Page 111 of Relationship Goals
My palms stop sweating against the wheel as traffic thins slightly, though Monday LA afternoon traffic is ever anything but light. Abigail’s phone dings, the GPS spitting out directions to get off the highway.
She’s silent in the seat next to me, so quiet that it sparks concern. The GPS is useful, but it’s not great company.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I’m just hungry,” she says, but the corners of her mouth are turned down, and she crosses her arms over her chest. “I could eat a horse.”
“I don’t advise it,” I tell her dryly.
A soft smile shimmers across her face, and when her gaze darts to me, there’s a glint of humor in her eyes.
I exhale slowly, relief unwinding the knot in my chest.
The restaurant is all LA charm—meaning it’s completely over the top and consciously hip. A valet practically exudes glee as I hand him the keys to her rented Maserati, and a bevy of photographers blind me as I help Abigail out of the low car.
“I thought you didn’t like this kind of thing.”
“Well, I’m sure you of all people understand that sometimes we have to do lots of things we don’t like for work,” she says primly. With that, she sashays away, the skirts of her dress floating delicately around her shapely legs.
I can’t drag my gaze away from her. She works the crowd of photographers and now, curious onlookers, waving and signing photos.
When she blows a kiss to a starstruck fan, I wince.
Something is wrong.
I might not know her as well as I’d like to, but I would like to think I know her well enough to tell if something is really bothering her.
I wish she trusted me enough to let me know what it is.
When the crowd of people on the sidewalk starts overflowing, I finally wrap my arm around her waist and squeeze. A tight smile on my face, I direct her inside the restaurant, and she pouts prettily at me.
As soon as we’re inside the cool and dimly lit interior, discomfort hits me in the chest. The normal post-training clothes I’m wearing stand out like a sore thumb, and I tug at the hem of the Aces shirt I threw on.
A refined-looking man immediately greets us, giving Abigail air-kisses that further set my teeth on edge.
“Bonjour, Ms. Hunt, I am Gerard LeFou. Merci beaucoup, thank you so much for choosing Salt of the Sea for your dining experience tonight,” he gushes.
An annoyed grunt slips out of me.
“We’ve prepared a private dining experience for you, exactly as you asked.” The manager finally turns to me, eyeballing me from head to toe. “Sir? Would you like a dinner jacket?”
Abigail bats her eyelashes at me, and I clamp my hand more firmly on her waist. “No.”
“Yes, he would,” she trills at the same time.
“Very good, very good,” Gerard says, his French accent suddenly thickening, all congealed butter. He nods to someone behind me.
I hardly have time to react as a jacket slips over my shoulders. My molars grind together.
“Don’t you look so handsome.” Abigail bats her eyelashes at me, smoothing out the sleeve with a small coo of happiness.
Fuck.
If she wants me to wear the stupid jacket, I’ll wear the stupid jacket.
“Thank you,” I say gruffly.
“You will both be happy to know that we do not allow this riffraff into our dining establishment.” He waves a hand at where the paparazzi stand. “Nor do we allow phones of any kind.”
