Page 78 of Relationship Goals

“That would…that would definitely not make me feel more comfortable. And you are not one of my teammates, Abigail Hunt.”

“So what am I, then?” I ask, aiming for teasing.

He blinks, though, his smile disappearing into an expression of sincere unease, and I force out the awkward laugh that always seems to be ready to go.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You’re you,” he interrupts. “And I like you. And I very, very much liked that. And I would like to do that again.”

“From you, that’s practically a marriage proposal.”

He stares at me.

I stare at him.

Slowly, I close my eyes, horrified and wishing I could disappear. “That was supposed to be a joke,” I squeak out.

Seconds go by slower than molasses, and I bury my face in hischest, refusing to look at him. Why do I always fucking do this? I am a moment ruiner.

A ruiner of moments, interviews, and relationships.

Move over Miley, there’s a new wrecking ball in town.

“How about we take it one day at a time?” Luke finally says.

“It was a joke,” I say, extricating myself from him, humiliated and absolutely livid with my dumb self. “I didn’t mean that, I swear, I’m not—”

His hand grips my bicep, keeping me from moving farther away from him or rolling into a black hole on the floor and hoping to be swallowed up forevermore.

“I know it was a joke. I want to take it faster with you Abigail. But you deserve someone who…” His Adam’s apple bobs. “You deserve someone who will take it slow.”

He doesn’t look uncomfortable.

His forehead is scrunched up, his mouth a puckered frown.

Luke Wolfe looks pissed off—furious, even. “You deserve someone better than me.”

“Shut up,” I tell him. “Only one of us gets to be the neurotic mess, and I called dibs today. You can be Debbie Downer tomorrow. Or even this afternoon, but right now—” My gaze lands on the alarm clock on his bedside table.

Realization sends adrenaline pumping through my body.

“Shit, shit, shit.” I jump off the bed, evading his efforts to grab me and pull me back to him. I’m naked.

He’s naked.

Well, he’s wearing a used condom, but other than that, we are both naked.

“Abigail, please, don’t freak out—”

“I’m actually not freaking out about this.” I point between our very naked selves, who just got done doing the barnyard hoedown. “I’m running late.”

“Late?” he echoes.

“I gotta get to Pilates. I don’t think we’re going to have time to stop by my house for my clothes, either.”

He sits up, finally understanding. “I have sweats you can borrow.”

“That’s sweet of you,” I tell him. Ugh. Why didn’t I think to pack an overnight bag? I don’t even want to guess at what I smell like. Sex and cheese fries. I cover my mouth, my eyes darting back to him.

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