8. Miguel
MIGUEL
THEN
February, Year One
I was convinced Graham slipped me a love potion on our first date.
Why else would I show up at his house three nights a row?
An alternative explanation was that he showed attentiveness and kindness, and he hadn’t made a single judgmental comment about me.
And I was curious to know if he was genuine.
I watched him through the windows as he darted around the kitchen, preparing our cocktails.
We had already established an after-dinner routine.
Biting my lip to stifle a smile, I turned toward the flame in the fire pit.
Chilly air nipped at my ears, but cashmere and Graham’s pleasant company kept me warm.
His spacious balcony with a modern, cozy aesthetic was a stark departure from the antique nightmare going on inside.
The house had good bones, built in the 1970s, if I had to guess, but it needed lots of updates.
And the broken, creepy merman fountain in center of the driveway needed resuscitation or a burial.
The backyard would be a nice final resting place. I had never seen the hills from an insider’s vantage point. There was a sense of isolation, despite the other homes lit up throughout the canyon.
News of the pop star living next door still shocked me.
His fake girlfriend. Graham’s loyalty to her was sweet and endearing, but what would happen to their faux fairy tale if I stayed in the picture?
Would he end the ruse with her and put us all at risk of exposure?
Or could he be content with keeping me a secret while he lived in the spotlight with someone else?
His fame scared me. If news of us got out, the comment sections would be brutal. His fake relationship could work in our favor, but too many factors remained outside my control. I wasn’t comfortable with unknowns and what-ifs. I needed facts, assurances, safety nets—
“Okay, I’m back. Sorry that took so long.”
The breathlessness in Graham’s voice drew my gaze to his mouth. His face was a safe zone. The danger zone was everything from the neck down, namely the partially unbuttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, loose-fitting jeans, and bare feet.
“Aren’t you cold?” I asked.
“Not really. My body runs hot, and I’ve been busy working on this.”
He set a charcuterie board of seduction on the coffee table. My mouth watered, already tasting the assortment of cheesecake bites, chocolate truffles, and strawberries dipped in yogurt.
“Your flirting game is weak,” I said, lying through my teeth.
“I’ve leveled up from flirting. This is called wooing.” With a wink, he handed me a crystal tumbler from the tray. “One top-shelf whiskey sour for the most beautiful man in the bar.”
I rolled my eyes, but the motion felt involuntary, like I was about to faint or have an orgasm because he added six cherries to my drink instead of the usual three. “You’re ridiculous. I’m an average-looking guy with an average life.”
“You’re the furthest thing possible from average, Miguel.”
Two chairs and a sofa were available to choose from, but he settled next to me on the loveseat, holding his glass steady on one knee. I moved a little closer but not close enough to call it snuggling when he draped arm behind my back.
“I’m not usually this forward,” he said, chuckling at the doubtful glance I cast his way.
“I’m serious. I won’t lie to you; there have been a few discreet hookups over the years, but I’ve never brought someone home or let them peek behind the curtain.
It’s a risk I couldn’t afford to take and one I wouldn’t take until now. ”
“Why me?” I shoved a truffle in my mouth. The raspberry créme inside it melted on my tongue and kept me from spewing all my flaws.
He shifted, opening his body to me as our thighs pressed together. “We only spent, what, half an hour on the beach that morning? I haven’t stopped thinking about you since.”
If he could read my thoughts, I would’ve dived into the pool to fight off a case of nervous sweating while he ran for the hills.
Confident guys like him weren’t supposed to be interested in high-maintenance, insecure people like me.
At most, I was a mild and temporary fascination for men, given my temperamental personality and unique style of dress. Graham made me doubt that theory.
“So I’m not a weird curiosity for you?” I asked, instantly hating how timid my voice sounded.
“Never weird, but I am curious. There’s more to you than cute dimples and fancy clothes, and I want to uncover it all.”
Mama Mary, could his tone be any more sincere?
Staring into my glass, I pinched a cherry stem and stirred my drink. “I’m not good at dating. Opening up is hard for me.”
A heavy silence blanketed us as he studied my profile. It was impossible to brace for what came next with someone unpredictable like him, a fact he proved with his next question.
“Who hurt you, Miguel?”
I met his gaze and held firm. “That’s not a third-date conversation.”
Graham rubbed a finger over his lips, back and forth. He said a lot without speaking, and I could practically hear his internal debate. Should he poke at my barriers and risk ruining the night? Or should he drop the subject and salvage it?
“Fair enough,” he said. “Tell me more about your family.”
All the tension fled from my shoulders, and I scooted closer to him.
For the next hour, the conversation flowed easily, same as the previous nights when we sat in that exact spot.
His genuine smiles and honeyed laughter lured me into a comfortable state.
With my elbow on the back of the loveseat and my cheek resting on a fist, I returned his smiles as we talked about our careers and swapped tales of our youth.
He was an adventurous kid who ran rampant through the Colorado mountains with only his imagination to accompany him.
There may have also been mention of a loin cloth.
I grew up surrounded by family and seldom ventured beyond the borders of my neighborhood.
Despite our opposite upbringings, being around him felt natural, and I could almost forget we had recently met.
Slouched lower on the loveseat, he asked, “What’s something you’ve always wanted to do, but you’re too afraid?”
My answer came quickly. “Travel abroad. I’ve never been on a plane.”
“Get a passport, because I love to travel.”
Instead of telling him about my fear of flying, a factoid I’d save for later, I returned the question. “What about you? Is there anything Graham Kingston is afraid of, besides your career ending in devastating ruin?”
The lazy smile fell from his lips as he rested his head on the back of the loveseat. “Never fully living as me again.”
“When was the last time?”
“You mean the only time.” Graham crossed his arms over his chest while looking at the string lights above us.
“Let’s see…I moved to LA after high school and dipped my toe in the club scene.
For a mountain boy, it was new and exciting, also a little intimidating.
A few months later, I signed with an agent who laid out my options.
Conventional roles could take me where I wanted to go the fastest. The trade-off was playing it straight away from the camera too. ”
I hated that for him, having his time of self-discovery cut short. My early years of college were fun before my ex came along and stole my ability to find enjoyment in anything at all.
Nudging Graham’s shoulder with mine, I said, “You’ve given up a lot for movies.”
“I’m getting a lot in return, so I can’t really complain about the downsides.”
I frowned. “You have every right to complain. No one should have to choose between being themselves and being marketable.”
“Maybe so, but I chose option two. For now, I try and make the best of it.” Regret tainted his smile, and my heartstrings were strumming for him.
From what I could tell, Graham was a sweet and humble man, another side of himself that he kept hidden. He played the role of a suave, outgoing heartthrob well, and people ate it up, but the real him was even better. Hollywood was missing out.
By the time I had sampled all the desserts and finished nursing my cocktail, I was on the verge of a sugar crash. My eyelids felt heavy, and I smothered a yawn with my sleeve. Graham called the night to a close and walked me to the front porch.
An iron gate loomed at the end of the long driveway. The first night I passed through it, I couldn’t have guessed what I’d find on the other side. A sanctuary was the last thing I had expected, nor did I anticipate feeling so at home there with him.
Standing in the dim alcove, a heady, magnetic force brought us face to face. His gaze fell to my lips, and his arm twitched. I wondered if he’d make a move, and I was even more shocked to discover how badly I wanted him to.
“Can I kiss you?” His hushed request skittered down my spine, leaving rare prickles of desire in its wake.
“No.”
With a sheepish grin, he lifted a shoulder. “I had to try.”
Kissing on the first three dates went against my principles. Physical intimacy must be earned, along with my trust and access to my insecurities. But since I couldn’t rip my focus from his tempting mouth either, I made an exception.
“Maybe one kiss. To test for chemistry,” I said.
Without hesitation, he gripped the side of my neck.
The warm, possessive touch should’ve made me want to duck, tuck, and roll away.
I leaned into it as his sinfully soft lips descended on mine.
He stroked my jaw with his thumb, a hypnotic motion that coaxed my guards to drop themselves. Little traitors.
When his tongue glided along the seam of my lips, asking me to invite him in, I opened. Right away, I knew it was a decision I’d never regret.
Like everything about Graham Kingston, the kiss embodied a duality, languid and demanding at once. He tasted like cheesecake with a hint of reverence that could fool me into believing I was worthy of someone as lovely as him.
A moan slipped out of me, and he echoed it, grabbing my waist to draw me closer. My hands were pinned between us, palms flat on his chest. They drifted lower, eager to explore the shapes he was made of beneath the clothes. But he broke the kiss, ending my journey too soon.
Satisfaction danced on his low hum. “Our chemistry is sweet. I could get addicted.”
“Do it again.” My breathless demand made him smile.
“You said ‘one kiss.’ If you’d give me your number, we could arrange for more.”
“Extortion,” I whispered, but he made a good point. Texting and calling between our seven o’clock meetup times would make things easier and more interesting.
With a chuckle, he stepped away, releasing me to stand on my own. “The only crime I plan to commit is making you fall for me, Miguel Espinoza. And I can guarantee I won’t feel the least bit guilty for it.”
The promise in his steady gaze threatened to topple me, but when he brought my hand to lips and kissed the back of it, I knew I was well and truly fucked.