Page 10 of The Boyfriend Experience

“I’m not a prostitute, Law. I don’t need your credit card. I don’t need to be taken to a fancy luncheon on a polo field. I need. A man.”

“I’m a man.”

“Indeed you are. I have doubts about this, I’d like to make that clear up front. So if you have doubts, you should probably leave now. Because once we sign this contract, you’re in. There’s no going back. I own you for two weeks.”

“Can I at least read the contract?”

“Of course. It’s in my office and I’ll get it now. One moment.”

I turn away and walk around a wall partition to my office. The contract was drawn up by Jordan over a month ago. There are enough details in there to make it clear what I need, but it’s vague enough to keep a good lawyer like Jordan from asking too many questions. I don’t think Law here will be a problem, but… there’s always a chance he’ll catch on before he signs.

I’ve interviewed several men since Jordan drew it up, but none of them got past the beer test. If Lawton Ayers has one thing in his favor, it’s that. So despite my hesitations, I grab the file off my desk, snatch up a pen, and walk back out to the living area. He’s opened another bottle and he’s pouring it into the glass.

“I’ve had this one before,” he says, after taking a sip.

It’s our signature beer called Bucked Up and has the iconic bucking horse on the label.

“Do you like it?”

“When I drink beer, I get this out of habit if it’s on tap. So yeah, I guess you can say I like it.” He pours a second glass, presumably for me, and then turns, both in hand, and says, “Let’s drink.”

“First the contract,” I say.

“Buck the contract.” And then he laughs. “Get it? Buck instead of—”

“I get it, Law.”

“God, for a hippy chick you’re pretty uptight, Oaklee.”

“Nobody says I’m a hippy. Who said I was a hippy?”

“You know,” he says, taking a long drink from one of the glasses. “That whole ‘save the mansions’ campaign you had going a while back.”

“It had nothing to do with free sex and flower children. I was trying to preserve the neighborhood.”

“Is that why you renovated your historic building?” He’s smirking at me now.

“I took great care in preserving the historical elements when I updated, thank you.”

“You’re changing the façade. How’s that preserving?”

“I’m not changing the façade. I’m having a bucking bronco painted over the brick.”

“Oh.” He laughs, then takes another sip of his beer. “Excuse me. Defacing the façade. My bad.”

“This building had a bucking horse painted on it back when it was built in nineteen twelve. It was home to a place called Mustang Grocers. The new mural will look a hundred years old by the time we’re done next week and from the outside, my building will look exactly the way it was in nineteen twelve. So don’t worry. It’s going to add a lot of value to the neighborhood. I hired more than a dozen consultants before I made any changes and the property values on this block have all gone up in the last six weeks.”

“I know,” he says, finishing his glass of beer. It’s a sample glass meant for tasting, so only five ounces. But still, the alcohol content of Bucked Up is eight point eight percent.

I’m not sure he realizes that. I’m not sure I should tell him. In fact, maybe getting him drunk will loosen him up. Make him more agreeable. I’m almost out of time. And Jordan did say he wasn’t going to find me another prospect. It’s this guy or nothing.

I need him, I decide. He’ll have to do.

“I own a penthouse just over there,” Law says, pointing. “You can see my terrace from here. I bought it last year and now it’s almost worth double.”

I stare out the window, looking in that direction. Interesting. The fact that we’re neighbors. And convenient too.

Then I turn to face him and smile. The first real smile I’ve unleashed on him all evening. “See?” I say. “Like I said, property values are skyrocketing.”