Page 73 of Relationship Goals

I’m at Luke’s house. That’s a fluffy street kitten attacking me, not a nightmare Furby.

I slept over, and all we did was cuddle, take care of the gremlin attached to my arm, and chat.

“Hey, I’m sorry, the kitten, Princess, I mean, she’s—”

He pulls me tighter, and I melt into him, the cat leaping off me to chase something I can’t see.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice hoarse with sleep, even deeper than usual.

Fucking delicious, to be perfectly honest.

“Hi,” I repeat, breathless and aware of him.

Not even a second later, my phone alarm goes off, and I bolt upright, nearly smashing his nose with my elbow.

“Whew, that was close, I nearly made you say your safe word.”

“Anaphylactic shock?”

“Is that what it is?” I ask, my heart hammering from the immediate anxiety my phone alarm caused. Doesn’t matter what ringtone I pick, doesn’t matter if I set it to play goddamn Enya, it’s going to start the day with a panic attack.

“You okay?” He sits all the way up from where we’d ended up crashing on the couch, and…he took his shirt off in the middle of the night.

Oh. Oh my god.

“Uh,” I say, staring openly at his chest.

It’s quite a chest.

Like, a fucking treasure of a chest made with me, personally, in mind. His abs are cut—like absurdly defined—which does make sense, considering he’s a pro athlete and his whole job is being in superhuman physical condition. His pecs are delish, not too developed, but strong, lean muscle that all tapers to a set of scrumptious-looking hip bones.

There’s a tattoo that winds across his side, and I want to lick it.

Start the day brushing teeth? Nope, straight to tattoo licking, like a normal human.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, the muscles in his arm standing out as he rubs one hand behind his neck sleepily. “You have a weird look on your face.”

“I was objectifying you,” I say honestly. My palm smacks my face.Toohonestly. A noise likeerghcomes out of me, and then, to top it all off, my stomach growls.

“It turns out I like being objectified by you.”

I peek at the LA Wolf from behind my fingers, embarrassed and starving and anxious about getting to Pilates on time so my instructor doesn’t literally kick my ass with the reformer—and pleased.

No matter what part of my utterly nonsensical self I show Luke, he doesn’t shy away or cringe.

It’s a new experience. Brand-new.

I routinely embarrassed my ex-boyfriend, and I tried to shove allthe strange, incongruous pieces of myself into a nice shiny dress and smile so hard no one noticed how much it hurt. He always told me that no one cared if I hurt, anyway. He certainly didn’t.

The worst part was, I thought we at least were friends. That hurt the most—when I was forced to realize he hadn’t ever been my friend. Not one bit.

My chest heaves as I take a deep breath, banishing the thoughts of him.

He doesn’t deserve any space in my present. Or something like what my therapist told me to say to myself when I start spiraling.

“You just shut down,” Luke says, rubbing the top of my thigh. “Talk to me.”

At some point in the night, I must have pulled my boots off, because all I have on now are the fluffiest pair of socks I own to make the boots fit better.

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