The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)

Josie

Just because I haven’t been on a lot of first dates doesn’t mean I don’t know the basics. Research queen here. And a queen needs her phone, especially since I’m going to put my location tracker on for Maeve.

I soldier on for another half mile of free-range boobing as we walk till we reach my friend’s yellow building. “I’ll just grab my phone and be right back.”

“Take your time,” Wesley says, then pops in earbuds and leans against the railing as I unlock the door.

Buzzing with excitement, I rush inside, then wrap my arm around my chest as I hurtle up the three flights of stairs in my new flip-flops till I reach B4. I uncrinkle the napkin I’ve been clutching all night, then punch in the long code lightning fast, and hallelujah!

I’ve never been so happy a door opened in my life.

I set down the bag with my T-shirt, slippers, and scarf, then grab my phone. I clutch it tight. “You naughty thing,” I say, admonishing it, but really…me. Even though it wasn’t my fault. I was a hero earlier, saving that kid from sliding down a wobbly step. And look where it got me. A date with a hottie. I slide open my phone, finding a text from my mom, then one from my brother, responding to my I’m here message. I open his first as I hustle to my suitcase to grab a bra.

Christian: Hey, J! Glad you made it safely, and welcome to San Francisco. Sorry it took me a while to reply. Liv was having contractions but they turned out to be Braxton Hicks.

Josie: OMG. Did you go to the hospital?

Christian: No, but she was swearing and cursing at me while I dialed the nurse on call.

Josie: Aww, I feel so bad for you getting yelled at.

Christian: Funny thing—she has no sympathy for me either. Anyway, do you need anything? I can send over groceries if you want. Or some takeout. You name it. But be careful when you’re walking around the city, K? Stay alert. Or better yet, I could get you a bodyguard?

I roll my eyes at my overprotective brother as I tug off the sleeves of my white top.

Josie: Do you have a bodyguard for Liv? If not, I don’t need one.

Christian: I’ll send over some mace and a pocketknife. Like she carries.

Josie: Stop worrying about me! Worry about Liv! How is she doing now?

I slide on my bra at the speed of sound as I read his reply.

Christian: Let me check. Hold on.

Christian: She says she’s the size of Alaska and to get the F away from her.

Josie: Yep, she’s definitely in the “don’t do this to me again” phase of pregnancy. Good luck!

Christian: Mace is on its way.

I stick one arm back in the sleeve as I spot my mom’s note.

Mom: Did you hear Liv had Braxton Hicks? Is she OK? Should you go see her?

To do what? Help her give birth to babies that aren’t ready to come? But that’s typical of Mom to focus on Christian. As I pull my sweatshirt down, I dictate a response.

Josie: If she needs someone to read to the babies, I’ll be right there!

Next, I send a quick text to Maeve as I rush through the living room.

Josie: I’m getting an ice cream with the hottie who saved me. But I can still meet you later!

I yank the door open, then stop, spinning around to grab my scarf from the bag. For good luck. I toss it around my neck jauntily since that’s the only way you should toss a scarf, then take off down the steps. I slow at the ground floor when my phone pings with her reply.

Maeve: I’m sorry, ma’am. But did you say you’re getting banged by the NOT UNATTRACTIVE hottie who saved you?

Josie: Ice cream, Maeve. We’re getting ice cream.

Maeve: New slang, obviously. Also, I was right, I was right, I was so, so right.

Josie: It’s just ice cream. Also, I’m turning my location tracker on for you.

As I’m nearing the door, her reply lands.

Maeve: I can’t wait till it shows you’re on the couch in my place having fun.

Josie: Maeve!

Maeve: Also, I can entertain myself tonight. Don’t worry about me walking in on you. I’ll go to that 24-hour bookstore while you’re busy. Just watch out for the spring on my couch. It’s loose and might stab you in the ass. Solution? Have him bend you over the back of the sofa. Sex is just better like that anyway. And that’s your sex tip from your girl, Maeve.

I exit the building and when I look up from the phone, I’m grinning as I shake my head. Wesley’s on the stoop where I left him, checking me out with curious eyes. He pops out the earbuds and stuffs them into his jeans pockets. “Something good?”

I am definitely not telling him what No-Filter Maeve said. But I can give him a little something. “I was telling my friend about you.”

His smile feels like it’s the same vintage as mine. A robust I want you too wine from this year. No, from today. Harvested this evening. “So she knows your whereabouts?”

“Yes, but also…” I pause. Am I really doing this? Yes, I am. “But also because she likes to be right.”

“About what?”

“I’ll tell you if it happens,” I say, teasing him.

“Can’t wait,” he says, and his voice is dripping with undertones.

We head down the steps, but we don’t go to The Scoop. Instead, I tell him there’s an ice cream shop a couple blocks away. “I just looked it up. There’s one called The Hand Dipper nearby,” I say, then…it hits me. “That sounds vaguely dirty.”

“Just vaguely?”

“Okay, completely.”

“Perfect then,” he says, and along the way we pass the record shop I spotted earlier, where he tells me he bought the new Ben Rogers album. I have no idea who that is, but I say “cool” and make a mental note to look them up later.

We reach The Hand Dipper quickly. The name is etched into the glass along with a tongue darting past a pair of lips, licking a cone.

“Definitely not vague at all,” he says, holding open the door for me like he did at the clothing shop earlier.

As we walk to the counter he sets a hand on my back. A possessive one that covers the fabric of my sweatshirt and my exposed skin. That makes me shiver too. When we reach the case and check out the tubs of mouth-watering desserts, he murmurs, “Yup. Ice cream porn all right.”

“You should be happy then.”

“Very happy,” he says, in the same confident, raspy way he said very single earlier.

We check out the flavors—balsamic strawberry, lavender honey, cinnamon and champagne. I’m definitely not in Kansas anymore. He turns to me. “Want to try a bunch?”

I want to try him. But first, I need ice cream courage. “What do you think is good for a first night in town? I just moved here.”

He gives me a quick once-over. Something he’s been doing a lot tonight. “You definitely need the cinnamon and champagne then.”

“Perfect. I’ll have a single scoop in a cup.” I shouldn’t be licking a cone in front of him like it’s a sweet, icy dick.

“You don’t want to try it first?”

I shake my head. “No. I’m taking a leap.”

“A woman who knows her mind. I like it.”

He catches the attention of the man behind the counter with a “Hey there.” The guy is wearing a Renegades cap for one of the city’s football teams.

“Hey,” he says to Wesley, furrowing his brow, like he’s studying him. “Are you…on the football team?”

Wesley laughs politely but shakes his head. “No, man. I don’t play football.”

“Sorry,” he says. “You just looked familiar.”

“No worries. It’s all good,” Wesley says. “I’m in the sports business though. On the assets side.”

The server’s brow pinches like that doesn’t compute. “Ah,” the guy says, then satisfied, perhaps, with Wesley being in finance rather than on the field, he returns to rinsing a steel scoop.

And Wesley resumes looking my way. This is probably where I should say what I do for a living. But all the dating research I’ve done says focusing on someone’s job—theirs or yours—is a red flag that you’re boring, or just into money, or that your question might remind them of an annoying co-worker.

I follow his lead and keep it simple with, “I’m in the book business.”

There. It’s true, and we can move on.

“Cool,” he says, then does exactly that by asking, “Have you spent time in San Francisco before?”

I could tell him my brother lives here. That I’ve been to a couple Sea Dogs hockey games over the last few years, though not that many since I’ve been so busy with my master’s in library and information science. But I’ve spent most of my life in my big brother’s big shadow. I don’t need to spend tonight talking about my semi-famous sibling. We might wind up in a convo about asset management in the sports business, and that might put me to sleep. Besides, knowing those details might compromise the integrity of item number one on the list—which is starting to look more and more like a possibility. The less we know about the other, the more faithful I’ll be to Aunt Greta’s list. Best to just be fun, talk about hobbies, and the moment. “I have. But I was usually fully dressed before.”

Wesley laughs, and I pat myself on the back for a perfect deflection. “I’m glad to hear that. Not that you don’t look great in slippers.”

“I rock a pair, don’t I?”

“You do. But wait till you see mine,” he says, and that feels promising too since his slippers are—just a guess—at his home.

In his bedroom.

If I get another couple signs he’s game for more, I’ll go for it. I’ll jump even though it’s been a while since I’ve been on the horse, and I’ve only ever ridden in one saddle. But I’ve seen a lot of saddles on screen. And read about them in books. My imagination is not lacking.

The server finishes scooping and sets down a strawberry balsamic cup for Wesley, then the cinnamon and champagne for me. I reach for my phone to pay, but Wesley covers my hand with his. My breath stutters. His skin is warm. His hand is strong. How would it feel on my back as he bends me over the couch? Damn that Maeve.

“I lied when I said yes to your offer. I lied because I’m buying,” Wesley says.

“But you’ve already been so generous,” I say, though I know it’s a feeble protest.

Especially when he lifts a brow playfully but says nothing, like he’s letting me imagine other ways he might be giving.

Oh I’m imagining, universe. I’m definitely imagining.

With an uncommon speed, he whips out his phone and taps it on the screen to pay, then gives a tip that doubles the amount.

“Thanks, man,” the Renegades fan says.

“You’re welcome.”

The sports asset management business must be a good one.

Wesley picks up both our cups, then heads toward the counter by the window, pulling out a white metal stool for me. We both sit and he lifts his cup like he’s offering it to toast. “To your friend being right.”

Tell me you know what she said without telling me you know what she said.

“I’ll…lick to that.”

“Me too,” he says with a smirk, then holds my gaze with so much confidence that my stomach flips. A blast of heat rushes through my body.

We “clink” paper cups, then he takes a spoonful of his ice cream and I do the same. He watches me the whole time with those warm brown eyes, flecked with gold. More specifically, he watches my mouth, and I like it.

When I set down the spoon, he says, “Your scar is fucking hot.”

He’s fucking hot. And blunt. I run a finger across the indentation on my chin. No one has complimented it before. Certainly not John, my longtime college boyfriend who became my post-college boyfriend since inertia kept us together till we finally petered out. “Thank you. I fell off a bike,” I say.

“When you were learning to ride?”

“Yes.” I don’t tell him I was chasing Christian as a kid. That I was trying to keep up with my big brother. That I felt like I’d tried to be like him for so long in everything. That I even tried to play hockey to be like him. But I’m not athletic. Besides, books were, and are, better companions than athletic gear. “I’m not particularly sporty, but I did end up learning how to ride.”

“So you got back on,” he says, his deep, steady voice thrumming through me, turning me on.

“I did,” I say, then take another spoonful. He does the same, then offers me his.

“Wanna try?”

“Sure,” I say, then hand him mine.

I take a lick of the balsamic strawberry. “It’s sweet, and a little tart.”

He licks the cinnamon and champagne off my spoon with an approving hum. “A little like you, I suspect, since you smell like cinnamon.”

Warmth blooms in my chest. “You noticed,” I say, but he’s a noticer, so this shouldn’t be a surprise. It’s nice though. “It’s my lotion.”

“It’s got a little kick to it,” he says.

Do I have a kick to me? In some ways, I probably do. In other ways, I don’t entirely know. But tonight is for boldness, so I add, “Like me.”

That earns me a heated grin. He takes one more bite, like he’s savoring every ounce of the treat. “And yours tastes…a little forbidden,” he says, and arousal builds in my belly. I don’t know why ice cream is forbidden to him. I don’t even really care. I just like the way he talks to me and looks at me. Like he wants to know me and eat me up.

He gives me back my forbidden cup, then says in that same heated voice, “What do you think of San Francisco so far?”

The air between us crackles. “I’m liking it,” I say, my skin tingling. We’re not talking about the city.

“Yeah, me too,” he says. “And your first night here? Is it what you imagined?”

“Nothing has been like I imagined,” I say playfully, flashing back to Big Bird and Ms. Peck. “Even the pigeon sex.”

But for the first time in a while Wesley looks thrown off. “Okaaaaay.”

Shoot. I’m pretty sure pigeon sex is not on a list of acceptable date topics. I shake my head quickly. “It’s not like that.” But what do I even mean by it’s not like that? I scramble to explain myself better. “I meant I took a video of two pigeons banging…” Nope, that’s not better.

No wonder I haven’t attempted the first item on my list before. I am a hot mess when it comes to flirting.

But Wesley doesn’t let my comment go. “You recorded the bird portion of the birds and the bees?”

“I did,” I say with a wince since it’s too late to take it back. “Do you want to say goodnight right now?”

His hand comes down on mine again, covering it, squeezing it. “No. I want you to tell me how they do it.”

With a smile and a fresh surge of adrenaline, I give him a quick overview of pigeon copulation, and soon he’s laughing. When the laughter subsides, he says, “I’m not sure how to top that. I was going to say we could check out the Golden Gate Bridge or the Palace of Fine Arts. But once you’ve seen pigeons fornicating, everything else is downhill.”

Except…

I can’t believe I’m about to do this. I can’t believe I’m using my pornithography as my lubricant. But what do I have to lose?

I take a deep breath…

But he goes first, speaking in a quieter, bedroom voice. “You’re blushing again, Josie. You did that in the store.”

I know what moment he means. I know what I was thinking about then too—item number one. I was weighing if I was going to do it or not. “I did?”

“Yeah. It’s pretty when you blush. Just like your blue eyes.”

That’s why he said blue’s his favorite color.

No time like the present. No night like tonight. Get out of your comfort zone. I already did that when I walked half-naked around the city. This next step should be easy. I take one more bite of my ice cream for courage, then set it down.

But Wesley is faster once again, asking, “Can I try your ice cream a second time?”

He really does like the dessert. I hand him the cup, and he takes it with a quick thanks, but then sets it down on the counter.

I frown, confused. “You didn’t taste…”

He rises from his stool, closes the short distance between us then leans in, dipping his face close to mine.

The air whooshes from my chest. A shiver runs down my spine. For a long, delicious second—or several—he waits. Like he’s letting the moment ripen. His gaze drops to my mouth, then he lifts his hand. I expect him to cup my cheek or thread it through my hair.

Instead, he presses his palm against my collarbone, under the scarf, spreading his fingers wide against the exposed flesh. I go hot everywhere. It’s possible my panties are on fire.

He drops his mouth to mine, our lips connecting at last. His kiss is soft, heady, a little on the sweet side. Then it’s tart, from his ice cream.

He kisses the corner of my mouth, then slides his hand up the side of my neck. His thumb glides over the hinge of my jaw as he deepens the kiss. I part my lips for him, my mind popping, my skin tingling. As he kisses me, his scruff rubs lightly against my skin, the sandpaper scratch of it making my knees weak. I feel like my bones are melting right along with the ice cream as he kisses me more—the kind of kiss that’s so much more than a taste.

I part my legs slightly.

I’m keenly aware we’re in an ice cream shop. But I’m pretty sure I’ve stopped caring since I invite him a little closer. He moves in, nudging my knees a little wider so he can stand between my thighs. Good thing I’m sitting because the move turns my legs to jelly.

Our tongues skate together. He presses more firmly on my jaw, tipping my head back the slightest bit. The move makes me shudder.

And that seems to turn him on more, judging from the passion in the kiss, the wrap of his arm around my back.

He murmurs as he kisses me, a desperate kind of growl that sends me spinning. I lift a hand and grab at the open neckline of his dress shirt. He kicks up the kiss a few notches. Then, like it costs him every ounce of control, he ends it and yanks himself away. His eyes are dark. His breathing is staggered.

“How did it taste?” I ask.

“I might need to try it again…and again…and again.”

Same here. This is it. This is absolutely it. He’s item number one. “There’s something I’ve always wanted to do but never have,” I say, and nothing is going to stop me now.

His irises say go the fuck on. “Yeah?”

I pause, then find my courage as I tackle the first item on my list. “Have a one-night stand with a sexy stranger.”