Page 30 of Relationship Goals

Between kissing Luke Wolfe (exactly as delectable as I imagined) and making him really laugh (even better), I don’t even mind the paparazzi.

I can’t remember the last time I was this relaxed around them.

Maybe I should try kissing him again.

He squeezes my waist, leading me to his car, as butterflies dance in my stomach, and I can’t help hoping I get the chance to kiss him again.

Chapter Seven

Luke

The second Abigailplugs her phone into the aux, I let out a groan. She laughs, the flashbulbs of the paparazzi still going off outside the car, and I can’t do more than shake my head in amusement as the sound of a masterfully played cello sings through the car’s speakers.

“I assume this is your guy Yo-Yo Ma?” I ask, pulling into the bumper-to-bumper traffic that helps make LA the hellhole it is.

“Uh-oh,” she squeals. “Your safe word. Should I turn it off?”

I can’t help the low laugh that ripples out of me. “No. I’ve never listened to him before.”

“Don’t lie. Your secret is safe with me.”

“It’s not a secret if you just made it up,” I retort, weaving into the left lane.

She falls silent, and I sneak a peek at her face, worried I’ve offended her. No, she’s smiling softly, her eyes closed. The white paper bag full of food sits on the back seat, the aroma of garlic and butter filling the car.

Her face is lovely in repose, relaxed, skin glowing in the dim light. Maybe I have a one-track mind, maybe I shouldn’t have let her joke about masturbating to cello music all night, but fuck me if I can’t stop wondering about what she looks like when she comes.

Or maybe it’s the fact that I want to see it for myself.

The way she melted against me outside the restaurant, the taste of wine on her lips and tongue, the scent of her perfume and shampoo and all the other little things that overwhelmed my senses…

I’m intoxicated by her.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” I say.

She cracks an eye, the hazel one. “I’m enjoying the music. I’m surprised you’ve never listened to this.”

“You were too invested in fantasizing about me to ask what I actually listen to.”

“Fantasizing, huh?”

“I don’t blame you,” I tell her. “Everyone does.” It’s patently false, but I think it will make her laugh, and when she does, I feel like I’ve won a prize.

“Well, Mr. Wolfe, what do you listen to?” she asks.

“Vivaldi,” I deadpan. It’s the only classical composer I can think of, and as I hoped, her laughter fills the car.

“Which season is your favorite?”

“Soccer,” I say easily, passing a black sedan with one headlight out.

She snorts. “I meant of theVivaldiseasons. You know, more cello, violins, et cetera…not balls.” She looks back down at the phone in her hands, scrolling until she finds what she’s looking for. “Or is there another instrument you would want to finger?”

My jaw drops.

Abigail barks out a laugh, her eyebrows practically disappearing into her strawberry-blond hair in surprise. “I didn’t mean it like that, oh my god, I don’t know why I said it like that.”

I’m silent.

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