Page 37 of The Boyfriend Goal

That doesn’t make me think of sex either.

He flicks the turn signal and turns onto Jackson Street, full of modern homes with Scandinavian designs, square-like structures in cool shades of gray, with metal and wood accents that give them a modern, minimalist feel. Every yard is well-kept, every porch is pristine, and every home screams money.

I hate that Christian was right, but this area is the opposite of the one the short-term rental was in. Wesley pulls into a tiny driveway, then hits a button for a sleek garage. Once inside, I step out of the car into a neat, clean space. Is Wesley neat and organized? I’m dying to know simply because I want to know him.

But I shouldn’t want to know him. He’s just a roommate—that’s all. He pops the trunk, then grabs the suitcase from the trunk before I can. I snag the cactus from the floor of the backseat as he punches the code into the door and swings it open.

“After you.” He flicks on a switch. Everything is light and airy. Clean and quiet.

We head up a short flight of stairs to the main floor, where he sets my bag down. “Let me show you around.”

I try not to gawk. Really I do. I’ve seen nice homes before. My brother has a nice place. But Christian’s five years older and he’s always felt twenty years my senior. Wesley feels like my generation, and it’s strange for someone my age to have a place this upscale.

“How old are you?” I ask, instantly wishing I could take it back. I’ve been trained not to ask people’s ages. You’re not supposed to do it at work. I shouldn’t do it with Wesley. Even though I could find all his info online since he’s a pro athlete.

“Twenty-seven,” he says, saving me from Google as I set down the cactus on a table in the foyer. “I grew up in Denver. I was drafted at eighteen. Played in college. Then in New York for four and a half years. Was traded last season in February. I studied marketing in school,” he says, then shrugs. “Yeah, it’s the jock major, I know.”

But I wasn’t going to say that. “I don’t think it’s the jock major,” I say earnestly.

He shrugs casually. “It’s cool. It is. At least it was at my school. And I took rocks for jocks, dinosaurs for jocks, planets for jocks, and so on.”

I feel terrible now. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you had to give me your CV. It’s just really nice—your home. I’m not used to that from people my age. I’m twenty-six.” Since we’re both course-correcting from the other night, I add more. “I have a master’s in library and information science. My undergrad was English. And hey, I took physics for poets,” I say, and that makes him laugh as he leans against the doorframe leading into the living room. It’s a good look. One I cannot, should not, and will not linger on. “And English was the nerd major.”

“Your words.”

“I like words. And nerds. Which I am obviously one of,” I stage whisper.

Wesley holds my gaze for a long beat, his eyes going darker, his lips curving the slightest bit, almost like he wants to say something, but then must think the better of it, since he says, all businesslike now, “Let me show you around.”

He walks me through the living room. There’s a huge U-shaped couch, a flat-screen TV with a game console, and a record player on a table. We head into the kitchen, which is man-magazine-style worthy. I can’t resist. “Hey, it is black and chrome,” I tease, rapping my knuckles on the marble counter.

“Yeah,” he says, scratching his jaw, like he’s taking it in. “But I don’t mind. I don’t use it a ton.” He strides to the Sub-Zero fridge, so gleaming it could double as a mirror. Patting it, he says, “I’ll make some room in the fridge for you. It’s full of prepared meals right now.” He sounds apologetic, but whether it’s for the meals or the lack of fridge space, I don’t know.

“You cook in advance? Because I can definitely help with that,” I offer, hoping, truly hoping, he takes me up on it. “My aunt taught me to cook. And I can do healthy stuff too, like you had tonight.”

He gives a quick shake of his head. “I have a meal service.”

“Oh. Okay,” I say, a little defeated, but I’ll find some way to help. “That sounds fun too.”

“My dad set it up. The meal service,” he says, lowering his voice, like it embarrasses him.

He mentioned his dad that night. That he’d sent him to the art gallery. I’m about to say something along those lines to show I paid attention, but I think the better of it since I don’t want to bring up Frieda and maybe summon her somehow. She’d probably descend in a black cloud of vengeance and Chanel and tell Wesley I’ve been creeping on him, so I say, “Sounds cool.”

“It’s whatever,” he says, and that whatever is doing a lot of work in telling me how he feels about his meal plan and perhaps his father. He guides me down the hall, gesturing to the staircase leading to the second floor. “I’m up there.”

“Got it. The main bedroom suite,” I say, then playfully—or so I hope—add, “I’ll stay away from it.”

His jaw ticks briefly, then he moves on and says, “And there’s a room at the end of the hall. It’s a gym.”

“Makes sense.”

“But I usually work out with friends instead.”

“Cool.”

He turns around and opens the door under the stairs, and I moan in pleasure. The cutout-style white door leads into a cozy room with a peaked roof. He gestures for me to go first and I head inside, whimpering in happiness as I look around. There’s a dove gray area rug with cute geometric shapes in different colors on it, and a full-size bed with a navy comforter. The best part, though, is the window seat. It’s covered in white and blue pillows, and my heart does a jig. “It’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen,” I say, bringing my hand to my chest.

“Yeah?”

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