34. Graham
GRAHAM
THEN
November, Year Four
The lines on the script in front of me blurred. A light breeze curled through the balcony, kissing the back of my neck and making me shiver. I rested my head in my hands and massaged my temples. The headaches became especially bad when I stared at my laptop for too long.
A loud squeak forced me to look up. Miguel had his cell phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, a bottle of glass cleaner in one hand and a squeegee in the other.
As he dragged the rubber blade along the already spotless window again, the corners of my mouth tilted up.
The cleaning service came two days ago. The windows were spotless, but Miguel couldn’t sit still when he was on a phone call.
I leaned back in my chair. All his quirks and habits—the things that made him uniquely him—brought me more joy and entertainment than any movie ever could. And the sight of him bustling around the house we shared was a scene I’d watch on repeat every day for the rest of my life.
After he cleaned a small, perfect square, he disappeared. I returned to the script, but only twenty minutes passed before I lost momentum and interest in the task. I hunted for a prince instead.
He was easy to find in his sewing room where he spent most of his free time. The cushy leather chair he ordered for me beckoned from the corner. I sank into it and laid my head back, admiring his creative skills and endless well of productivity. He only rested when he was asleep or in my arms.
His posture gave away his mood. The stiff spine and jerky movements conveyed frustration as he guided the fabric under a needle hammering at top speed.
The needle came to a sudden stop, and he turned to look at me, eyes softening as he tilted his head. “You have a headache.”
“Not a bad one.”
“Liar.” He set his work aside, and the wide legs of his silk lounge pants billowed as he headed toward the door. “I’ll be right back.”
I sat quietly, staring at the backyard through the sheer curtains, my mind free of clutter in his organized space. In no time, he returned with a glass of water and my prescription pills. I hated taking them. They gave me a stomachache, but I gulped them down anyway because he wanted me to.
Miguel set the glass on the decorative table next to my chair and straddled my lap, careful not to jostle me.
At five-foot-nine, he wasn’t a small person, but he felt small when I was holding him.
His light fingers wandered from my shoulders to my neck, working the tight muscles.
I moaned. Only he could turn me to mush and ease my pain with a single touch.
“You’ve been reading all week. You need a break,” he said.
Jonathan had sent me script options for my directorial debut. He had more contacts than I did and knew where to find untapped talent, the hidden gems who hadn’t caught a break. Many of the scripts were great, but one stood out, and I kept returning to it for another read.
“I think I’ve found the one. The storytelling and dialogue are simple but beautiful. I can envision the scenes in my head already.”
Miguel’s fingers moved to the base of my skull. “What’s it about?”
“Summer camp. A teen movie, if you can believe it,” I murmured.
My eyelids grew heavy. His magic hands were putting me to sleep, and that wouldn’t do because he’d leave my lap. My palms glided along the silk as I slid my hands up his thighs and grabbed his hips, anchoring him to me.
“Why were you taking your anger out on a blazer?” I asked.
“Andrew.” The way he growled the name was adorable.
“The engineer?”
“Yes. I regret asking him to join the collective, but he’s good at what he does. The problem is getting him to stay in his lane. Earlier, he tried to convince me he knows more about contracts than our lawyer.”
“It’s brave of him to call you during the weekend.”
Miguel’s voice pitched higher. “Right? He’s the villain in my story, always ignoring my boundaries. I’m never answering my phone on a Saturday again.”
Wisely, I kept my comments and laughter to myself. Miguel would burn all his precious fabric before admitting he enjoyed being in high demand.
I thought of the demands I placed on myself and how tiring it had become to meet them. The acting schedule. The fake relationship with Tatum. The lie I lived. It was exhausting, keeping up appearances, and I longed for a change. I ached for a simple, quiet life with Miguel.
While he continued the amazing head massage, I rubbed circles on his thighs. “I want to get your thoughts on something. What if Tate and I call off the engagement?”
He tensed and leaned back, narrowing his eyes. “Why?”
“It’s weird that we haven’t set a date or started planning a wedding. People have noticed.”
“By people, you mean her fans.” Miguel spit out the last word like it tasted bitter. “Let them notice. Couples have long engagements all the time, and the wedding plans are no one’s business. It’s not like her fandom will be invited.” His ferocity put a smile on my face.
“There won’t be a wedding, darling. It’s all pretend.”
“Then keep pretending for a while longer. There’s no sense in blowing everything up when you’re almost at the end.” The silk ran through my fingers as he climbed from the chair. “Do you want me to read the script to you?”
“That would be great.”
With a soft kiss to my forehead, he said, “Stay where you are. I’ll make us some tea and grab your laptop. Then I’ll show you what quality acting looks like.”
I closed my eyes and waited, wondering how I got lucky enough to fall in love with someone who knew me better than I knew myself. Someone willing to stand by me, whether I was at my best or worst.
A grin formed on my lips when I thought of the ring hidden in a drawer.
Miguel accused me of being impatient, but I had bought the ring weeks earlier.
I planned to propose on our fourth anniversary, which was a few months away.
And while he didn’t give me a straight answer to any of my previous proposals, I was confident he’d say yes to the next one.