Page 6 of Burn the Script

“Thanks. I made them myself,” he said as a rosy hue bloomed in his cheeks.

This man was fascinating and gorgeous, and I couldn’t look away as he stuffed a gummy worm in his mouth. When he slurped the tail end between his lips, I cleared my throat.

“You eat candy for breakfast?”

He squinted at the damaged bike while chewing. “Sometimes. Do you always wear a hoodie and lurk in empty parks at dawn?”

The reminder of why I was there knocked me back, literally. Lying in the grass, I tucked my hands beneath my head and sighed. “I’m incognito. I was waiting on some news and wanted to be alone without actually being alone.”

“Makes sense.” After a pause, he added, “I’m guessing the news wasn’t good.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

I hesitated to say more. People had real problems compared to my trivial complaints, but he was treating me like an actual person, not a character he’d seen on a movie screen. Beneath the cloak of this odd role playing between us, I unloaded a partial truth.

“I applied for a promotion at work and didn’t get it.”

“Want to talk about it? I’m great at pretending to listen,” he said.

I barked a laugh at his deadpan delivery. Rarely could someone catch me off guard. “God, no. I’d rather talk about anything else.”

The bag crinkled as he dug for more candy, sitting crisscross less than a foot away. From our relaxed positions, anyone passing by would assume we knew each other.

While sweets and the ocean held his attention, I stole another glance at his snug pants. “Do you work in fashion?”

He jerked a shoulder. “I’m an architect. Sewing is just a hobby.”

Since I had nothing else going on that day, and he wasn’t in a hurry to leave, I rolled onto my side, resting my head in a hand. “And how does one become an architect?” I asked.

As the sun continued its slow climb, ushering daylight to our sliver of the world, he rambled about college degrees and internships and how geometry was the core language of design. His intelligence level surpassed mine by a lot, and every sentence flowing from his pretty mouth captivated me.

Pretty. That was a good word to describe him. Others might’ve called him adorable, with those dimpled cheeks and rich brown eyes, but pretty suited him better.

When the one-sided conversation tapered off, a dreadful feeling stirred my gut. I was already hooked on the many facets of this interesting man and wanted to know more, but we had reached the end of our short time together. While he’d offered some personal tidbits about himself, I couldn’t let him go without asking the most important question.

“What’s your name?”

“Miguel”—he tossed a cautious look my way while pushing to his feet—“Espinoza.”

“Miguel.” When I pronounced it like he did, the L glided off my tongue. “I’m Graham.”

Standing over me, he maintained a neutral expression while studying my face. “You don’t look like a Graham. Maybe a Henry or an Edward.” Another laugh burst out of me, and he frowned. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.” As I peeled myself off the ground, I wondered if his reference to former British kings was meant to be a clever wink at my last name.

Toe to toe at last, we let our eyes wander, and neither of us hid our obvious interest. At six foot two, I was a few inches taller than him. If we stood any closer, I would’ve been able to smell the product in his short, dark brown hair. He was slender and carried himself with poise, but stiff shoulders betrayed his discomfort at our proximity.

I took a step back. “Can I help with your bike?”

“No, thanks. I’ve got it.”

He shoved the empty candy wrapper into a pocket and dusted the seat of his pants. I helped anyway, scooping the chain off the grass and tossing it in the dented basket. Once I got the bike upright, he mumbled something under his breath and took hold of the handlebars.

“I take it you enjoy playing the hero?” he asked.

“Sometimes.” My voice came out huskier than intended, and his eyebrows shot up.

“And if I prefer bad boys?”