Page 49 of Relationship Goals
I love it. I loop my arm around his, tugging him into the kitchen and easing the box out of his hands.
“Do I open it?” I ask when he remains taciturn.
Shy, I realize. He’s not grumpy—okay, yes, he is—but…is it possible Luke Wolfe is nervous because he’sshy?
I shouldn’t like that. I shouldn’t have a little thrill go through me at the idea that maybe I hold more cards here than I thought I did, that I can maybe…drive our situationship forward a bit instead of being the Wolf’s passenger.
My smile turns slightly evil as he grunts.
“Yes, Abigail, light of my life, I have brought you a gift,” I say in the ridiculously low voice I reserve for impressions of him.
“ ‘Light of my life’?” he repeats, cocking an eyebrow.
“Your words, not mine,” I say with a shrug. A knuckle pops as I make grabby hands. “What’s it gots in its boxes, precious?” My voice comes out as a sibilant hiss, and Luke blanches slightly.
“What the hell was that? That’s not supposed to be me, is it?”
I stare at him, truly flummoxed. “That’s my award-winning Andy Serkis as Gollum impression.” My lips purse. “Well, award-winning only in my mind, but I can tell from your reaction you’re impressed.” I wink at him.
He shakes his head, and the corner of his mouth twitches, like he might smile, but he doesn’t want to encourage the Gollum-esque behavior.
Ha.
“It’s not that exciting,” he says slowly, and I realize his frown might be, yet again, from that self-consciousness that he wears like armor. “Just a few things I thought you might want since you’re going to be at the games more often.”
Affection curls up in my heart like a cat beside a fireplace.
“You brought me things to wear to your games?” My voice is soft, and, embarrassingly, I feel like I might cry.
“Don’t get bent out of shape about it.”
“Don’t worry, precious, I won’t,” I say, taking a Gollum-size sledgehammer to what could have been a tender moment.
He side-eyes me, shaking his head with a snort.
Got him to laugh, at least.
The tucked-in edges of the box make a susurrus of sound as he lifts them open, pulling out a black-and-gold LA Aces jersey. I take the slick fabric from him, turning it around—and when the wordWolfejumps out in gold, I practically melt.
“This is your jersey,” I say quietly, all traces of a former-hobbit-turned-goblin vanishing. “Your name is on the back.”
“You don’t have to wear it,” he says, all gruff and dark eyebrows, looking down his too-strong nose as he crosses his arms over his chest.
I tilt my head, studying him, weighing his completely unromantic reaction against the gesture.
Luke Wolfe, I think, is a man of few words, and the few words he chooses are not usually very kind. I’m getting the impression he uses them to protect the very soft, squishy, and warm person inside.
“Iwantto wear it,” I say, squinting up at him. He’s so damned cute. “But only if you’re okay with me wearing it.”
“Why would I bring it here if I didn’t want you to wear it?” he growls, frowning.
He’s a ray of sunshine wrapped up in a storm cloud. That’s my Luke Wolfe.
My eyes widen. Not mine. He’s notmine.
“So…you do want me to wear it.” I aim for playful, but it comes out hushed and serious. I sigh.
So, basically, I missed that target completely. If it were darts, I would have just slammed the pointy end into some unsuspecting bystander. RIP. I mentally pour a drink out for them.
