Page 24 of Relationship Goals

He stares at her for a long second, and I see the exact moment he recognizes her, delight flashing in his eyes.

“You’re Abigail Hunt, the TV star!” He exhales noisily, clapping his hands together.

“Starmight be a stretch,” she says, laughing, and the table jangles more as she bounces her leg harder.

“Mateo, can you bring us tonight’s specials? And a bottle of red.Unless you like white?” Shit, maybe I shouldn’t have ordered for her. Maybe I should have let her have more time. Fuck.

I tug at my collar, impossibly uncomfortable. I should have worn sweats, like I usually do.

“For Abigail Hunt and the LA Wolf? I will bring red and white. Whatever you want.”

Abigail smiles, thanking him, a vein jumping in her temple. The candle on the table gutters, and she grabs the red mercury glass jar, turning it around and around.

I glare at Mateo. Can’t he see he’s making her uncomfortable? Jesus. I brought her here so she could just have a low-key night. So I could do the bare minimum required by Charles and fucking company and still get a good meal out of it.

“Thanks, Mateo. Go away, Mateo.”

At that, he snorts, used to my shit, and finally saunters off, greeting a few other tables of diners, and I scowl as he points over to us, the other tables staring at us with pointed interest.

“I shouldn’t have brought you here,” I manage.

“Why?” She stares at me with luminous, mismatched eyes. “You must like this place if you come here so often.”

“Mateo’s nosy.”

“I’m used to it. It’s part of the whole…thing, right? Like, I have an incredible job. People recognizing me sometimes comes part and parcel with it.” She shrugs one shoulder. “You know how it is.”

“That’s a rehearsed answer.”

“I like people,” Abigail says, playing with the white linen napkin in her lap. The table’s stopped jumping, at least.

“Yeah, well, I fucking hate them,” I say. “Fame is stupid.”

A pot of mussels arrives, along with a bottle of white wine in a silver wine chiller. Thankfully, the waiter doesn’t do more than blink at both of us before pouring the wine, leaving us with a loaf of crusty bread for the mussels.

“I love mussels and white wine,” she says.

“Are you just saying that?” I peer at her.

“Yeah, I’m actually allergic to shellfish.” She winks at me, ripping a piece of bread off and dipping it in the steaming pot. “But I’m going to pretend just so you like me.”

“Then we’re about to have a very interesting night,” I tell her, putting a few mussels on a plate for her and a few on mine.

“Yeah, I can’t wait to go to the ER. I’m going to pretend you’re my secret husband, and then we’ll leak the news of our wedding to the press.” She says it all so smoothly that I’m entirely unsure if she’s joking or not.

My throat gets tight at the thought of all that unnecessary drama.

“Secret husband?” I manage.

“Yeah, can you imagine the headlines?” She lets out a delicate snort, spearing the meat inside the black shell and taking a tiny bite.

“God,” I say. It sounds like a nightmare. “You’re not really allergic, are you?”

She winks at me, picking up her wineglass and swirling it around before taking a small sip. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Yeah, if I’m going to have to fucking take you to the ER and watch you tell everyone we’re married, then I would absolutely like to know.”

“Who doesn’t love a good mystery?” she asks, taking another sip. “Have you read anything good lately?”

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