Page 55 of The Boyfriend Material Novellas

“Reid,” I say, laughing. “Don’t be silly.”

“Why is that silly?”

I tap my chest. “I’d do you,” I say, bold and direct.

He stops in his tracks, blinking, then drags a hand through his hair. His gaze turns hot, and he reaches for me once more, bringing me close. “You are magnificent.”

“So are you.”

Then he shows me what a second kiss for the record books is. My knees go weak, my skin sizzles, and I record this moment too.

But, like all of today has so far, it ends too soon. We resume our pace. “So, to answer your question, I’d probably do something where I could talk to people. Maybe work in a shop.”

“I’d come to your shop every day.”

“Stalker much?” I tease.

He scoffs. “Please. You’d be mine if we lived here. I’d come to your shop at the end of the day, and we’d walk to a brasserie, sit down, order a glass of wine, and watch the city go by. All while we were in our own world.”

I swoon, my heart shimmying for him. “Are you the most romantic man I’ve ever met?”

His grin is so delicious. “I better be.”

I run my fingers down his shirt. “You are. It’s official.”

We walk past a stationery shop selling pens and gorgeous writing paper. The thought briefly occurs to me that we could keep in touch, send letters, little notes.

But keeping in touch seems far too dangerous.

Like leaving out a tempting treat you couldn’t actually have.

“Anyway, so what would we do after dinner?” I ask playfully as we pass a jewelry store peddling lockets.

“I’d find all the most romantic places in the city to kiss you again. Since you need to fill in a whole history book of entries.”

“So I would record those kisses?”

He nods exaggeratedly. “I would fully expect you to. Record, tabulate, rate.”

“You want me to rate your kisses? Maybe I already am.”

He tugs me into a quiet alley framed by an arch and curling ivy, and seals his mouth to mine, dropping a hot, tempting kiss on my lips before giving me a hot, naughty stare.

“Are you trying to set a record?” I ask, my skin heating up.

“What would the record be exactly? What’s the category?”

“The category is winding me up.”

“And I trust it’s working?” he asks, a devilish quirk on his lips.

“Everything you do is working.”

He smiles, but it fades into a sigh as he presses his forehead to mine. “I wish . . .”

A lump rises in my throat. “I wish too.”

“I wish I had another night here. I wish my plane wasn’t leaving this evening.”

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