Page 14 of The Boyfriend Experience

I take a sip of coffee and ponder this. And at the same moment I see Oaklee emerge from her apartment through a sliding door, phone to her ear, as she paces back and forth and waves her hands around in exaggerated gestures.

Hmmm.

She looks pissed.

I take another sip of coffee and consider yelling to see if I can get her attention. Then decide to just watch her instead. She’s wearing a long white button-down shirt. Like a man’s shirt, I guess. Which elicits an unreasonable feeling of jealousy in me that I quickly swallow down.

We’re not that kind of couple.

Underneath the shirt she’s wearing shorts and a tank top. It’s a little chilly this morning for that, but she’s so busy talking on the phone, I doubt she notices the cold.

She certainly doesn’t look over here—which causes a stab of disappointment. Because it feels like I’ve thought about nothing but her since we met last night and she clearly has other things on her mind.

I glance over my shoulder, find the wall clock in my living room, and figure I’d better get ready for our first date.

So I leave her to her business, go back inside, and set my coffee cup in the sink and consider her instructions.

Wear jeans and a t-shirt, she said.

Hmmm… I’m not a jeans guy. I mean, I don’t always wear suits on the weekends, but I do often enough that my wardrobe starts to worry me.

So I go to my closet, ponder what I have, and decide on a pair of Joe’s Jeans I got from Neiman Marcus last summer when Zack invited me to go boating up at Grand Lake with him.

He laughed at them, but these jeans are the shit. Dark denim, straight-legged, not skinny, and they make my junk look good.

I think Oaklee will appreciate them.

I grab a white Balmain t-shirt with the logo splashed across the front from the drawer, steam it real quick because it’s got a crease down the side, and slip it over my head.

Shoes… hmmm… sneakers, I guess. I have a pair of Burberry in house-check style, so I slip those on and take a look at myself.

Yup. I totally got this look.

Oh… a belt. I need a belt. I have a thing for belts so I spend a lot of time on this choice, eventually deciding on Burberry (in house check) because it matches the shoes.

I leave my place at ten minutes to noon because I’m punctual that way, and hop down the stairs with a spring in my step that it hasn’t had in a long time.

Oaklee Ryan. I might like her. This will, at least, be fun, I think.

And hey, if we get that show we’ll be partners. I might feel this way for years if that happens.

When I get to the lobby I’m pleasantly surprised to see Oaklee waiting. She’s talking to one of her hostesses, so she doesn’t notice me right away. I ease my way through the brunch crowd waiting for a table in the lobby and wait for her to turn.

Which she does. And immediately frowns.

“What?”

“What the fuck are you wearing?”

I look down at my outfit. “What do ya mean? You said jeans and t-shirt.”

She’s wearing her usual. Short ruffly skirt that flutters against her bare thighs, cowboy boots, a tan tank top, and a cropped army jacket with embroidered patches of her beer bottle labels.

“What the hell? Balmain Paris?” She scowls.

“What? This shirt is fuckin’ cool.”

“That shirt is stupid.” And then she sees my shoes. “And what the fuck are you wearing on your feet?”