Page 13 of The Boyfriend Goal

“I rock a pair, don’t I?”

“You do. But wait till you see mine,” he says, and that feels promising too since his slippers are—just a guess—at his home.

In his bedroom.

If I get another couple signs he’s game for more, I’ll go for it. I’ll jump even though it’s been a while since I’ve been on the horse, and I’ve only ever ridden in one saddle. But I’ve seen a lot of saddles on screen. And read about them in books. My imagination is not lacking.

The server finishes scooping and sets down a strawberry balsamic cup for Wesley, then the cinnamon and champagne for me. I reach for my phone to pay, but Wesley covers my hand with his. My breath stutters. His skin is warm. His hand is strong. How would it feel on my back as he bends me over the couch? Damn that Maeve.

“I lied when I said yes to your offer. I lied because I’m buying,” Wesley says.

“But you’ve already been so generous,” I say, though I know it’s a feeble protest.

Especially when he lifts a brow playfully but says nothing, like he’s letting me imagine other ways he might be giving.

Oh I’m imagining, universe. I’m definitely imagining.

With an uncommon speed, he whips out his phone and taps it on the screen to pay, then gives a tip that doubles the amount.

“Thanks, man,” the Renegades fan says.

“You’re welcome.”

The sports asset management business must be a good one.

Wesley picks up both our cups, then heads toward the counter by the window, pulling out a white metal stool for me. We both sit and he lifts his cup like he’s offering it to toast. “To your friend being right.”

Tell me you know what she said without telling me you know what she said.

“I’ll…lick to that.”

“Me too,” he says with a smirk, then holds my gaze with so much confidence that my stomach flips. A blast of heat rushes through my body.

We “clink” paper cups, then he takes a spoonful of his ice cream and I do the same. He watches me the whole time with those warm brown eyes, flecked with gold. More specifically, he watches my mouth, and I like it.

When I set down the spoon, he says, “Your scar is fucking hot.”

He’s fucking hot. And blunt. I run a finger across the indentation on my chin. No one has complimented it before. Certainly not John, my longtime college boyfriend who became my post-college boyfriend since inertia kept us together till we finally petered out. “Thank you. I fell off a bike,” I say.

“When you were learning to ride?”

“Yes.” I don’t tell him I was chasing Christian as a kid. That I was trying to keep up with my big brother. That I felt like I’d tried to be like him for so long in everything. That I even tried to play hockey to be like him. But I’m not athletic. Besides, books were, and are, better companions than athletic gear. “I’m not particularly sporty, but I did end up learning how to ride.”

“So you got back on,” he says, his deep, steady voice thrumming through me, turning me on.

“I did,” I say, then take another spoonful. He does the same, then offers me his.

“Wanna try?”

“Sure,” I say, then hand him mine.

I take a lick of the balsamic strawberry. “It’s sweet, and a little tart.”

He licks the cinnamon and champagne off my spoon with an approving hum. “A little like you, I suspect, since you smell like cinnamon.”

Warmth blooms in my chest. “You noticed,” I say, but he’s a noticer, so this shouldn’t be a surprise. It’s nice though. “It’s my lotion.”

“It’s got a little kick to it,” he says.

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