Page 43 of Relationship Goals

Michelle’s seated in a small room on the side of the restaurant, and the lunchtime crowd doesn’t bother clocking me as I walk past, too busy on their phones or working on their laptops.

I’m used to being recognized, but I still heave a sigh of relief when no one stops me as the hostess leads me to her table.

“Abigail,” Michelle says, a wide smile spreading across her face. She’s impeccably dressed, in a cream silk blouse with a little bow at the collar and sleek denim trousers.

“Hey, hi,” I tell her breathlessly. I’m wearing my favorite underrated band T-shirt and denim cutoffs with sandals, and though I’m comfortable, I feel sloppy next to her. “I should have dressed up.” I gesture at her and then myself.

“Please, you look great. I have to go work at an office where I cancount the number of women on one hand. You don’t. Trust me, I don’t dress like this all the time.” She shakes her head ruefully, and I file that factoid away for later. “So…”

“I know, I know.” I hold up a hand as I sit, trying to stave off the inevitable torrent of questions I’m sure are coming about Luke and me. “As you know, I kissed Luke Wolfe. Yes, he’s a good kisser. No, it wasn’t a PR stunt. And, yes, I would like to see him again. Yes, I also like him.”

She blinks at me, her glossy dark brown ponytail slipping over her shoulder as she leans forward. “What?!”

“You weren’t going to…” I stare at her.

She stares at me.

“You weren’t going to interrogate me?” I finally finish.

Guitar music fills her stunned silence, and a waiter rushes over with a pitcher of water and a fancy marble slab laden with bread and artistically sculpted butter that neither of us touch.

Yet. I have my eye on that sourdough.

“Well, I wanted to hear about it, but you don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to,” she manages, finally coming out of what I can only assume is preemptive oversharing-induced shock.

“Oh. Well.” I close one eye, but it doesn’t help the situation any. Sighing, I grab the sourdough and destroy the rose-shaped butter sculpture as I glob it on the top. “My Pilates teacher wouldn’t stop asking me about it. My agent wants to have a”—I put my fingers up in air quotes—“ ‘war room’ about how to handle it, and my parents sent me the pictures of us kissing, asking when they get to meet him.” I wince at that.

I always seem to forget that my shenanigans get back to my parents’ small town. LA can be a weird golden sunshiny bubble, and I don’t know why I forget that bubbles are totally permeable and that if I kiss Luke Wolfe in front of a dozen paparazzi, my mom is going to see it.

I’m pretty sure my sister taught her how to set up a Google Alert for my name.

Traitor.

“Oof.” Michelle takes a slice of pumpernickel, using one of the cute little rabbit-topped butter knives to spread a bit on it. She even bites into it elegantly, and if I didn’t like her, I might be a bit intimidated by her. Everything about her just screams poise.

Everything about me seems to scream “hot mess,” and I’m not sure that’ll ever change.

I sigh, slumping into the low-backed wicker bistro chair. The floor tiles are tiny black-and-white octagons interspersed here and there with gold. It’s adorable and, like Michelle, also more put together than I will ever manage.

“It was a good kiss?” she asks, more curious than anything.

“Huh?” I glance up from the floor to her. “Yes.” I sigh again. “It was a great kiss, and then he kissed me again when we went back to my place—”

She holds up a French-manicured hand, her eyebrows skirting her hairline. “He went back to your place?” She leans forward.

My hand shakes slightly as I grab the sweating pitcher, and ice tinkles into the charming floral-patterned glass. “He did, but it wasn’t like that, you know? We wanted to finish our meal without the paparazzi. My house was nearby, and…” I shrug, setting the pitcher back down. “It wasn’t like that! We just chatted, and then we danced in my kitchen, and you know, then we kissed, and then he left.” God, I’m blushing again. Damn my stupid fair skin.

“He left,” she repeats, the question implicit.

The cup is cool against my palms, and I resist the urge to put it against my flushed cheeks.

“He left,” I agree.

“You’re bright red,” Michelle comments. “What happened?” She narrows her eyes, her grip on the butter knife suddenly alarming.

“The thing that happened that I didn’t want to happen was him leaving,” I blurt out.

“Oh.” She replaces the butter knife on the marble slab. “Okay, then.”