Page 59 of Relationship Goals

That makes me laugh, and an evil little smile curls my lips. “No…unless?”

“No,” Michelle says decisively. “Absolutely not.”

“I was just kidding,” I say on a laugh.

“Mmm-hmmm.” She cocks an eyebrow, and I think we both know that I’m unpredictable enough that her worry was warranted.

A wave of disappointment in myself washes over me. Everyone thinks I’m an impulsive fuckup because Iamone.

I just won’t talk about this project. I’ll keep my mouth shut about work. I’ll stick to the script. I don’t have to say anything.

Maybe getting involved with Luke was a mistake.

The mere thought makes my chest tighten up.

Michelle’s still watching me carefully, so I give her a wan smile before I head out of the box and to the seats in front of it. Deliciouslywarm sun heats my cold skin immediately, and I sigh, tilting my face up to the cloud-dotted sky above.

In the distance, the LA hills live up to their icon status, the picturesque panoramic view easing some of my anxiety.

I am here not as Abigail Hunt, wannabe Oscar winner. I’m here as a fan to support a guy I’m dating.

I’m dating Luke Wolfe.

The simple thought makes me smile, and I scooch down to the middle seat and settle in, ignoring the calls of some of the more determined photographers below.

Tonight, I can just exist, hang out with Michelle, and try to forget all the Hollywood pressures as I cheer for Luke and the Aces.

I can just be me. The real me.

On the field below, the players are jogging around, warming up and chatting. Luke’s easy to spot with his dark hair and huge stature, and he mostly keeps to himself as he stretches, which is no big surprise.

He looks good enough to eat.

“Foods here,” Michelle says, and for a second, I think I’ve spoken aloud, until she makes her way to the seat next to me, handing me a cold beer in a plastic cup and a boat of fries swimming in cheese and topped with bacon and green onions.

“Thanks,” I say.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m good,” I reassure her. I like Michelle, I respect her, but at the end of the day, it’s hard to know who to trust here, and I’m not about to unload my panicky thoughts to her and simply hope she won’t sell them to the tabloids.

Instead, I paste on my biggest grin and swig from the cup before setting it next to me and digging into the gooey perfection that is the cheese fries.

“They’re battered?” I say through a mouthful, my eyes rolling back in my head in bliss. “These are so good.”

“Right? Not bad for stadium food. That was one of my major suggestions when I came on board.”

“To batter the cheese fries? I didn’t know your job required you to make those kinds of calls.” I’m only half serious, and she laughs.

“No, just to upgrade the food in general. Have some more of the normal things like nachos and hot dogs, but offer a few stands that are more upscale and have the prices to match.”

“You did good,” I tell her, and I mean it. “These are delicious.”

I shove a few more fries in my mouth, then remember I have an audience with cameras pointed at me, and decide I’d rather not be plastered all over the internet later with commenters picking apart my eating habits.

“There were a lot of little ways to make the organization more profitable, cut some of the unnecessary spend, you know.” Michelle’s scrolling through her emails, and I try not to read over her shoulder.

Nosy habits die hard.

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