The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)

Josie

I clutch the cocktail napkin with the door code like it’s the gold the hero hunts for in a pirate’s tale. “Thank you,” I say to Maeve after telling her the tale of my misfortune, down to my impromptu plus-one.

“Girl, thank you. For giving me a hell of a story. You are a determined tiger, walking through the city like that,” Maeve says, eyeing me up and down in my ragtag clothes that make me look like, well, like I was sleepwalking. She tips her forehead to Wesley, standing a few feet away and studying a painting of what looks like a vampiric ant. “Also, he’s not too unattractive.”

I laugh at her dry humor. “Yeah, he’s definitely not too bad at all. But he was just helping.”Published by Nôv'elD/rama.Org.

“Right,” she whispers, her eyes darting to him again. “Hope you have fun.”

“It’s not like that,” I insist since I don’t want to assume anything.

But with a wink that says you lie, Maeve whirls around, balancing a tray of sparkling champagne flutes, offering them to the crowd. I turn back to the stranger who saved the day as he turns back to me. Scruff lines his chiseled jaw, his light brown eyes twinkle with amusement, and his full lips curve into a very playful grin. He wears a silver chain that draws my attention to the fair skin of his throat, and inexplicably makes me wonder how he’d taste if I kissed him there—right there by his Adam’s apple. Does he wear cologne? Would it go to my head?

Get a grip.

He’s a stranger. I shouldn’t lust after a stranger. Instead, I brandish the napkin like it’s a prize. “I’ve got it,” I say, with more relief than I’ve ever felt.

“Now protect that, Josie,” he says.

“With my life,” I say, and I’m about to stuff it in the safest spot possible—my bra—when I remember that I’m not wearing one.

I just fold it, curling my fingers around it. He’s probably ready to take off and, I dunno, study the art here or whatever people who go to art openings do. “Thank you, Wesley,” I say since I heard Frieda the Wicked Witch use his name. “That was amazing. And I seriously appreciate it. Is there anything I can do for you?”

I genuinely want to thank him. I also maybe, possibly, don’t mind looking at him because this man is…unreal. He’s six-foot-fifty, and his shirt is hugging his pecs, and cuddling his biceps that go on for days. And his wavy, wild, dark brown hair is just a delicious mess. The kind of mess I want to drag my fingers through.

Focus, girl.

“As a matter of fact, you can help me pick art,” he says.

I was not expecting that. But it makes sense. We’re at a gallery after all.

“You want me to help you choose something?” On the one hand I’m grateful for the chance to repay the favor, but on the other hand…I gesture to my get-up. “I hate to break it to you, but I’m wearing a T-shirt and slippers. They did want to bar me from entry for all eternity.”

“And they failed. So, wanna help?”

I don’t really want to wander around a gallery half-dressed after walking a mile like this already and feeling like the biggest fool. But the man swooped in and saved the day, so I owe it to him to help, even with my free-range boobs. “I hope you’re ready for my exquisite taste,” I say.

“I’m always ready,” he says with a confidence that sends a zing down my naked chest, “for anything.”

And the zing spreads farther.

Ready for what, the too curious side of me wants to ask. But I keep that to myself. With my slippers slapping against the polished blond wood of the floor, we check out paintings hanging on stark white walls.

And wow.

I don’t want to be rude. I’m a librarian not an art historian.

But these paintings look like my nightmares. They’re all apocalyptic. Like that one of fish with wings flying over a desolate cityscape.

Wesley gestures to it. “Would this look good on my walls?” It’s asked seriously.

I study his handsome face, trying to read him as he crosses his arms and stares at the huge canvas taking up way too much space. “It depends where you live,” I say diplomatically.

“An underground bunker,” he deadpans.

I smile. “Perhaps then.”

But I don’t entirely want to insult his taste in case I’m reading him wrong, so I’m careful as we head to the next one—a black painting with a skeleton horse riding across a desert landscape toward an alien, whose face is melting off.

Wesley studies it intently, tilting his head one way, then the other. Oh god, does he really like that monstrosity?

“What do you think?” I ask enthusiastically, trying to be nice.

He hums for a beat, then leans closer to me, his shoulder bumping mine. A charge rushes through me. From his shoulder. I’ve never been a shoulder girl, but I’m reconsidering that stance tonight. Nope. I’m revising it. I’m officially a shoulder woman.

“I feel like this painting is telling me to shop at another gallery,” he whispers.

I breathe out, relieved. “Thank god you said that.”

He tilts his head. “Did you think I liked it?”

“I was hoping you didn’t,” I whisper.

“Josie.” He tsks, his clever eyes holding my gaze in a way that makes my chest flip and reminds me of item number one on my list, which makes no sense, because item number one is not my style, not at all, not one bit. “Don’t you know me better by now, sweetie?”

No, but I kind of want to—want to know him as more than just my spur-of-the-moment fake date. “You’re right. This is totally not your style, honey.”

“Exactly.” He pauses, looks around. “But what about that one?”

I furrow my brow. He’s not gesturing to a painting. “Which one?” I ask, confused.

He lifts his finger higher, his lips tilting up, his irises gleaming with mischief. He’s pointing to the exit sign.

I grin. I can get behind that plan. “That’s a sign…to sneak out the back door,” I say in a low voice.

He glances around, looking for Frieda perhaps, then pushes open the door by the exit. “I’ll cover for you.”

Without giving it a second thought, because he’s too fun, too handsome, too helpful, I slip past him, my arm brushing against his firm chest. He’s right behind me, and we’re pushing out another door that opens into the alley while we’re laughing like we’ve made our great escape.

When I catch my breath, the thrill of our swift exit seems to vanish, and I feel empty already. Because it’s probably time to say goodbye. I have my code, and surely he’s ready to move on with his night.

With a resigned sigh, I stick out my free hand, the one that’s not holding the napkin. “Thank you again, Wesley. I seriously needed this. All of this.”

He takes my hand, shaking it. “Happy to help.”

“I should head home,” I say, tipping my forehead in the direction of Maeve’s place. “It’s a mile in slippers.”

He doesn’t let go of my hand. He’s silent, but his eyes seem to flicker with ideas. “Can I walk you?”

Briefly, I weigh the risks. He’s a stranger, but he’s a stranger who saved me. Plus, I’m walking anyway. And the streets are full of people.

“Sure,” I say. He lets go of my hand. As we leave the alley and turn onto Hayes Street, we walk a few blocks and chat about the city. But a question nags at me. “Did you really want to buy art tonight?”

“Not from there. I’d rather hang a poster from a concert I’ve gone to, or pics of my sister’s dog, or just something funny. But I kind of had to show up. My dad wanted me to check it out,” he says, but his light tone disappears, telling me he doesn’t want to talk about his father. “Do you hang fancy art like that? Or terrifying art?”

“I haven’t really done it before. I’m more of a photos girl—of the people I love,” I reply, ignoring the slight pang in my chest when I think of one person I love who was taken from my life too soon.

We pass an ice cream shop and he glances at the window—a little longingly—before turning his gaze back to me. I file that information away in my mind under Things Extremely Built Men Want But Can’t Have. I shift gears. “And do you usually save women trying to infiltrate art events?”

“That was definitely a first. Do you usually infiltrate art events in your…” He lifts a curious brow, checking out my absurd clothes.

“My getting ready outfit?”

“Yes, that.”

I pluck at the oversized shirt, then wince. “No. It’s sort of fitting, the art was nightmarish. Walking around half-naked is kind of a nightmare.”

Instantly, his mirth vanishes. His brown eyes are serious as he scans the block with assessing eyes. “There’s a shop a couple blocks away. I saw it when I was driving. Let me get you something to wear.”

My lips part. My brain stutters. Is he for real? Who is this generous? “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

It’s said like the simplest answer ever. And it’s no longer just a fleeting thought. This sexy stranger is definitely making me rethink item number one on my list.