Page 32 of Relationship Goals

I just won’t call her again after tonight. Problem solved.

She deserves someone better than me, anyway.

Chapter Eight

Abigail

Luke parks inthe long driveway in front of my house, the rest of our ride home mostly silent.

It was nice—companionable silence.

Weirdly, I didn’t feel the need to fill it with endless chatter. I wasn’t even anxious about the awful LA traffic like I usually am. I felt safe with Luke at the wheel—he didn’t try anything macho or stupid or risky.

He kept glancing over at me, too, like he wanted to make sure I was okay when I wouldn’t stop messing with the clasp on my purse.

Now he’s walking around the front of his car, and I start to open my door, feeling silly for sitting there and remembering the way he felt on my lips instead of moving.

I wonder if he’s still thinking about our little public display of affection, too.

Luke beats me to the door, the scent of his spicy cologne lingering. “Let me get that for you.”

His voice is like silken sandpaper on my overstimulated nerves, and goose bumps pebble across my arms.

I blink up at him, his big body filling the space…until my stomach growls.

“Oh, the food,” I say, but he’s already reaching over me, grabbing the large paper bag of food from the back seat.

His chest brushes against my shoulder, and I inhale deeply, surprised by how much his proximity affects me. He smells sogood. Heat rises in my cheeks, and he carefully pulls the bag out, setting it on the ground next to the car.

When he looks back at me, a palm outstretched to help me out of the car, something’s changed in his eyes, too.

All his intensity, the kind that’s made him infamous on the soccer field, is focused on me now.

Oh. Oh wow.

For a split second, my brain skips ahead to a new possibility: of pulling his collar down to me again, of plastering my lips against his, until he carries me inside my house and ravages me all night.

Instead, I blow out the breath I’ve been holding since he leaned across me to grab the Italian food and take his hand. His eyes hold mine, pupils dilating, and all I can do is stare up at him, stunned.

It feelselectric. Raw and powerful, like pure energy.

This. This is what people mean when they talk about chemistry.

I make myself step out of the car, overwhelmed by whatever just passed between us, and drop his hand.

Without a word, Luke turns and strides to the doorway, his long legs eating up the ground. Every bit of the man is like a piece of art, like some sculptor’s soccer Michelangelo, every muscle and plane of his body in tune with each other.

I need to get a hold of myself.

I am really, really freaking attracted to him.

“Get a grip, Abigail,” I mutter under my breath. We kissed, yes. It was a great kiss, yes.

It was for the paparazzi.

Luke Wolfe does not strike me as the kind of man to have a casualfling. I purse my lips, making my feet move toward the door of my house.

No, Luke Wolfe would be a force of nature, and there wouldn’t be anything remotely flingy about it.