Page 40 of The Boyfriend Goal

“But you’re not going to pay rent in cleaning, or cooking, or anything like that. You’re a roommate—not a maid. Also, good morning."

“Thank you,” she says with genuine gratitude, and acceptance, too, that rent isn’t up for negotiation.

She walks toward the living room. She’s wearing a sky blue top that slopes off one shoulder—a very tantalizing shoulder I want to kiss, lick, and bite. She stops in her tracks as her gaze lands on my feet. I’m just in socks now. She kicks off her sneakers next to the table with Prick the Cactus on it, then continues into my home, offering an apologetic glance my way. “Oh, I see you got the album.”

“I did,” I say, sliding the LP out of the cover. “You really didn’t have to.”

“I felt bad about last night,” she says, frowning. “What I said. And the way you left the room.”

What does she mean? I rack my brain trying to figure it out. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

She’s peering at me through those cute glasses, looking flummoxed momentarily. She takes a breath, then says, “Well, you left in such a rush. You just took off.”

I flash back to last night in her room. She hugged me for a good long time. I caught the scent of her hair. Vanilla. Then the scent of her skin—cinnamon. My brain short-circuited, then sent me back in time when she pressed her face against my chest.

Oh.

Ohhh.

Shit. She thinks I was mad at her when I hightailed it out of her room. That couldn’t be further from the truth. “That’s not why I left,” I say curtly.

“Okay,” she says, but clearly she’s still confused.

I could alleviate that confusion. Really, I could. But I’m not sure telling her I wanted to fuck her last night would fix this problem. Instead, I turn around and put the album on the turntable, taking my time setting the needle on the groove. As the first track fills the room, she heads into the kitchen to set the canvas bag on the counter.

She takes apples, pears, figs, and grapes from the canvas bag with intense concentration that’s not needed for the task, but maybe it is needed to deal with a dickish roomie.

But what am I supposed to say? You have no idea how hard it was NOT to fuck my hand to thoughts of you last night like I’ve done several nights prior? Also, your lips are incredible.

Instead, I head into the kitchen to help her. I grab the grapes. “I can wash these.”

“Thanks. I don’t know where the colander is anyway.”

I need to do better. “Let me show you where everything is.”

She smiles at me again. “You don’t mind?”

What kind of monster would I be if I did mind? And who’s treated her so poorly as to mind about something like that? “No. Of course not.”

I spend the next twenty minutes properly showing her around the kitchen, and washing the grapes. Then I give her a better tour of the living room, the guest bathroom, the gym, and the garage. I don’t show her my room, because what’s the point? She’s not going to come upstairs ever. I’m not that strong.

When we’re back in the kitchen, I say, “So that’s that.”

“Thanks again,” she says, cheery.

But it’s like she’s trying extra hard to be nice. Maybe because I was a dick. Maybe because I’m still behaving like one. I lean against the counter, and try a new tactic. “Who’s Grendel?”

Her blue eyes sparkle as she says, “The monster in Beowulf.”

Yeah, maybe it’s for the best I never dropped off that scarf with my note. There’s no way we’d work out—a guy who hates reading and a girl who’s obsessed with it. No dating app is matching the librarian with the dude with dyslexia. “Pretty sure that was in my do-not-read pile in high school,” I say, with a deliberately easygoing shrug.

“Confession: I think it’s in everyone’s do-not-read pile.”

That’s a minor relief—that she didn’t like Beowulf. Did anyone? “But I like Pennywise,” I say, then quickly add, “From the movie. Well, I don’t like him. But mad respect for his villainy.”

“Definitely.”

“Also, I don’t think you’re a monster. Like you said in your letter.” I scratch my jaw, hunting for a suitable explanation for my behavior. “Listen, last night when I left your room, it wasn’t over what you said. I was just…adjusting.”

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