Page 26 of Goal Line (Boston Rebels #4)

Chapter Twenty

EVA

“ Y ou know,” Luke says as he holds out his hand and pulls me up from my seat. I come to a stand directly in front of him. “This feels like the perfect place to practice acting like a newlywed couple who can’t keep their hands off each other.”

My breath hitches as my gaze flits around the patio of my favorite Mexican restaurant. The high stucco walls around the perimeter are covered in flowering vines, and wooden tables dot the brick patio beneath string lights. The setting is perfect, except all around us, people are eating their meals.

“I don’t think that the middle of a restaurant, out in the open like this, is the right place,” I say with nervous laughter. Plus, I’m pretty sure my enchilada breath means it’s not the perfect time, either.

Though when, exactly, would be the perfect time to practice? At least here, I won’t try to take it any further like I almost did in that chapel in Vegas.

His throat bobs with a deep swallow, then he tilts his chin and looks at me. “You’re probably right.” Still holding my hand, he leads me to the restaurant’s exit.

Regret flows through me at the missed opportunity, even though the rational part of me knows that kissing him—any more than completely necessary—is a bad idea.

Still, I follow behind him, wondering if I can somehow take him up on his offer without coming across as clingy or desperate.

I want to feel those lips on mine again, so much so that the physical yearning overwhelms me.

I don’t know if these feelings are a result of lying next to him in bed this morning and pretending like I felt nothing, then trying to quell our anxiety about our parents’ reaction by putting our phones on Do Not Disturb while packing up half my apartment?

Or is it the way we’ve been sharing my small studio space all day, constantly bumping into each other while trying not to get too close?

Simply existing next to him now fills me with a nervous energy I haven’t felt around him in a decade. My longing and desire have reached new heights, and I’m starting to ask myself stupid questions like: what’s the point of being married to him if I can’t kiss him whenever I want to?

Because you’re protecting yourself from getting your heart broken, I remind myself. Having that physical connection would make it too easy to convince myself that there were real feelings involved.

But that level of practical reasoning is at war with my desire.

When he places his hand on my lower back, and his fingers make contact with the exposed skin between my waistband and the tie across my mid back, electricity shoots up my spine.

That feeling should be a warning, but instead, it’s a flame that lights an inferno.

“Maybe you’re right,” I say, turning as he guides me onto the sidewalk outside the restaurant. “Maybe we do need to practice...so we’ll know how to keep up appearances?”

“Are you asking me, or telling me?” A slow smile spreads across his beautiful face, and I should take it as another warning—he’s toying with me. I know it, and he knows it, which means he knows that I want him more than I’m letting on.

Shit . I’ve worked too damn hard over the years to hide my attraction to him, and here I am, acting all needy. Don’t risk a lifelong friendship for another kiss.

As if he’s following my thoughts and sees me starting to spiral, he wraps his hand around the back of my neck and pulls me toward him, gently but with determination. He dips his face toward mine and traces the line of my cheekbone with the bridge of his nose, until his lips are right at my ear.

“We wouldn’t want to be unprepared, would we, Evie?”

I swear I could melt from his voice alone. As if he knows he needs to hold me up, his other arm wraps around my hips, anchoring me to him.

“We wouldn’t.” I barely squeak out the words because, with him this close, I’ve suddenly forgotten how to breathe.

“That’s my girl,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at me. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip before he pulls it between his teeth, and the longer he looks at me, the darker his eyes become and the heavier his breathing grows.

For our entire lives, I would’ve described Luke as a nice guy . But absolutely nothing about him looks nice right now— he looks like he can’t wait to devour me. And as his face descends toward mine, something akin to a strangled moan escapes the back of my throat.

Then his lips are on mine and his tongue is invading my mouth, and I push up on my tiptoes to meet him.

His palm is cupping my ass and my arms wrap around his neck.

If I wasn’t still the tiniest bit aware of our surroundings, I’d lift my legs and wrap them around his hips because my core is positively aching for contact. I need that friction...I need him .

He threads his fingers into my hair, cupping the back of my head as he owns my mouth with his tongue. And then some guy says, “Get a room!” as he walks around us entwined on the sidewalk.

Luke pulls back, both of us locking eyes as we stand there, practically panting. And then he tips his head to press a light kiss on my forehead. “I think we’ve got strangers fooled,” he says with a subtle laugh. “Maybe with a little more practice, we’ll be able to convince our families, too.”

“ T he fuck?” Luke’s voice comes from somewhere in my dark apartment.

I reach over and tap my phone screen to discover that it’s four in the morning.

And since I had lain awake for hours, replaying the kiss in my head while convincing myself not to get up and go to Luke, where he was sleeping on the new air mattress, I’ve probably only gotten two hours of sleep at this point.

It sounds like he’s moving furniture. I scoot to the end of my bed and don’t see him anywhere obvious. But when I look to the right, I see him moving some of the boxes we packed up earlier and stacked against the wall next to my kitchen table. What the hell is he doing?

“Luke!” I whisper, even though there’s no reason to be quiet. Everyone in this apartment is now already up.

His back straightens, and he turns toward me. He’s in nothing but form-fitting boxer briefs that show off his muscular thighs and defined abs, because of course I’m waking up to this vision after trying, and failing, to convince myself that I don’t find him attractive in that way.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“What in the world are you doing moving boxes around at 4 a.m.?”

“There’s a noise coming from one of them, and I’m trying to figure out which box so I can make it fucking stop.” He sounds so annoyed, I almost laugh, but he’s probably exhausted, just like I am. No one should be up at this hour.

“What kind of noise?” I step down onto the floor and head over to what used to be a neatly stacked pile of boxes.

“Found it!” he says, picking up a box and turning to set it on the kitchen table. “This box is labeled ‘bedroom supplies.’”

If we weren’t standing in a nearly pitch-black room right now, I’m sure he’d notice how the blood just drained from my face. Nooooo. This can’t be happening.

“Oh yeah,” I say, but I’m sure he can tell how strained my voice is. “It’s probably one of the massage tools I use for sore muscles after working out.”

“Why the hell would that be on right now?” he asks, ripping the tape off the top of the box.

I step closer, putting my arm between him and the box. “ You know what, I packed that all up very carefully. Let me take care of it.”

“Hang on, I’ll grab my phone and hold the flashlight up so you can find it more easily,” he says, stepping away as he heads toward the living room to get his phone.

Oh god, no. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, so instead, I reach into the bigger moving box to find the smaller decorative box that contains my collection of sex toys, which I know are the only things that could be making that pulsing sound.

“I don’t need a flashlight, it’s fine,” I say, hoping that for once his “I need to help everyone” instinct will just chill the fuck out.

No such luck. He starts walking back toward me with his phone, saying, “It’ll be easier to find it if you’re not fishing around in the dark.”

“I’m good,” I say as I flip open the lid of the decorative box and wrap my fingers around the offending vibrator.

“Don’t be silly,” he says, tapping his screen so the back of his phone lights up.

My hand shoots out to block the light. “Stop right there,” I say, and he freezes. I’m sure my face is bright red, and my embarrassment is on full display under the bright light he’s shining right at me.

“Why?” he asks, his voice tinged with suspicion.

I don’t blame him; I’m acting highly suspect.

But if he takes even two steps closer, he’s going to see exactly what’s in my hand below the open flaps of the cardboard moving box.

Since I’m so lost in panic that I don’t respond, he presses, “What’s in the box, Evie? ”

I can tell by his teasing tone that he’s got ideas, and I certainly don’t want to confirm his suspicions.

“A lot of stuff you don’t need to see,” I say, looking down at the silicone dildo pulsing in my hand. I move my thumb over the button at the end, and my anxiety decreases when the sound stops.

“What kind of stuff?”

With a huff, I set the toy down and flip the lid back on. “Let’s just go back to sleep.”

He turns off the flashlight, and his deep chuckle fills the space. “Maybe you should just tell me what that was so I don’t keep myself awake wondering?”

I fold the flaps of the moving box shut and glance up at him. “I told you. It was a massage tool. There was just other stuff in the box I didn’t want you to see.”

“Uh huh,” he says, eyes narrowed on me as he steps closer.

My swallow sounds like a gulp in the space that’s now frustratingly silent, and then the fucking vibrator starts doing its thing again inside the damn box. Kill me now , I think, wishing the floor would just open up and swallow me.

“Can you take the batteries out?” Luke asks with a laugh.

I wish. “It’s rechargeable.”

At least I can hide my embarrassment in the darkness.

“Maybe you just need to use it until the battery dies, then? Need anything massaged?”

I can tell he’s trying not to laugh as he teases me, and I’m beyond mortified. “I’m just going to throw this whole box in the dumpster in the parking lot.” I bend to wrap my arms around the box. “Be right back.”

Luke’s hand slams down on top of the box before I can pick it up. “You’re not supposed to lift anything heavier than twenty pounds.”

I roll my eyes as I stand, leaving the box on the table.

He wouldn’t let me lift a single box while we were packing, not even the light ones.

“You’re taking this a bit far,” I say, my irritation growing with every pulsating vibration that comes from the box sitting on the table between us.

“Stop treating me like I can’t do anything. ”

His voice is gentle when he says, “Hey, twenty pounds is the limit. We can’t have you potentially injuring Baby Squash.”

I move his hand off the top of the box with an annoyed sigh. I want to be done with this conversation so I can crawl back into bed, bury my head in my pillows, and dream that I live in a world where this entire interaction never took place.

Opening the flaps of the moving box, I pull out the decorative box inside. The pulsing is embarrassingly loud in the silence as we stare at each other. “Fine, I’ll just throw this box away, then.”

I set it on my hip as I use my other hand to close the flaps of the larger box—not that there’s actually anything else in there that I don’t want him to see—and then head to my front door.

“I’ll do it for you,” Luke says, coming up next to me as I slip my feet into my flip-flops.

“No!” I don’t mean to snap at him, but my response comes out harsher than I intend. I just need to get this box out of here and away from him.

He holds his hands up and takes a step back in response. “I really don’t want you walking through a parking lot by yourself in the middle of the night. ”

“Luke, I’ve lived here by myself for years. The parking lot is well lit. I’ll be fine.”

“At least take a sweatshirt. It’s cold out there.”

“I’m fine,” I grumble as I turn the deadbolt, knowing he’s going to watch me like a guard dog until I return.

And with that, I step onto the walkway outside my front door and follow it to the parking lot.

But damn if he isn’t right. Summer nights in LA usually dip into the mid- to low-sixties, and in my shorts, tank top, and flip-flops, I’m shivering by the time I reach the dumpster.

Heaving the top open above my head, I toss the box in as far toward the back corner as it will go.

Not that I think Luke’s going to come looking to see what’s in that box, but. ..just in case.

As I turn and run back across the parking lot, sure enough, Luke is standing there in the open doorway.

He’s leaning up against the frame with his arms crossed against his bare upper body.

And if the cut muscles of his abdomen and chest, and the tattoos wrapping around his muscular upper arms, didn’t stop me in my tracks, the look on his face would.

“What’s wrong?”

His voice is grim. “AJ called.”