Page 16 of The Boyfriend Experience

“Well, that’s what I’m doing. They have other shows that feature high-end real-estate agents. So my show is something in between. We only deal in mountain homes and only high-end buyers. It’s a fantasy show. For people who want to get the fuck out of the city and live a different kind of life.”

“People like you,” I say.

He nods. “People like me.”

“Interesting,” I say.

“How so?” he asks.

“Well.” I chuckle a little. “You’re the kind of guy who shows up in a Balmain Paris t-shirt and Burberry sneakers when I say to come dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.”

“Just because I’m a professional doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the outdoors. This is Colorado, for fuck’s sake.”

“Look, I don’t know why you’re being combative with me over clothes. I told you a hundred times. It’s—”

“Not personal,” he says, interrupting me. “Yeah, I get it. So what should I wear, boss?”

I smile. Tightly. “I’m going to ignore your attitude and get back to the job at hand, OK? Let’s see what you have.”

He stands aside and does a little bow as he waves his hand to the closet.

Which is… a very. Nice. Closet.

“Wow,” I say, easing past him. Our bodies touch, my stomach brushing across his as I maneuver my way inside, and for a second I get a whiff of his aftershave. It’s a manly scent. Like sandalwood or something.

I stop, our bodies still touching, and glance up at him. When our eyes meet he squints at me.

I know we’re thinking about it. Sex, that is. Because he’s attractive and I’m looking pretty sexy right now in my boots and skirt. But neither of us says anything.

So I inhale deeply, push past him to break contact, and take in the closet.

Two whole separate spaces. All custom high-end dark-wood cabinetry in one room and a dressing room with mirrors and a low bench in the middle of the next.

There’s racks of suit coats. Like two dozen button-down shirts that are starched to perfection, slacks hanging, and a whole wall of shoes lined up along the shelves. I’m pretty sure if I had a ruler with me, everything in here would be spaced two inches apart.

“Hey, what’s this?” I say. My eyes are immediately drawn to a black leather jacket hanging up towards the back of a row of coats.

Law laughs. “Leftover from my teen years.”

“You should wear this today,” I say, grabbing the hanger and taking it down.

“Shit. I was fifteen when I last wore that jacket. Won’t fit. I doubt I could even get my arms in the sleeves.”

It’s a biker jacket. The old kind with zippers and shit. Heavy, and worn, and there’s two patches on the front. One is a black skull flanked on either side by ravens on a white background. The other is of a white motorcycle on a black background. Both of them say Shrike Bikes. When I turn it around to see the back, there’s a large anarchy symbol centerpiece patch and nothing else.

“Were you in a…”

“Gang?” he says, finishing my sentence once again. “You could say that.”

“Hmmm,” I say, trying to picture him in that light, find it impossible and take off my little army jacket so I can slip the jacket on, because there’s no way I can’t. “Fits me,” I say, smiling over at him.

He shrugs. “Take it with you if you want. I’ve got no use for it.”

“Really?” I say, walking into the dressing room so I can see myself in the full-length mirror.

“Sure. That’s what boyfriends do, right? Give their girl their jacket to wear.”

I look at him and we both laugh.