Page 62 of The Boyfriend Goal

She caps the pen, looks at the clock on the wall with a wistful gaze, then says, “I should go to bed. I have an early meeting then I’m working late at the library tomorrow.”

She pushes up from the couch, but pauses, like she wants to say something else. Or maybe do something else. “Wesley,” she begins in a voice full of promise.

My chest seizes with a feral sort of want. A hunger rises inside me, climbing up my body. “Yes?” I ask hoarsely.

“I never showed you the video of the pigeons.”

A laugh bursts from me. “Do you want to show me pigeon porn?”

“It’s worth your while,” she says, a teasing lilt to her tone.

I pat the couch and she returns, sinking back down onto the gray cushion. This time, she’s a couple inches closer to me. This time, I catch her scent—the fading notes of cinnamon, twined with vanilla. Her hair, I think. The combo scrambles my brain, and it takes every ounce of my willpower not to tug on her hair, dip my face to her neck, inhale her.

Especially when she leans closer, clicks on the folder on her phone, and scoots another inch nearer. We dip our heads toward the screen, but I’m acutely aware of how close she is as she shows me a video of birds banging.

“It’s…not what I expected,” I say when it’s over. But then again, she’s not either.

“I know, right?” Then she pulls back to meet my eyes once more in the near dark. “You’re not either.”

And tonight, I decide that’s a good thing. “Same to you,” I say, then narrow in on her glasses. They’re a little smudged. Probably from the day. She doesn’t need me to do this, but I do it anyway. “Your glasses,” I say, then reach carefully for them. “They’re dirty.”

“Oh,” she says, raising her chin toward me, a subtle way of giving me permission. Carefully, I hold the delicate arms and slide them off her face.

Her breath hitches. She swallows noticeably as I bring them to my mouth, and blow on them. Lifting the hem of my shirt, I gently rub the lenses, cleaning them. Her gaze drifts down to my stomach, visible now.

Did I do that on purpose? Maybe. She likes to look, and I like the attention. A lot.

I take a good long time cleaning her glasses. When I’m done, she shudders in a breath. Then holds in another one as I glide them slowly, carefully back on her face.

We stay like that, inches apart in the almost dark, neither of us moving for several stretched-out seconds.

Till she says, “Thanks. They’re all better now.”

“Good.”

This time, she leaves, heading off to her room under the staircase while I go the other way, trying not to think of her as I get ready for bed.

No such luck. She’s exactly what I think of after I shut the door, change, and slide between the sheets. She’s precisely what’s on my mind as I turn off the lights and deal with all this lust for my roomie that’s starting to feel like a little more than lust.

21

SHIRTLESS DRIVER

Wesley

How can one person make so much noise? It’s like a pack of howler monkeys have barged into my home. Are they ripping cabinet doors off hinges? Swinging from the chandelier in the living room?

Rubbing my eyes, I squint at the clock. It’s not even seven-thirty. No one should be up at this hour.

As sunlight streams horrifically bright through the bedroom window, I grab a pillow and yank it over my head. I’ll just go back to sleep in three, two…

“FUCK!”

The scream doesn’t just ring through the home. It echoes through the halls of time, reverberating back to the Stone Age.

I jump out of bed and fly down the stairs as the next round of the soul-rending fuck, fuck, fuck chorus continues from the kitchen. I skid along the tiled floor where Josie’s hopping on one foot, gingerly clutching the other.

“I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay,” she says, but she’s clearly not okay, since she’s breathing out frantically and grasping her bare foot. There’s a puck on the floor, along with her canvas bag, where a tube of lipstick has escaped, along with some sunscreen and a glasses case. Ah, shit. I think I know what happened.

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