The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)

Wesley

“I’ll pay you back,” she says, as I hold open the door to Better With Pockets.

Hell no. I shake my head vehemently. “Nope.”

“Seriously. You don’t have to buy clothes for me,” she says as she walks past me into the boutique.

“I know. But I want to,” I say firmly, letting the door fall closed.

“You really want to shop for me?” The question resonates in the sweetly scented air of the shop—the smell is feminine, berries maybe. It’s a contrast, or really, a complement to Josie’s scent, which is a little like cinnamon. Pop music pumps through the speakers, Sabrina Carpenter’s tune matching the colorful array of trendy clothes that line the racks.

A woman from behind the counter nods our way. “Let me know if I can help you with anything,” she says in a warm, husky voice.

“We will,” Josie says, then turns back to me, still studying my face like she needs to make sure I meant the offer.

“Are you worried that I don’t like shopping?” I ask, trying to understand her.

She seems to give that some thought for a few seconds. “No. Well, maybe. But mostly, it’s so generous of you. But you totally don’t have to. I’ll be fine. My friend’s place isn’t that far.”

She says it all upbeat and cheery, like she needs to exonerate me from the offer.

Maybe she’s not used to people doing nice things for her. But is helping her out of a jam that nice? It just seems like the right thing to do. Besides, it’s rare when you can truly help someone. When you can give them what they need when they need it. Usually, help is like the old toolbox you find in your grandfather’s attic. It has a flathead screwdriver when you really need the Phillips-head.Content © provided by NôvelDrama.Org.

In my case though, I have the right tools for Josie. A wallet and a willingness. I pin her with a serious stare, so she knows I mean every word. “Let me help you, Josie.”

“Let me pay you back, Wesley,” she says, staying strong.

“One, you’re not paying me back. It’s a gift that I want to give. Two.” I glance around the shop, gesturing to the racks and shelves bursting with clothes that women her age usually like. I mean, it’s not like I picked a Dress Barn. “What’s it going to be? Pants, shorts, shirt, or dress?”

She laughs. “You’re bossy.”

I resist the urge to make a naughty joke. Mostly. I mostly resist it. “I am.”

She breathes out in a sort of relaxing sigh, like she’s relenting. “Thank you. And shockingly, I’m not picky right now. I’m at the I’ll take anything stage of dressing.” Her pretty lips curve up in a curious grin. “But tell me, Mister Bossy, what would you pick for me?”

I seize the opportunity to get to know her. “I’ll pick, but on one condition.”

“What’s that?” It’s asked with a little challenge, one that says she likes to hold her own.

I wiggle my fingers in a serve-it-up gesture. “I need a clue or two.”

“A fashion clue?”

“Exactly. I’m a good shopper but…” I take a beat, so my next words land right where I want them to. “I don’t want to pick an orange sundress when it turns out your…boyfriend hates orange.”

Her eyes sparkle. “Wesley, was that your way of asking if I have a boyfriend?”

I scoff. “Please. I’d never be that obvious,” I say, then give her a look like I’m waiting.

She straightens her shoulders. “My boyfriend, who’s the head of the San Francisco mafia, would probably like to personally thank you for making sure I don’t roam the streets half-naked while he’s off working at the docks.”

I shoot her an I’m impressed smile. “Making concrete shoes, I’m sure.”

“Of course. It keeps him quite busy.” She pauses, then asks, “And will your girlfriend who speaks five languages, looks beautiful without makeup, and saves endangered animals like to give you any fashion tips over FaceTime for me?”

Fuck me. She’s perfect. “Actually, she’s going to come join us. That work for you?”

“It works perfectly,” Josie says, and if I was looking for a distraction from my father tonight, the universe delivered.

But even though we were both clearly messing with each other, I don’t want there to be any questions about my status. I set a hand on her bare arm, briefly savoring the feel of her soft skin as I say, “Josie, I’m single.” And because she’s so damn pretty and so flirty and so quick on her feet and because we haven’t talked once about hockey or calories or exercise, I add for emphasis, “Very single.”

She doesn’t fight off a smile. “I’m very single too.”

“Good.” I roam my eyes over her in her makeshift dress. “And while I suspect you look good in anything, I’m picking pants.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m betting you want to feel different than the way you feel right now. Pants would be the fastest way to that.”

Her smile is sexy and smart at the same time. “Get me some pants, please,” she says, and hell if I don’t hear get into my pants. Or really, I want to.

I nod toward the rack near us and flick through some options. “So, what’s your favorite color?”

“Guess.”

“Fine.” I stop hunting and take a beat, traveling up and down her frame, adding up clues, then give it my best shot. “Black.”

She blinks, clearly surprised. “Um, close.”

“Gray?” I ask with a laugh.

“It’s black and white actually,” she says.

I crack up. “Dude, you picked two colors.”

She squares her shoulders. “Maybe I’m an overachiever.”

“Maybe?” I arch a brow. “Sounds like you are.”

“So how did you know?”

I lift a hand, pointing in the direction of her glasses. “There’s a little black and white checked pattern on the arms.”

“Oh,” she says, then touches them gently, like she’s reminding herself. She tucks a strand of chestnut hair over her ear. “You’re right.”

“Yeah. I noticed them earlier,” I say, and it’s an admission that I’ve paid close attention to her.

Her cheeks pinken in the most alluring blush ever. She swallows, then looks around, getting her bearings maybe. For a few seconds, a sense of déjà vu slams into me. Have I seen her before? She feels vaguely familiar, but I see a lot of people at hockey games. It’s possible I’ve seen her or someone like her once. Besides, I’m pretty sure I’d remember her if we’d met.

I’m definitely sure I don’t want to talk about hockey though, so I don’t go fishing in the do we know each other waters. Instead, I return to the clothing hunt and wait for her to go next.

“So what’s yours?” she asks. “Your favorite color?”

“Do people still have favorite colors?”

“You just asked me mine! Are boys not allowed to have a favorite color?”

I smile, shaking my head as I find a cute pair of pants and lift the hanger from the rack. “I don’t really have one.”

“Everyone has one. Some people are just more aware of it. For others it’s subconscious. So what’s yours?”

I consider her heart-shaped face, her pink lips, her bright-eyed attitude. Her mouth that hasn’t met a question she doesn’t have a comeback for. Then, her eyes. They caught my attention from the second I saw her outside the gallery. “Blue.”

She freezes for a second, like my answer’s sinking in, then maybe it hits her, because she rolls her lips together, then says crisply, “Noted.”

Jerking her gaze away from me, she turns to the black pants I’ve grabbed, taking them from me.

Hold the fuck on. Did I read her all wrong? Maybe the blush was because I embarrassed her? Maybe she legit needs help, the very single convo aside. I home in on that and give her the Phillips-head screwdriver she needs. “Let’s get you a white top to go with that, and some new shoes.”

Quickly, I choose some options and hand them to her. She heads to the dressing room, the door clicking shut. I wander around the store, getting a little distance as I chew on the best way to figure out where her mind’s at when the door swings open again.

I spin around.

She’s standing in front of it in a pair of pants that flare at the bottom and a white sweatshirt that slopes off the shoulder and shows off a sliver of pale flesh. And a sparkly belly button ring I want to lick.

My mouth goes dry. My mind goes haywire.

She juts out a hip. “What do you think, honey?”

Like she said to me back at the gallery when we were role-playing. Maybe I didn’t read her wrong. “It’s very, very you…sweetie,” I say.

“Good.” She takes a deep breath, then her voice pitches up as she adds, “Because I would love to wear it to take you out for an ice cream right now. To say thank you.”

That is so very specific. It’s not the typical let’s have a drink. Not that I’d say no to a drink with her. “Ice cream?” I ask, my improv skills flying out the window, because it’s a little surreal, her question, given where my mind was earlier.

She swallows, then nods. “Do you hate ice cream?”

“No. God no.” My brow creases. “Who hates ice cream?”

“Ice cream haters?” She sounds nervous.

“Not me. Definitely not me. I’m just a little freaked out that you’re reading my mind.”

She breathes out a sigh of relief. “I had a feeling since you were kind of into the ice cream porn earlier. When we walked past The Scoop a while ago, you stared at it like it was the source of all your fantasies.”

Pretty sure she is my fantasy right now. “Let’s get ice cream. But on one condition.”

“Okay,” she says, a little tentative.

I step closer and set a hand on her arm once again, watching as her breath hitches her chest. “It’s a date.”

Her smile sends a shiver down my spine. “It’s a date.”

I set a hand on her back and walk her to the register, making a mental note to text the guys and let them know I’m bailing. When we leave, with her old clothes in a bag and her new ones on, I barely give a second thought to my car, several blocks away. I can get a parking ticket for all I care. I’m not doing a damn thing to throw a wrench in the first date I’ve looked forward to in more than a year.

That’s the real surreal part of tonight.