Sunday night means The Walking Dead, shrimp tacos and margaritas. Tonight, I’ve doubled the tequila in my drink. I need it. Sol is pissed at me and I’m avoiding him. I know he thinks I’m crazy. Hell, I think I’m crazy, but I can’t accept the clause Artemis added. It would throw my life into total disarray. I’d have to rent a place in Malibu and I can’t afford that in addition to the rent at Jessica’s for three months, or however long I’d be there. Even if I could, getting someone to rent me a space once they learn I’m undocumented is next to impossible. So, I can’t.

I’m disappointed. Getting this close to the film actually happening made me realize how much I wanted it. And then there’s Reece. I haven’t stopped thinking about Reece since we met. I keep replaying his impassioned speech he made during our meeting. His eyes were so intense as he told me why this matters to him. I would have enjoyed working with him.

I assumed the reason he became head of the film studio was only due to the fact that his parents own it. But yesterday, I could see that he’s flexible and decisive at the same time. It’s rare to see those qualities in people who’ve had everything handed to them and haven’t had to compromise or sacrifice much.

I take a sip of my drink and wish Jessica were here instead of out on a date. I could use a little company and comfort tonight. I’m just piling the pico and guac on my taco when I see the headlights of a vehicle as it parks in front of our house. I barely register it because we live on a busy street. When our doorbell rings less than thirty seconds later, I almost jump out of my skin.

I already know it’s not for me. Sol and Jessica are the only friends I have who know where I live and Sol wouldn’t show up without calling. It must be one of Jessica’s guys who got their date night wrong. I contemplate not answering—I’m not in the mood to console one of her love-sick boyfriends—but the doorbell rings again and I know that the lights and the television make it obvious someone is home.

I look down at myself. I’m wearing one of my gauzy beach cover ups, but it’s decent enough. Reluctantly, I pause my show with a sigh, push off the couch and rush to the door. As I approach, I see a tall, obviously male silhouette through the door’s glass.

I swing the door open. “Jess isn’t—” I can’t control the squawk of surprise that escapes when I open it and see Reece Carras standing on the other side. He’s the last person I’d expected to see and for a minute I just stand and gape at him.

He’s dressed so differently from when I last saw him. In his office, he wore a suit, his hair styled off his face. Then, he’d looked every inch the young movie mogul-and that he is.

But tonight, he’s dressed in jeans, Chucks, a V-neck white T-shirt that clings to his muscular chest and reveals a tattoo that covers his entire right bicep. His tanned, muscled bicep. His five o’clock shadow is more like a light beard now and a dark lock of hair rests on his forehead.

His eyes are hooded and he’s looking me up and down in a way that makes me feel as if I’m standing in front of him naked. His gaze feels like the touch of a hand. I feel my nipples harden as his eyes sweep past them.

I cough and he brings his unfathomably dark eyes to my face. He doesn’t look the slightest bit chagrined when I scowl at him.

“Are you done?” I ask him, placing my hands on my hips.

“Well, I was just giving you a chance to finish,” he drawls and I blush.

I brush my hair with my fingers and straighten my dress before I step outside and pull the door closed behind me. “What are you doing here? How do you even know where I live?” I cross my arms over my chest and plant my feet. I hate how defensive I sound, but I’ve been thrown completely off balance by his unexpected visit.

His eyes flare with annoyance. “Your address was in the paperwork you filled out to enter our office building. All of our visitors’ information gets scanned into my address book,” he returns evenly, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against one of the porch columns. “You know exactly why I’m here,” he snaps, all traces of humor disappearing from his dark eyes. I have to stop myself from gulping down the ball of nerves lodged in my throat. Suddenly I see the executive who runs his movie studio like a well-oiled machine. Someone who isn’t used to hearing no. He’s not here to flirt with me or make small talk.

“Don’t play coy, Lucía.” He pronounces my name the way a lot of Europeans do—with the c pronounced ch.

I correct him. “It’s Loo-seeah. I’m Mexican, not Italian. And I’m not playing coy.” I draw out the last syllable.

His left eyebrow quirks up and he smiles as if surprised. A dimple I didn’t noticed before appears in his right cheek. “Forgive the mispronunciation, Lucía.” He says my name correctly this time. He runs his fingers through his closely cropped dark hair and sighs. My eyes are drawn to his gorgeous mouth; fascinated at the way it purses on his exhale.

“Tell me why you said no,” he asks, his voice still demanding, but gentler this time.

My heart thuds against my chest so hard that I’m sure he can hear it. I glance down at my hands and try to gather my thoughts.

This man, who until yesterday, I’d only seen on television or in magazines is standing on my doorstep because he wants to make my book into a movie. It’s surreal and intimidating. My reason for saying no now feels very flimsy. I force myself to look at him and answer his question.

His handsome face is impassive, but his eyes are anything but. The urgency in them only heightens my anxiety. I clear my throat. “I thought Sol told you. I can’t move to Malibu for an undetermined amount of time. I pay rent here.”

He raises his eyebrows as if to say and? I sigh.

“I can’t leave my roommate high and dry. It doesn’t matter how much you pay me, I can’t afford to pay rent here and at some place in Malibu. I need to work a commutable distance from where I live.” I cross my arms, stick out my chin as I admit, “I don’t drive.”

He doesn’t hesitate when he responds. “‘That clause was not a random whim. Our Malibu office is where our screenwriting team always collaborates. Most of them live in Malibu or close by and it’s just always been an easy central place. The studio can provide your accommodation while you’re there.”

“You’d house me?” I say hesitantly. I didn’t expect that.

“Yes, if that’s what it takes.”

Shit. I don’t want to move to Malibu. It’s so far away from what I’ve come to think of as my home. I’ve never lived anywhere but this city. I feel safe here. Although, at times, my inability to leave makes me feel like a captive. A change of scenery might not be a bad thing. “I won’t work weekends; I’ll want to come home every Friday night.”

His eyes roll and he sighs. But he doesn’t miss a beat before responding. “You won’t be a prisoner. You can leave whenever you want. But you’ll need to build a writing schedule with your team and stick to it.” I don’t have any other excuses at this point and as if he knows it, he laughs. The rich, deep, triumphant sound washes over me, mingling with my anxiety, creating a feeling of trepidation that I can’t tamp down.

I feel cornered. I don’t know why, because what I want the most is finally within reach. I’m letting my fear keep me from grabbing a hold of it. Nothing in my life has ever been this easy. It’s all too good to be true. And that makes me very nervous.

I have one more thing to add. I take a deep breath and let it out.

“Sol’s warned me about how some of these things work. I’m not interested in sleeping with you, so if all of this is a ploy to make that happen, you’re wasting your time.”

He mumbles something under his breath and stands up straight and he narrows his eyes at me in anger. “You’re the third person who’s suggested that I’m doing this to sleep with you.” His eyes flick over me again. “Yes, Ms. Vega, you’re very beautiful.” I’m grateful for the setting sun as I feel my entire body flush. “But I don’t need to spend millions of dollars to get a beautiful woman to sleep with me.” His dark, lushly lashed eyes rake over me. He grins sardonically and says, “Honestly, you’re not my type.” His frank eyes don’t leave mine and I can feel my chin jut out as I try to pretend that his words didn’t feel like a slap to my face. “No offense,” he adds, as an afterthought.

“Glad it’s mutual,” I scoff.

He runs a hand over his face. “Look, I’ve given you everything you’ve asked for. Stop making excuses. Come to Malibu. Write the screenplay. Let’s see if we can get past that.” He puts his sunglasses on. “You’ve made a lot of demands. I’ve met them all. It’s time for you to deliver.” He turns to walk down the steps. I watch his long, denim clad legs eating up my pavement. Just as he reaches his car—which looks like something from the future, all black and smoky gray—he looks over his shoulder at me. I haven’t moved. I’m not sure that I can. His sunglasses are shielding his eyes, but I can still feel them on me and I wish he would just leave.

“Let me know by tomorrow at noon,” he calls. Then he gives me a two-finger salute and pulls away.

I stand there for a few minutes feeling like such a fool. Of course I’m not his type. I don’t know what possessed me to say that. I step back inside and sit down. My taco is soggy and cold, and my margarita is no longer frozen.

I can’t waste food, so I force myself to eat everything and that just sours my mood even further. I decide The Walking Dead can wait and get ready for bed.

As I start to drift into what will prove to be a fitful sleep, I tell myself that I’m going to sleep on it. But my heart knows that I’ve already made a decision. I can’t turn this down because I don’t want to spend a couple of months in Malibu. This is a once in a lifetime chance, and I know it. I’ll call him in the morning and get the ball rolling. I pray I don’t regret it.