Page 107 of The Boyfriend Goal

But she’s also not a mind reader, so she’ll only know I want to stay if I tell her.

Before I go to the center and she goes to the reference desk, I stop next to a display of romance novels that’ll keep you up all night, swallow some courage, and say, “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Her eyes turn serious, and she stops walking too. “Sure. What is it?”

I hope I don’t sound as nervous as I feel. For someone who likes to escape into books rather than sales pitches, this is so hard. I try to keep my tone calm and upbeat though. “I love the work I do here. I think I’ve done a good job. And if there’s any way I could stay on, I wanted to let you know I’d say yes in a heartbeat.”

“You have done a great job,” she says, but her smile is of the let-you-down variety. “The budget’s tight though. We’re all feeling it citywide. But you know I’ll give you an excellent reference for anywhere.”

My stomach sinks, but nope. That won’t do. Chin up. It’d be a fairy-tale ending if she waved her magic wand and said, “Oh you want a job? I have one! Take it.”

A good reference is a critical step in my Stay Here plan.

“And I will keep my eyes open, too, for any jobs in the city. Would that help?”

Immensely. “I’d be so grateful,” I say.

She crosses her fingers. “Let’s get you a full-time gig here.”

I start the workday glad I told her after all. Maybe I’ll find the guts to tell Wes soon too.

Early the next day, I put the job hunt out of my mind since it’s time for the fundraiser. Budgets are definitely tight if we need pancakes to lure patrons. But then again, that’s how it’s always been in my field.

I’m scurrying around the home, grabbing my bag and phone for the fundraiser, when I spot a package on the porch. It must have arrived late last night. I swing open the door and grab it, squealing a little when I see the return address.

It’s the stickers I ordered last week. I shut the door and rip open the compostable envelope, then rush to the kitchen where Wes is downing a cup of coffee. I hold it up for him, proud of myself for making these. I dip a hand in and take out a purple sticker, showing him the saying. “Look!”

“Librarians definitely like it hard,” he says, reading it with a glint in his eyes.

“I made them for fun. But I also wanted you to have one.” I offer him a sticker. It’s a little thing, that’s all, but I hope he likes it and its irreverence.

After Wes sets down the mug, he takes the sticker, unpeels the back, and smacks it on his gray T-shirt. “Perfect for today.”

That’s bold. “You’re going to wear it to the pancake breakfast?”

“You bet I am,” he says, and that’s Wes for you—fearless.

He whirls around, reaches into a cupboard, and takes out a pretty pink gift bag with a black bow on it. “For the game.”

He already got center ice tickets for me for the game this evening, as well as for Fable and Maeve. I was so excited he thought of my friends too that I thanked him on my knees.

“Wear this tonight,” he says in a simple command, so bossy and confident. Like there’s no chance I’d even think to say no. He thrusts the bag at me.

Pretty sure I know what it is, but I’m still giddy when I yank out a number sixteen jersey. “Wes,” I say softly, touched.

It’s such a romantic gesture—a jersey that says I’m there for him.

But then a dark cloud descends over me. Will everyone know? What will my brother think? Will he put two and two together if he sees me in Wes’s number this evening? Fine, it’s truly none of Christian’s business what I do and who I do it with, and while I worry more about when the next George R.R. Martin book might release than what my brother thinks of my sex life, I still understand the complexity of the situation. Wes works with him. It’s a depend-on-every-man kind of job. And Wes and I agreed to keep this thing between us quiet as we figure it out.

I’m not sure it’s time yet to tell Christian anything. Or if we’re even required to say anything. But at the same time, it’s also polite to give him a heads-up.

When? Not rink-side at a game, that’s for sure.

I’m about to ask if this shirt will give it away to the team what we’re up to but a glance at the clock tells me now’s not the time to tackle that issue. Besides, so what if Christian sees me in Wesley’s jersey? Wes isn’t only my roommate—he’s my friend. It makes sense I’d wear my friend’s number to a game. Perfect sense. Case closed. I clutch it to my chest. “I can’t wait to wear it.”

Wes downs the rest of his coffee and sets the mug in the sink. “Wear it today too.”

There’s that demanding tone again. The one he uses when he tells me to spread my legs, suck his cock, and fuck myself with a toy in front of him.

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