Page 22 of Relationship Goals

All of a sudden, my anxiety crashes into me like a tsunami, overpowering and threatening to tow me under.

“You all right?” he asks, carefully pulling the car onto the road.

I can’t stop twisting the strap of my purse. The urge to pick my cuticles is strong, too, but I settle for bouncing my foot on the floorboard, knowing I can’t afford to have fucked-up fingernails.

I can’t afford to be anything less than pretty and pleasant and perfect if I want to get my career back on track. Especially in front of the paparazzi.

“Yes,” I say on an exhale, and it’s a lie. Double inhale, long exhale.

“You don’t sound all right.”

“I will be,” I reassure him, but my usual smile falters and he shoots me a concerned look.

I don’t think a total douche canoe would have noticed anything, which means that Luke Wolfe isn’t quite the toolbag he seems to be.

I knew it.

“My sister gets panic attacks,” he says, his voice low and reassuring as he pulls into traffic seamlessly, even though LA traffic makes me want to scream.

“I don’t,” I tell him too quickly. The last thing I need is for a rumor to get out about how I’m high-strung and anxious and prone to panic attacks. “I’m sorry about your sister, though. That must be hard.”

He arches an eyebrow. “You don’t.”

It’s a statement, not a question, and I relax. This isn’t a test. This isn’t an interview with some reporter trying to make a name for themselves by slandering mine. This is just…a first date.

Which is kind of a test and an interview all in one, but for fun. Right.

“I don’t. What kind of music do you like?”

He goes quiet, and at first, I think he’s just concentrating on navigating the sea of vehicles. Someone honks as he changes lanes, and I expect an outburst from the so-called Wolf of the Aces, a middle finger at the very least, but he just stays silent.

“I take it you don’t listen to the sounds of LA traffic to relax?”

“You can’t laugh at me,” he says gruffly.

I blink. “Like, ever?” Now that’s a bright crimson flag I can’t ignore—

“No, at the kind of music I like.”

“I won’t,” I promise, grinning. “Lemme guess, you only listen to Gregorian chanting.Sesame Streeton repeat. A heavy metal band called Hell’s Octopus.”

He flicks a button on his steering wheel, and the next minute, the familiar strains of classical music fill the car. Cello.

“Listening to Yo-Yo Ma is hardly something I would make fun of you for.” I pause, considering. “Now, if you could onlyget offwhile listening to Yo-Yo Ma,thatwould be weird, but—”

“Do you have a filter at all?” he asks, gaze skimming over me as he turns right onto a shaded side street.

“No?” I shrug one shoulder. “I mean, it would be easier if I did. My agent, Jean, probably wouldn’t be giving herself an ulcer over trying to control my interview damage. But it’s not like you have one, either,” I say, and Luke grunts.

“Yeah, because it’s too much fucking work to be nice.” He cuts his gaze to me again. “Not because I bring up masturbation habits out of nowhere.”

“Oh.” I scrunch my nose. “Good point. It was just a joke. Sorry if I offended you.” I give him a sly side-eye. “Especially if you do have to listen to Yo-Yo Ma to get off.”

“I do not have to listen to Yo-Yo Ma to get off,” he says, shaking his head. “I can’t believe I am even saying that out loud. You’re a trip.”

“In a good way or a bad way?” I counter. “Like a trip to an island? Or a trip toRikersIsland? Or—”

“Neither,” he says, shaking his head as he pulls the car into a spot in front of a little place with a red-and-white-striped awning.