Page 49 of The Boyfriend Goal

Wesley’s sitting on the couch. I gulp. I had no idea he’d be home now. He said late Friday night. Is nine-thirty late for him?

“I didn’t realize you’d be here,” I say, feeling…caught. But why?

“I live here,” he says, with a sly smile.

“I know. I just…”

“Flight was early.”

He’s still wearing his travel clothes, and they’re too sexy. I hope the league never changes its suit rule ever, since he looks so damn good in charcoal slacks and a blue dress shirt, with a couple buttons undone. They show off that silver chain on his chest. I want to tug on it with my teeth.

As he leans back against the couch cushions, legs spread, eyes gleaming, he holds a tumbler of something. Scotch? Whiskey? Does he even drink either of those? I don’t have a clue, but he holds that glass like a man who commands a room.

I’m not sure what to say next, but the air feels charged. Crackling. Especially when his gaze locks with mine, and he says, “I see I was number one on your list.”

17

THE NOT NOT EXCUSE

Wesley

Maybe I should feel terrible. After all, Josie’s standing frozen in place on the other side of the coffee table, dressed in white fuzzy socks with purple polka dots on them and cute matching PJs, and her eyes like a rabbit’s.

But I’m too intrigued to feel bad. “I’m at the top, and I’m the only item crossed out,” I continue, then take my time swallowing a sip of the scotch I poured. “Seems you’ve got a lot left to do.”

This list is too fascinating to let go of. I’ve never met someone with a list of…dreams. Adventures. Personal challenges. Josie isn’t like anyone I know, and I’m a little hung up on the way she’s chasing a certain kind of life.

“I do,” she says tentatively, but then her lip curls. “You really looked at my list?”

“I didn’t not look.” Should I feel bad? I don’t. This list is like a gold mine of Josie.

“You’re using the not not excuse?” She’s confused, and maybe hurt.

Okay, I feel a little bad now. I set down the tumbler on a coaster on the coffee table. “I sat down with a drink and it was there.”

“It was there?” she asks it with familiar emotion etched in her features. She’s embarrassed, like she was the night I met her, especially as she repeats, “It was there?”

Well, shit. I scratch my jaw. But I don’t understand why she’s this upset. Why anyone would be this upset. The list isn’t super personal. It’s not sexual. It’s an inspiration list. A bucket list. “It’s not bad, Josie. The list is actually kind of…cool.”

She swallows and looks away. Slivers of moonlight stream through the window, dancing across her ivory skin as she seems to think. “It’s just…it’s personal,” she says softly.

Lesson I just learned—just because a list isn’t sexual doesn’t mean it’s not private. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have looked.”

She rolls her lips together, lets out a big breath, then meets my gaze, straightening her shoulders. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have left it there,” she says, then she shakes her head, like she’s letting go of her emotions. “And it’s fine. It’s okay you saw it. Some of my friends know about it, like Maeve and Fable. They know bits and pieces, but I haven’t shown it to them. My mom knows I’ve started it now, but that’s all. None of them know everything that’s on it. No one does.”

She doesn’t have to say except you for me to understand what she means. “I won’t tell anyone,” I say.

“I know,” she says, but she sounds kind of sad, and I feel fucking worse.

“I promise. You can trust me. You know that, right?”

“I do. You caught me off-guard, and I don’t always do well with surprises. That’s all.”

That’s quite an honest admission. “I’ll be more careful,” I say, genuinely contrite now over the whole thing. And yet, I’m still a little obsessed with it. “For what it’s worth, I think it’s pretty cool. This list. I think you’re brave.”

She scoffs, then comes around to the couch at last, bends for the paper, and folds it back up along well-worn crease lines, holding it close. I feel a little chastened, perhaps rightfully so. I push to my feet. “Sorry again. I’ll leave you alone.”

A hand comes out, grabs my biceps. “It’s taken me two years to start it,” she admits quietly.

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