Page 72 of The Boyfriend Goal

“But there’s so much more to you than that.”

He just shrugs, but it’s an admission of sorts. Impulsively, I rise up on tiptoes, clasp his face, and run my thumb along his scruff-lined jaw.

I’m giving something to him—touch. Just like he gave to me.

My thumb traces his jawline. I’m slow and lingering. And even though the clock is ticking, I watch him, savoring every detail. The way his eyes close slowly, how his lashes brush against his face, how a slight tremble seems to run down his body.

But before I let go, he grips my wrist, turns his face to it, and opens those heat-filled eyes, holding my gaze. He brushes the gentlest kiss to my wrist.

I gasp.

It’s a whisper of a kiss, and yet it’s everything. He leaves another, taking his time pressing his lips to my forearm, then one more, and his tongue flicks against my flesh. And finally, he gives a deeper, open-mouthed caress of a kiss from my elbow all the way down to my palm.

Chills erupt down my spine. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I am undone.

He drops my hand. “You should go,” he says firmly, his tone making it clear I need to leave for me and also for him. Because if I stay, the kiss won’t end.

With a reluctant nod, I tear myself away, open the door, and race down the steps, feeling like tomorrow isn’t a date.

It’s something else entirely.

Something I can’t even name. But something I want desperately down to my very bones.

It’s not a date. It’s the next step in this unusual friendship. Still, makeup is always a good idea. In the morning I put on a cute sundress with pockets, twist my hair into an artful messy bun, slide on some mascara, and, of course, my signature lipstick. I tuck the tube into my pocket and head to the kitchen to do some prep, like preheating the oven and prepping the pastry strips. Fifteen minutes later, footsteps echo on the stairs.

My heart sprints. I touch up my lipstick—I hate dry lips—then set the tube down on the counter as Wes strolls into the kitchen at eight a.m.

“I’m never up this early,” he says, yawning as he scrubs a hand across his scruffy jaw. He’s wearing gray sweats and a blue T-shirt that hugs his pecs and reveals those steely biceps I want to curl my hands around. But I won’t. We’re here for…dessert. That’s all.

“It’ll be worth it,” I say, tying my apron tighter. It’s covered in tiny illustrations of cake.

“It better be, woman,” he says, then waggles his phone at me. “Okay if I play music?”

“Not a record?” I ask.

“I have a playlist I like. Some new tunes.”

“Do it,” I say, and he sets it on the counter into a phone holder, then sends the music to his speakers. It’s something upbeat and not too screechy. A folksy guy voice, full of longing. I think it’s that Ben Rogers he’s been listening to lately, and I like it. Wesley grabs the apron with lipstick marks all over it and ties it on.

“You wear that well,” I say.

He tugs at the bib, giving me a pointed look. “Another thing you did for me.”

I roll my eyes. “Please.”

He grabs my hand, shakes his head. “Nope. You did do this, and I like it.”

There’s that tone again. Commanding. Certain. Like he was in bed. But like he is in the kitchen, the car, and the street when he wants to drive home a point.

“Well, I figured we should make a—” I cut myself off before I say date of it, course correcting to, “Some fun of it. Eating dessert for breakfast is one of the simplest things on the list.”

“Sometimes the simple things are the best things,” he says, sounding like a saying on a kitchen towel, but a true one nonetheless.

“I’ve been thinking about this item. Why it’s on there. Maybe because it’s easy. But also because it was something my aunt and I used to do together,” I say, opening up and sharing more of my time with her. To remember her. To celebrate the days we spent together.

“Maybe she wanted you to keep doing it.” He stops, then adds, “With a friend.”

“Maybe? Most of the other things are new,” I say as we mix together sugar and spices in a small bowl. “But this one?” I gesture with the wooden spoon to the bowls on the black counter. “This was our thing. We made cakes and pies. Cupcakes and cinnamon rolls. We made chocolate croissants, which is dessert just masquerading as a breakfast food.”

---