“It’s fine,” I say, even though I love this dress.
I hear him run the water, and then he comes back to the couch, handing me a wet towel.
I try dabbing at it, but it’s not doing anything.
“I can treat it with something,” he says.
“Really?” I say, impressed that Luke knows how to do that. I assumed he was the type who sends all his clothes out to be cleaned.
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “My mom taught me everything she knows.”
“Well, small problem,” I say. “I have nothing else to wear.”
He raises his eyebrows, a mischievous smile on his face.
“Luke,” I chide.
“I’m kidding.” He holds his hands up, all innocence. “I have a whole closetful of clothes. I’ll get you something.”
Five minutes later, I walk out of the bedroom swimming in Luke’s T-shirt and joggers, the waistband of which I had to roll a few times to keep up. They smell like him. Detergent with a hint of that spicy cologne.
I walk over to where he’s sitting on the couch and hand him the dress. He takes it, but not before a small smile appears on his face when he sees me in his clothes.
“Don’t,” I say, cutting off whatever comment was about to come out of his mouth. This is Luke. He can’t help himself.
He gives me an innocent look. “I wasn’t going to say anything. But you do look good in my clothes.”
I roll my eyes.
He takes the dress over to a door near the bathroom and opens it to reveal a small closet with a stackable washer and dryer. He treats the stain with a spray before putting it in the washer and starting it.
This feels so domestic, Luke doing my laundry while I sit on his couch wearing his things. I’ve never gotten to this part before—theeasy, settled feeling of just existing in someone else’s space. The curse always ends things before they begin. I wonder if I’ll ever get here with someone.
“Okay,” Luke says, shutting the door of the closet, slightly muffling the sound of water filling the washer. “Should we get back to work?”
“Yes,” I say, already sitting on his couch, my feet tucked under me.
“I checked my email—still no word from Victoria,” he says.
“Her silence is almost scarier,” I say, and he nods. “She wouldn’t fire us over this, would she?”
Luke lifts a shoulder. “I hope not. Things were going so well.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling like it’s somehow my fault.
He gives me a questioning look. “For what? Your client made what she thought was an innocent post.”
“True,” I say. I’m grateful he’s being so kind. If the tables were turned, I’m not sure I’d offer him the same grace.
We sit in silence, both thinking, the sound of the washing machine running as background noise.
“Remember when Ella posted that photo with her ex’s dog and everyone thought they were back together?” Luke asks.
I drop my chin. “How could I forget?”
Her relationship with her ex—another country singer—was so toxic, and everyone knew it, and the picture had every fan of hers in an uproar.
“What did we end up doing about that?”
