Page 77 of The Boyfriend Experience

He winks at me and turns. Walks to the elevator, presses the button, then looks over his shoulder at me. “Respected,” he says.

“What?” I ask, shaking myself out of the stupor he’s put me in.

“That’s what you feel. Because I know you’ve been asking yourself that since you came downstairs. It’s respected, Oaklee.”

And then the elevator dings, opens, and he walks inside.

I watch them close. Watch him disappear.

And wonder how long I have to wait before I can marry this man. How soon is too soon?

Because yeah, I feel special, cared for, adored, and respected when I’m with Lawton Ayers. But that’s what he’s making me feel. Not what I’m feeling back.

What I feel back scares the shit out of me.

Because Hanna Harlow is still out there. I still have to deal with her. She’s still stealing my recipes. She’d steal my life if I let her.

If I love him, then now I have something else she can take away from me.

And I hired Jordan Wells to give me a boyfriend for Hanna. Not me, her. So I could get close to her and figure out how she’s doing all this. Why she’s doing all this.

And I just know—I feel it deep down in my gut—that if she sees Lawton like this… like he is now and not like he was on Saturday at the Opera House tavern… if she sees the real him she’s gonna want him just as much as I do.

Because how could she not?

And that terrifies me. What if he likes her better than me? What if he falls for her charm just like all those other boyfriends did?

There’s a part of me—a rational part—that says he won’t. She’s got nothing I don’t already have too, after all. She’s pretty, but no prettier than I am. She’s smart, but no smarter than I am. She’s successful, but no more successful than I am.

But there’s another part of me—the insecure part—that says he will. Because she’s more outgoing than I am. She holds her shit together when things get hard. I blow up. She’s satisfied, and happy, and on her way up.

And I’m lost, and sad, and falling pretty fast in this whole beer business. I haven’t won a beer festival award since my father died. I’m surviving on what’s left of his fumes and she’s gassed up full, ready to win the race.

So there’s like a few minutes, as I sit and eat the rest of my French toast, that I dwell on all that. On how she always takes things away from me. On how she always beats me to the finish line.

But I snap out of that thought.

Remember who I am.

Remember what I’m capable of.

And decide to fight for what’s mine this time instead of letting her take it from me.

I will fight for Lawton. And I will fight for my beer recipes. And I’m gonna enter Assassin Sour Saison in the festival this weekend and win that prize too.

I do not care what it takes, I’m going to fight that bitch.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - LAWTON

It feels weird to be in a suit after this weekend. Which is also weird, because I wear suits every day and leather jackets… never. But I miss it. I want it back. I want to take off this tie, take off this starched-collar shirt, take off this life and put on something else.

But work. This fucking job. I have clients to meet and paperwork to file, and deals to close and… yeah.

So that’s how I spend my morning. Driving down to Greenwood Village to show another half-acre-lot mansion. Being polite to clients as they discuss the pros and cons of the amount of veining in the marble countertops. Listening patiently as they tell me they’d like to offer a hundred and fifty thousand dollars under fair-market value so they feel like they’re getting a deal. Force myself to smile and say, “That’s an excellent idea, Scott. Let’s make it happen.” And then drive away and do it all again in Cherry Creek and Park Hill.

I don’t actually get a lunch so I’m glad I didn’t try to make plans with Oaklee. Not unless you count pulling through the Carl’s Jr drive-through and eating the number three value meal in my car as I sit in traffic a lunch.

Which I don’t.