Page 18 of I Can't Help It

I hold back a curse. “Well, I guess we should go.”

She must’ve been looking at the ground or something because her head shoots up at my words. “Oh, yeah, I’m ready if you are.”

Nope, I’m still not ready. I doubt that I’ll even be ready once this trip is over.

However, I ignore the feeling and slip past her. Then I open the passenger door.

I don’t know how she does it, but she manages to bite her lip while also flashing a smile at me. “Thanks, Luke.”

And while my brain is trying to process what just happened, I can’t help but notice the way her shorts ride up ever so slightly as she gets into the car.

I notice so bad that it hurts.

Frick.

SAY SOMETHING TO HER.

I mumble a hasty “no prob” before closing the door, and then I step aside so she can’t see my exasperation.

This is a work trip, and ONLY a work trip. You need to treat Ava like you would treat any other coworker.

But deep down, I already know it’s way too late for that.

A QUESTION LIST

Ava

I caught a glimpse of the Promised Land! And guess what?

It. Is. Beautiful.

When Luke reached up to close the car’s hatch, his long-sleeved shirt lifted just enough for me to see a partial sideview of his—COUGH—well-defined torso. And while my eyes have been blessed, I can’t decide if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that he didn’t notice me looking.

Speaking of looking, that talk I had with Aunt Kat before I came out here?

It was mostly her fangirling over the way Luke and I couldn’t keep our eyes off each other when we were inside the house. She also kept blabbing about how “sweet” and “attractive” he is. That’s obviously old news to me, but I still agreed with her 110% while I tugged on my beige, small-heeled boots.

Luke is the whole package. Also, I probably should’ve mentioned that his shirt is a crimson kind of color, and he made a solid choice when he decided to wear it today.

He joins me in the car after what feels like a thousand lifetimes, and I look at him expectantly. “So, where are we going?”

If we throw in a monkey sidekick, a talking backpack, and a few claps—you could call me Dora.

“Oh, that’s right,” he drawls, buckling his seatbelt, “you don’t know our destination yet.”

“Nope,” I say as he turns the car on, “because someone has decided to keep me in suspense.”

He proceeds to tsk. “What a jerk.”

Far from it.

I don’t think Luke has a single jerk-like atom in his gorgeous body.

“The jerk brought some breakfast though.” He nods toward the paper bag sitting on the console, and then backs out of my driveway. “In case you didn’t get to eat.”

See? If you looked up the word “jerk” in a dictionary, Luke’s picture would be there.

But onlyyyyyy because the definition would be: a jerk is someone who DOES NOT look like this guy.

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