Page 73 of The Boyfriend Goal

Wesley goes thoughtful. Humming even.

“What’s that for?”

He shrugs. “Crazy idea. But maybe she knew all along—somehow, some way—that you were going to do this list with another person. So maybe number four was never meant to be a solo thing. Maybe none of it was.”

My chest glows at the thought. My whole body feels warm, like I’m looking at the past through rose-colored glasses but it’s a past that earned those glasses, a past that deserves the fond filter. “You might be right,” I say.

“I’m definitely right,” he says, with a cocky smile I want to kiss off.

And even though we came temptingly close yesterday, we’re not going to today. This is friendship. He’s said as much before.

But when Wes slides in closer to me, his shoulder bumping mine, there’s nothing easy about this moment. There’s nothing simple about how much I want him to shove the ingredients off the counter and kiss me ruthlessly.

We mix for another minute until he moves to the other side of the counter to brush melted butter along the pastry strips I prepped earlier. “You remember how much I wanted the ice cream the night we met?”

That night flashes before me in technicolor and fire. “I remember.”

“So when you think I’m all disciplined, just remember I like to…bend the rules,” he says, and those words slide down my spine like a brush of his fingers. The innuendo curls through me too, settling between my thighs, a fresh new ache.

“I’m learning that about you,” I say as I layer the cinnamon sugar mixture on top of the butter.

“And you like it?” he retorts.

Reasonable question. I tug at my apron. That oven is warmer than I’d thought. “You think so?”

“Sure do. I think you like getting me to break,” he muses.

My throat is dry as I try to make the treat—try but fail because I can’t focus. “Why do you say that?”

His gaze drifts down to his apron. “The apron.”

“How exactly is the apron getting you to break?”

He’s quiet for a while. For several seconds, maybe more. Clearly contemplating. He breathes out hard, his forehead pinched. I watch him, searching for the answer as to why he thinks the apron is my way of getting him to break.

Then, he lets out a long-held breath and shrugs, fuck it style. “Because you know I can’t stop thinking about this,” he says, gesturing to the lipstick marks all over him.

“You think it was a subliminal message?”

“I do.”

Was it? I’d thought it was funny when I bought it, considering how he’s always looking at my lips. But maybe that was my mind playing tricks on me. Maybe deep down I knew it wasn’t intended as a joke.

But rather as an invitation.

To kiss me again.

And I hope—I truly hope—he’s RVSPing as he crosses to the counter, picks up the rose-gold tube behind me, and then comes closer. My chest squeezes, and heat floods every cell in my body. He’s holding the tube in front of me, and I can’t stop staring at the lipstick, at his hand, at his eyes. At the blaze in them.

“Wes,” I say, desperate.

He groans. “Yeah?”

“I didn’t go to the gallery to get your name to thank you,” I confess, and his beautiful brown eyes flicker with wild hope as he waits for me to finish. “I went to get your last name. So I could see you again.”

His smile takes its time turning wicked. Turning satisfied. “I had your scarf all ready to take to your friend’s apartment. Along with a note to ask you on another date.”

The double confession is like fireworks lighting up the kitchen. Sparks rush through me from head to toe, chased by a whoosh of desire. The thrill of reciprocation. I back up another inch so I’m against the counter. After he sets down the lipstick, he grabs my hips and lifts me up on the counter. Stands between my thighs. Spreads them open with his hips. “This is a very bad idea,” he says, like he’s fighting with himself.

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