Page 109 of Relationship Goals

“What are you doing?”

“Ring is stuck,” I say.

He reaches a hand toward me, and I start to flinch away, my heart hammering in my chest as his fingers brush across mine.

The bare, gentle touch of his fingers sends a traitorous shiver through me.

I’m holding my breath; I don’t dare breathe.

I don’t dare acknowledge the fact that even when I know he’s faking this, faking all his feelings for me, it still feels real.

I should know better.

Finally, he manages to extricate the ring from my tangle of hair, giving me that grin that makes me weak in the knees.

Or used to, at least.

I cough to give myself an excuse to step back from the way he’s leaning in, like he wants to kiss me, and stare at the ring instead.

It’s heavy as hell, a huge cocktail ring I got as a wrap gift for another show, and one I only picked to wear tonight because it’s truly obnoxious.

Obnoxious is my new best friend.

I’m wearing the worst of myself on the outside today. I continue making my way toward the yellow sports car.

Luke is going to dump me for sure after this, and the more publicly, the better.

“I had the rental company drop it off here as a surprise,” I tell him. “I didn’t want anyone to spoil it for you.”

Also because, as Luke’s about to find out, I have no freaking clue how to drive a Maserati.

Chapter Thirty-one

Luke

This is howI die.

The gears grind as Abigail attempts to shift into fourth from first, and I say a silent prayer as she stalls out for the third time. On the fucking highway.

The fiftieth person to drive by honking also shoves a middle finger out the window at us, and Abigail just smiles.

“Oops,” she says, also for the fiftieth or so time.

My hands cramp from where I’ve wrapped them around any goddamn surface I can find.

“Start the car again,” I mutter, trying my best to keep my cool. I am afraid for our lives, yes, but I do not want to yell at Abigail.

Well, I do want to yell at her, because what the actual fuck was she thinking? She doesn’t even like driving.

The truth hits me like a ton of bricks.

I turn toward her, my mouth wide open.

She happily turns the key over in the ignition, and the Maserati roars back to life, then dies again, because she’s still in third gear.

I smash the emergency hazards button, an eighteen-wheeler driving by so fast that the whole car shakes.

“I know what you’re doing,” I rasp.

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