Page 31 of Relationship Goals

Did she say that because she’s thinking about…sex? With me?

I shake my head, frowning, because no. I’m not going to evenentertain the thought of that. This is already…complicated enough with her.

It wouldn’t be if I didn’t like her—but I do.

Abigail Hunt is the stuff dreams are made of—she’s beautiful, yes, but she’s also funny and feisty andreal.

Meanwhile, I’m the jackass taking her out to appease the LA Aces owners so they cut my contract short and allow me to be traded back home.

I’m using her already.

I don’t get to eventhinkabout making it worse for us both.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice small, barely audible through the sounds of classical music filling the space between us. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I really don’t know why I said it like that.”

I glance sidelong at her, and her face is so full of regret, her eyes wide and watery, that I’m reaching out to squeeze her hand before I’ve fully realized I’m doing it.

“I’m fine.” Two words that barely convey what I’m thinking. Two words that if anyone else said it to me, I wouldn’t believe the shit that came out of their mouth afterward. Ahead, red lights flash as a Suburban slams on the brakes and I slow down, glancing back at her.

Her nose is wrinkled, a faraway expression on her face. “Sometimes I get a kick out of being, well, ridiculous, but I honestly didn’t mean to say something so sexual.”

“Abigail, the only reason I’m uncomfortable is because now I’m thinking about touching you. Which is a problem because I’m trying to be a gentleman on our first date.” The words come out rough, unpolished, and I look back at the traffic ahead of us nearly immediately.

The music ends on a long violin note, and then silence expands.

“Oh,” she finally says. “I like that you are trying to be a gentleman.” Her voice is soft, and again, I’m struck with howrealshe is,how vivid—like everyone else is in black and white and she’s the Technicolor rainbow after a storm.

“I like…,” she starts, but she trails off.

Fuck. Now I’m thinking about whether she likes the idea of me touching her, too. If she’s also thinking about me touching her.

I am not a fucking gentleman, or I wouldn’t be so suddenly obsessed with the idea. A fucking gentleman wouldn’t have agreed to trick her into dating him, either.

“Don’t worry about it,” I force out, just to say something to her.

I should tell her now. I should come clean, admit that the owners told me to date her.

“Thank you, by the way,” she says. “For asking me out. I know it wasn’t…a normal date.” She purses her lips, her mismatched eyes so wide and full of hope that all notions of coming clean scatter like storm clouds before the sun. “I am still glad you asked me out, though.” Her fingers unbuckle the metal clasp on her small purse, then refasten it, the metal clinking against itself as she unbuckles it again.

“I’m glad you said yes,” I say, surprised into honesty.

When she smiles at me, wide, it hits me like a ton of bricks. I can’t tell her. I can’t come clean.

I won’t ruin that look of hope in her eyes.

She doesn’t need to know.

I’ll finish out this date, then I’ll let her down easy tomorrow. The owners won’t be able to deny that I tried. Hell, the paparazzi showed up to our date. If that’s not enough press for them, then they can get fucked.

I kissed her. She kissed me back, and there’s photographic evidence to prove it.

And now I’m thinking about holding her tight little body against mine again, kissing her until she goes soft and pliant in my arms.

Until she moans my fucking name and begs for more.

“You don’t look glad,” she says, a teasing lilt to her voice, her pretty lips quirked in a half smile. “You look pissed off.”

“That’s just my face,” I tell her. The GPS tells me to exit the highway, so I make my way through the sea of cars, grateful to have an excuse to stop thinking about the shitty situation I’ve put her in.