vicinity.

Flexing all ten fingers, he says, “I like ’em soft and pliable. If they have a sharp tongue, even better. Spoil him rotten and punish the brat. That’s my motto.”

I’ll kill him. How dare he bring me into his subpar one-man play? When he looks my way and smirks, I mouth “asshole.”

Choosing to ignore Graham for the rest of the night, I turn to the man sitting across from me. He’s bright red and gawking at my ex like he hung the fucking moon.

I peek at his name tag and slap the table. “Preston!”

He jumps. “Sorry, sorry.” Leaning in, he shields his mouth with a hand. “Do you think I have a chance with that guy?”

Mama Mary, please send help.

I rub my temples. “It’s an act. Honestly, I don’t think he has a genuine bone in his body. Even his mustache looks fake.”

Preston caves in on himself, his broad shoulders hunching and shrinking before my eyes. My guilt hits hard because I recognize the reaction. Insecure people like us cower when there’s nowhere to hide.

Speaking quieter, for his ears only, I lean in and say, “We all deserve someone genuine, Preston. Don’t settle for less.”

From what I’ve gathered, most of tonight’s speed daters are looking for a steady hookup. They’re either tired of the club scene or need to establish some kind of personal connection before dancing the horizontal tango. Preston, however, strikes me as someone in search of love. I doubt he’ll find it here.

Over the next hour, I try paying attention to the visitors at my table. I fail miserably, keeping one eye on Graham and the people he chats with. They all fall victim to his charms. Every single one of them. And I might cause a riot if the flirt in the purple crop top doesn’t rein in those fluttering fake lashes.

When the rounds come to an end, I hand my scorecard to the host. I’ve checked “no” by each name, including Gavin the Fake. None of the candidates have earned access to my contact information. On the bright side, I spy Preston leaving with the guy in the purple shirt, both of them all smiles.

Discreetly, I search the venue for Graham. He’s gone, and disappointment barrels through me like a tsunami. The eight minutes we spent in our bubble were the highlight of my week, and I’d give anything for eight more.

16

GRAHAM

THEN

July, Year One

Older pastel bungalows and stark modern structures shared prime, waterfront real estate near the coast. Their patios, each unique in aesthetic, ended within feet of the shallow canals laid out in a grid. Miguel lagged behind me on the sidewalk in the historic neighborhood. He’d been quiet since we left my house, maybe because midnight was long past his bedtime.

“Over here,” I said. At a break in the long hedgerow along the water, I crouched to study the knot in the rope tied to a wood post.