Page 101 of The Boyfriend Goal

“Yes.”

I run a finger along the music notes. “The music is your love for songs and lyrics. It’s your present—but also your purest interest.”

“You’re too observant,” he says, sounding ridiculously pleased.

“And then you have these sunbursts,” I say, traveling along the thick black lines that curve and bend near his shoulder. “What are they for?”

“Passion, desire, bravery,” he says simply.

I sit with that for a minute, considering the meaning behind them. “Who you want to be? In your job and in life?”

Wesley’s gaze catches mine, and he holds it for a long, potent moment. His eyes are dark brown pools, and it feels like the air is shimmering between us. “You know me,” he says easily, but that can’t have been easy to say.

“I think I do,” I whisper.

“You do.” He cups my face and presses a gentle kiss to my lips. “Stay the night.”

I had a feeling he was going to say that. But I needed to hear it.

I curl up next to him, terribly unsure of what will happen in the morning—but incredibly okay with the uncertainty.

His eyes flutter closed as he coasts a finger along the scar on my chin, then kisses it before he falls fast asleep.

32

MONSTER-SIZE

Wesley

I wake up to a note from my dad blinking at me on my phone.

Dad: What’s the verdict? Lunch today? We can go to a new bowl place by the Marina. And I’ve been thinking, if Frieda’s artwork isn’t your style, I can take you shopping for…something else for the walls. Before your session with Domingo this afternoon

.

As I drag a hand through my bedhead hair, I snort a laugh—the dude is relentless, but I guess I did say I’d connect with him today.

Josie rustles. Shit, I didn’t want to wake her. She turns to me, eyes fluttering open, question marks in them.

I waggle the phone. “It’s my dad. I think he acknowledged that Frieda’s art is horrifying. But of course it’s wrapped around reminders of what he wants me to do today.”

“Sounds like a new version of a sandwich compliment—a sandwich admission,” she says sleepily, then stretches.

Damn, she looks good in my bed, her hair fanning out on the pillow, her cheeks flush.

“That’s him for you,” I say, debating whether to reply to my dad right now or not.

“You and he have a complicated relationship,” she says, an observation rather than a question.

“We do. He’s intense. A little controlling,” I say in an obvious understatement. But she’s seen the fridge, she knows my schedule, and she’s aware I work out after games, too, and that Dad hired a personal coach for me as well. “He wants the best for me though. Always has.”

“That probably makes it even more complicated,” she says, with a sympathetic smile.

“Yeah. It really does. He’s a great agent though. The deals he’s landed for me have been top-notch. Both with the teams and endorsements.”

“Maybe because you’re a great player.”

I glance over at her, all soft and morning sexy. “Maybe,” I say absently, then what the fuck? Why the hell am I talking about my agent-slash-dad while I’m in bed with this woman? I toss the phone on the nightstand, far away, then slink a hand around her stomach. “Play hooky with me today.”

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