Page 113 of Relationship Goals

“No, no, sweetheart. You haven’t.”

She stops walking, sinking to her knees on the carpet that god only knows how many bare feet have trod over. I swallow hard.

“Yes, I did! I ruined it. I ruined our date. First with the car…how was I supposed to know how to drive a stick shift?”

I bite my tongue as a tear rolls down her cheek.

She covers her face with her hands, and I take her momentary lapse as an excuse to scoop her up into my arms and continue following Gerard down the dim lush-carpeted hallway.

Abigail simply stares up at me like I’ve shocked her out of her tears.

“Sorry,” I grunt. “I have a feeling you’re hungry and need to eat. Let’s get some food in you.” At least, I hope to any god that’s listening that she’s just hungry and not having a full meltdown.

“What is this?” Gerard asks, giving Abigail an odd searching look. “VAT EEZ THEES?!”

Yeah, his French accent is definitely stronger now.

“You are not allowed to carry the Abigail Hunt around like a sack of pommes de terre.”

“Pommes de what?” I repeat, nonplussed.

“Potato!” he yells at me.

I did not have “small angry Frenchman shoutspotatoat me” on today’s bingo card, but here we are.

“I demand you put her down.”

I sigh. “No.”

“No?”

I have at least a foot on the man, and though, contrary to popular belief, I don’t like intimidating people, I step closer, forcing him to look up at me.

“I am not putting her down so she can lie on the carpet. I am going to put her in a chair, and then you will bring us food. Do you understand?”

He swallows audibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yes. Oui.”

Gerard finds somewhere else to be nearly immediately, and I set Abigail’s tense body in one of the strangely shaped chairs.

Still seething silently, I pull out my own chair, a clear acrylic thing that looks like it’s more likely to break than hold my weight. Moving at the speed of a drugged sloth, I gingerly sit down, relieved when there’s no catastrophic cracking sound.

A long sigh heaves from my chest, and I steeple my hands in front of me, finally taking in the room we’re in. Dark patterned wallpaper covers the space, black sconces providing enough light to see but not enough to feel harsh.

It doesn’t feel like we’re in LA.

I’m not sure where we’re supposed to feel like we are, but other than the fact I’m wearing someone else’s sports coat, socks with no shoes, and have a budding movie starlet sitting across from me, I could be anywhere.

“This is very nice,” I say quietly, trying to prod Abigail out of her strange state.

She blinks at me, her green eye glowing in the soft light, contrasting even more than usual with her hazel one. Dark lashes flutter as she glances down at her hands, and there’s a strange nervousness to her movements that’s completely out of character.

I reach across the table—also clear acrylic—and cup my hands over hers.

Her shoulders stiffen slightly, the movement so quick and near imperceptible that I wonder if I’ve imagined it completely as she looses a long breath, a quick flash of a smile across her face.

“Are you okay? Was it the drive?”

“I’m wonderful,” she answers.

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