4. Miguel
MIGUEL
THEN
February, Year One
I jabbed the elevator button with my finger. Two weeks after my near-fatal bicycle accident, a wannabe fashion model showed up at my apartment and flirted his way past my cousin. He slapped a manila envelope against my chest and said I’d been served with a lawsuit.
According to the paperwork, Graham Kingston a.k.a. Hollywood Prick claimed my accident had caused him “severe emotional distress.” Mr. Kingston preferred to resolve the matter through private mediation, and I was about to mediate his entitled ass straight into the gutter.
An older white man with a receding hairline greeted me on the eleventh floor. Given his tailored dark suit and the late hour, I concluded he wasn’t the law firm’s receptionist. The Mafia vibe rolling off the whole situation was a definite red flag.
The man confirmed my name and offered me a drink, which I declined as he escorted me into a pretentious conference room with a mahogany table, a stocked bar cart, and real leather chairs.
As much as I wanted to ride one across the carpet and test the quality of the caster wheels, I chose to stand near the door in case I needed to run for my life.
A minute later, Graham strolled in with the same lazy aura he exuded at the beach.
Gone were the black hoodie and sweatpants that hid everything but his face and hands.
With tousled sandy-brown hair and features as sharp as they were soft, he was stunning.
I briefly debated whether to punch his jaw or rub my cheek against it.
I rolled my eyes internally at his current outfit. The grey cardigan over a white tee hugging his chest wasn’t the worst choice, but he wore relaxed jeans and sneakers to a legal proceeding. So unprofessional. And try as he may, this man would not become a lithe, lean threat to my common sense.
My heart rate spiked when he caught me ogling him and winked. On the beach, his eyelids rested at half-mast, and I thought he was sleepy or high. Nope. He had permanent bedroom eyes, and they held me captive as he dismissed the henchman with a nod.
When the door closed, sealing us in the room alone, I broke free from his eye prison. Digging in my jacket pocket, I pulled out a bill and slapped it on the table. “There’s your money. The matter is settled.”
Graham pressed a finger on a document and casually slid it my way. “Can you sign this? It’s a nondisclosure agreement.”
If he thought his smooth baritone would affect me, he was in for a rude awakening. Despite my sweet tooth, I was impervious to honey traps.
“You think I want people to know I’ve been sued for ten bucks? It’s an insult!”
His lips twitched. “The NDA protects my privacy.”
If he would’ve mentioned his name after the crash, my clueless reaction would’ve been the same. Movies were low on my list of favorite pastimes. So when I read the legal paperwork, and my cousin screeched loud enough to burst my eardrums, I did my research.
For hours, I scoured Graham’s digital presence, set up fake social media accounts to follow him on all platforms, and hardcore judged the beautiful women on his arm. I kept those investigative measures to myself.
He stepped closer, conjuring a gold pen out of nowhere. “Sign it. Please. The NDA prevents you from telling anyone about the lawsuit or what we discuss in this room. It doesn’t cover anything that happens after tonight.”
“You must be used to getting your way.”
I swiped the pen from his fingertips and signed my name with an elegant flourish. When I tossed the pen aside, it bounced to the floor instead of rolling across the table like I had envisioned.
Graham swallowed, hard. The fracture in his arrogance offered a glimpse of the gentleman I had met on the beach. And when he spoke again, it was with a quieter voice. “I’m not who the public thinks I am. Not really. I’m protective of my private life.”
“Private.” I scoffed. “You’re dating a famous singer.”
Not just any singer. He was dating Makenzie, and she happened to be the biggest pop star on the rise.
“Managing fame is like playing that whack-a-mole game. While the media spins the stories I feed them, I get to live my real life in peace.”
We were chess pieces, advancing and retreating around the stifling conference room. Somehow, I had ended up on the other side of the table with Graham blocking my path to the door. I inched sideways, keeping him in my sights.
“So you want me to be your little, gay Hollywood secret? How original.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. At least one of us was enjoying the battle of wills. “I want to get to know you, Miguel. Join me for dinner. Then I’ll drop the lawsuit, and you can decide where we go from there.”
“That’s bribery. You’re a pretender and a shady character.”
My hip hit the bar cart. The glass bottles rattled. I jumped, plastering my back to the wall. Between my clumsiness, the toxic pheromones he put off, and his sultry stare, my flesh was on fire.
I pulled at my shirt collar. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m edible!” I snapped. Jesus Christ, my jacket had shrunk two sizes, and we were getting off track. Wiping my brow, I asked, “How did you even find me?”
“I had your name and occupation. Apparently, that was enough.” Graham’s disarming smile appeared, the one that had me sitting in the grass and dirtying up my nice pants. “One dinner. At my place.”
“What if I’m married?”
“My source tells me you’re not.”
“I could be in a committed relationship.” I straightened my shoulders, presenting a more dignified stance. The thought of any sort of romantic entanglement made me queasy.
“Are you? If so, I apologize for overstepping and hope we can at least become friends.”
He wasn’t selling the innocent tone while his feet crept toward me. I’d always been a terrible liar, and he saw right through my poor acting skills. And those luscious lips of his were a distraction.
Throwing my hands up, I said, “Fine. I’m single, okay?”
“Then have dinner with me. What harm could come of it?”
I was a daring person, to a certain degree. As long as my life and principles weren’t at risk, and no athletic skills beyond pedaling were required, I would dabble in adventure. Three months earlier, I had created a social media account to show off my sewing projects.
More recently, I indulged in conversation with a stranger who came to my rescue. Graham’s care and compassion piqued my interest, which was why I stuck around at the beach. If I had known he was a celebrity, I would’ve fled the scene without hesitation.
It was one thing to present myself on social media, where I had control of my narrative and could pull the plug if people judged me harshly.
Linking myself to someone famous could expose me to broader, unchecked scrutiny.
I had no interest in the spotlight, but I was curious to know the reason I had captured Graham’s attention.
“I’m not into casual sex,” I said, and it was the truth.
I was highly selective and slow to act with bed partners. If he was looking for a one-night stand or a booty call, he chose the wrong the guy.
“It’s not sex I’m after.” He paused with the unspoken yet resting on his tongue. When all he got in response were my erratic pulse and scorching cheeks, he carried on. “I want to know more about you. Everything from your darkest secret to your preferred brand of toothpaste.”
I raised my chin. “You won’t find any darkness in me. I’m too shiny.”
“Yes, you are. Brilliantly so.” The last two words danced on a whisper.
We stood inches apart. His heated, amber gaze touched all the contours of my face, like a lover’s caress. Or maybe this was what it felt like to be eye-fucked.
Notes of patchouli and sandalwood tickled my nose with every breath. His sweet, earthy scent was faint on the beach, but up close, he smelled like nature’s most poisonous berry.
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.