Page 34 of Relationship Goals

My eyes go wide, and I purse my lips, trying to breathe through this embarrassing free fall.

“Why is it you have to be up early tomorrow?” he asks. His big hand leaves my back as he begins unpacking the bag full of food. Every movement is economical, not one shred of energy wasted.

I’m staring.

Whew. I went from being convinced Luke Wolfe was a total jerk to crushing hard on him in the span of just a few hours. Fickle, thy name is Abigail Hunt.

“Pilates,” I finally blurt out. “It’s a one-on-one, and if I’m late, my instructor will kick my ass even harder than usual.”

He grunts.

“I know what that means,” I tell him, tapping the side of my cheek.

He pushes a plastic tub of food toward me, along with a set of plasticware wrapped neatly in a thick paper napkin. I pop the lid off and grin at him, the food still steaming.

“What?” he asks.

“Your grunt.” I nod to myself.

He raises an eyebrow, and I settle in on one of the counter stools at my kitchen island, forking some of the pasta into my mouth. Still delicious. It feels more casual to sit here than at the bigger table behind us, like this is some illicit, stolen moment, and I smile as I chew.

“What does it mean?”

I grin at him.

“That grunt meant you feel my pain.” I lower my voice, doing my best Luke Wolfe impression. “Pilates instructors demanding five a.m.workouts are clearly part of the devil’s entourage in the fifth circle of hell. Dante himself wrote about it.”

He bursts out laughing, disbelief wrinkling his brow. He perches next to me on the barstool, his elbow brushing mine as he studies me. “Is that what I sound like?”

I chew slowly, thinking it over before nodding serenely. “Absolutely. That was a spot-on impression. I am an actress, after all.” I pretend flip my hair over one shoulder, then squeal as my stool rocks backward, threatening to spill me and my pasta all over the floor.

A strong hand wraps around my waist, and the chair rocks forward again before settling on all four legs.

“I’ve got you, Abigail.” Luke’s deep voice sends a shiver down my spine.

Oooh-wee, am I ever in trouble. I shove some more food in my mouth to keep from trying to shove him in my mouth.

“I might not be able to give my blessing to that impression of me, though.”

I peer at him. “Was it the Pilates instructor slander?”

“No, I’ve been to Pilates. It was…much harder than it should have been.” His thick brows furrow at the memory, and then he lets out a rough laugh. “It was my first pro season. They hired a few different fitness instructors to work on our mobility. That whole season was a fucking eye-opener.” He shakes his head, taking a bite.

I laugh, because it’s all too easy to imagine those guys from the LA Aces I met today crying during a Pilates session.

He grins at me, then motions for me to eat, and I’m only too happy to oblige.

The food is really good, true cheesy, creamy, carb-eriffic goodness, and we eat in that same companionable silence that settles over us.

That, more than my outsize physical attraction to him, is what has me on high alert.

Like the silence is some glimpse into a hazy crystal ball of my future, of what could be with him. Not just the potential for hot sex—which, yes, please—but theeaseof this. The effortlessness.

I don’t feel the need to pretend. To be Abigail Hunt, actress. To be onstage and entertain at a moment’s notice.

We can just sit and eat, and he’s not trying to play six degrees of Kevin Bacon with me, or preening and looking at his reflection in the cutlery, or any of the other weirdness I’ve experienced in the last few years of my woefully sad love life.

Easy.