Page 93 of The Build-a-Boyfriend Project

“No, don’t apologize. That’s what we’re here for, right?” Eli hesitates, thinking about how amazing all of these details will be for the article. Then he has to pause, remembering that’s not the most important thing right now.

“I love where I come from. It’s not perfect, not by a long shot. But nowhere is. And I think it’s important for anyone, for any community, to remember and appreciate where you’ve come from.”

“That’s beautiful, Peter.”

“I just hate that the South gets such a bad rap. Like yeah, things are bad there, but things are bad literally everywhere else. Plus, we have Bojangles.”

“I’ll have to take your word for that, because I have no idea what a Bojangles is.”

“I’ll take you to try it one day.” Peter grins, and Eli tries not to focus too hard on the fact that Peter is apparently planning vacations back home and he wants to take Eli with him.

Eli puts away his phone. “You know I’m going to have to ask what you’re reading.”

Peter’s expression sinks. “You really don’t have to.”

“Well, considering how quickly you threw it in your laundry bag there, I’m going to guess it’s some steamy erotica,” Eli teases, because he can’t ever help himself.

“It’s not.”

“Come on, we all have our vices. What is it, a dinosaur and a priest?”

“How would that even work?” Peter asks.

“Use your imagination,” Eli tells him. “It’s a powerful tool.”

“No dinosaurs.”

“So, there are priests, sexy. Is the father getting a little hot under the collar for Jesus?” Eli even pulls on the neckline of Peter’s hoodie.

“No priests either.”

“Okay, okay . . .” Eli hesitates. “Would you be mad at me if I said that I saw your romance collection?”

Peter pauses, clearly unsure of how to react to Eli knowing what he has to consider a deep, dark secret.

“How did you—”

“I dropped the Advil bottle in your room when you’d passed out, and some of them went under the bed and I know that sounds like a made-up excuse so I really hope you don’t think that I’m just lying to prove that I didn’t snoop around your apartment or something because I didn’t,” Eli says the words in one long breath, only realizing what he’s done when he’s finished speaking. “But I am sorry, for finding the books.”

“It’s okay, I guess.”

“Can I ask why you hide them?”

“You know . . . I think about that every time I finish one of these and I reach for a new one.” Peter dips down, pulling the book free of its smelly prison. “Or when I go to the bookstore and I buy two other books I don’t care about just so I can hide the books I actually want to read.”

“Please tell me you’ve never done that,” Eli pleads.

Peter hesitates.

“Peter . . .”

“It only happened once—after that I learned to only buy books online or read them on my phone.” Peter smiles, and Eli hopes he knows that he isn’t making fun of Peter. “But if you ever need a book on World War I or a biography of James Buchanan, you can borrow them from me.”

“I think I’m good.”

Peter shrugs. “I donated them to the library already.”

“You didn’t answer my question, though,” Eli continues. “Why do you hide them?”