Page 21 of Relationship Goals

He studies me, his lips a thin line, like he doesn’t know what to make of me.

Well, that makes two of us. Odd couple, indeed.

“Maybe I should bring a nutcracker in case things get dicey,” I mumble out loud.

“What?” he asks, taken aback.

“Nothing! Just need my purse,” I say, holding up a finger and rushing out of the kitchen. Racing back to my room, it takes me a second to find it underneath a snug-fitting chocolate-brown dress I discarded on my pillows.

“There you are,” I tell it.

“Holy shit.”

I yelp, turning around to find Luke standing in my doorway, his eyes wide. “Does your room always look like a tornado came through?”

“Yep. I like to sleep in a pile of clothes. Makes me feel warm and cozy. Like a bird in a nest.”

The look he gives me is so incredulous that I can’t help laughing.

“I’m kidding. I couldn’t figure out what to wear, and I wanted to look nice for you…” Oh god, stop me now.

Disbelief is etched on his face. “But you’re already gorgeous.”

“You’re sweet.” I grin like a fool at him.

“That’s a fucking lie.” He barks a laugh.

“Fine.” A laugh bubbles out of me, too, and we stand there for a minute, grinning at each other. “That was sweet of you to say,” I clarify.

He makes a low noise of assent.

I clear my throat, putting the thin purse strap over my shoulder and scooching past him out my bedroom door.

“Seems like we’ve both given tours today,” I tell him, snagging my sandals from where I dropped them on the floor and carefully tugging them on.

“My tour wasn’t very good.”

“And my bedroom wasn’t very clean,” I counter.

He grins at me, and some of that glacial blue in his eyes melts away. “Fine. We’re even.”

“Even,” I agree. “Should we go get some food now? I have an early day tomorrow.”

“Food.” He nods, and I follow him out of my house, locking the door behind me.

It’s kind of amazing how he can make one word seem like an effort. I don’t mind it, though. There are so many hyperverbal people in my life already, so many friends who need constant reassuranceand constant conversation and constant approval, that his silence is…welcome.

It’s not cold, not like I thought it would be. It’s just…quiet. My brain is so noisy and loud all the time, it feels like there are thirteen hamsters running on rainbow-colored wheels while Queen croons a duet with Britney Spears. But he’s calm, self-assured, and I start to wonder if some of that asshole behavior he’s known for is just because he’s introverted.

I mean, he is kind of an asshole, but…one who brings me flowers, one who holds the door to his sleek black car open for me. It’s not flashy, like what I expected a star soccer player to drive, but it is nice. Understated. Elegant.

“Thanks,” I say, sliding in as he grunts in acknowledgment.

I sigh. Maybe Jean is right and I’m too trusting. Maybe I should have taken my own car.

Except…Ihatedriving.

He gets in the driver seat, and another truth hits me. I hate first dates. I don’t like small talk.