Page 4 of The Boyfriend Experience

“It does to me,” she says. “And I’m the one who paid you, so yes. It matters.”

“He’s…” I shrug. “I mean, he’s got a nice body. I’d fuck him.”

“I’m not asking about his sex appeal, Wells. I’m asking about his fitness level.”

I hate the way she always calls me Wells. It’s like she sneers it every single time. I haven’t been taking it personally because Oaklee sneers every word that comes out of her mouth. She’s practically dripping with cynicism.

But I’m starting to think she doesn’t like me.

“Why? You gonna make him your triathlon partner? You gonna make him ride a bull? Bike up Pikes Peak? Why the fuck do you need to know this?”

She smiles. She’s very pretty when she smiles. Her hair is long, blonde, and wild. Not curly, not straight—but large, round rolling waves that almost take on a life of their own when she moves. It’s like a metaphor for her, I realize. On the verge of something. Always on the verge of something.

I’ve seen her with it tied back and on those days she looks… tame. Like a dog on a leash or a lion in a cage. But today it’s loose, so she’s wild, I suppose.

She has no choice but to be wild. That’s just who she is. And that’s why every guy I’ve sent to her has given me a very firm no, thank you.

Her eyes are brown. Which isn’t something you see too often with blonde people. And not just any brown, but a very light brown. Her cheekbones are prominent but not sharp, but her chin is round and so is her nose. So it doesn’t make her look… handsome. No. She’s not handsome. Everything about her is pretty.

“Because I have a very specific image in mind and I’m paying for the fuckin’ game,” she says, answering my question.

Everything except her mouth, that is.

“I sent you an email. Can you at least look at it and see if he’s good enough? Because I gotta tell ya, Oaklee, he’s your last chance.”

“What’s that mean? I paid you seventy—”

“I’ll give it back,” I say, holding up a hand. “I don’t want to,” I grumble to myself. “But I will. I’m not gonna cheat you, for fuck’s sake. I’m just… I wasn’t aware that you had a reputation around town.”

Her mouth drops open. She is aghast. “What?”

“For being bitchy, OK? That’s not me talking. I love you, Oaklee.” I pause to smile here. “You’re the best.” And I need your money, I don’t add. “But look, you’re one of those strong women, right?”

“Right,” she says, folding her arms across her chest, eyeing me with something close to contempt.

“You got money, you got a business, you’re very beautiful. You don’t need a man.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “I paid for a man.”

“I know, I know, I know!” I say, holding my hand up, pressing it forward into the air to enunciate each word. And then I sigh. And frown. And point to the email she didn’t open on her computer screen. “He’s your man. And if you don’t like him—well, Oaklee, I’m gonna have to give you your money back and call it a day. Because I’m out of men. And believe me, I want your money. I need it for something specific. But Lawton is my last guy, OK? So take him or leave him.”

She leans back in her chair, making it creak. Not looking defeated. Not at all. Just… resigned. We both stare out her office windows. It’s late afternoon and you can tell there’s rain coming soon because the sky is that slate-gray color of spring thunderheads.

“OK,” she says. No drama. No explanation. Just, “OK. When do we start?”

“He’s all yours,” I say, relieved, but keeping it out of my voice. “How about I have him stop by here for dinner tonight?”

She looks at me then, squinting. “He can pick me up from here. But I didn’t pay seventy thousand dollars for a pretend boyfriend just to be taken to dinner at my own brewhouse.”

“Of course,” I say. “He’ll pick you up and take you out.”

“OK,” Oaklee agrees. Then she turns her head a little as she smiles—like she’s trying to hide it from me—and says, “Deal.”

“There’s just one more thing,” I say.

“What now?”

“He needs help with something.”