“Mmmm-hmmmm,” they all answered in chorus.
“No, really. And honestly, I just haven’t met the right woman yet. I’m always on the road with work, which really doesn’t make for good boyfriend material.” I shrugged. I also wasn’t interested in settling down. Not in the very least. My parents’ miserable faces flashed through my mind. Not to mention the damage they bestowed upon yours truly, not so subtly blaming me for snuffing out their hopes and dreams thanks to being the unwanted teenage pregnancy. Yeah…definitely not settling down anytime soon. The world didn’t need another adult child with mommy/daddy issues.
“Thanks for the enlightening afternoon, ladies. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
They all said some version of goodbye, and I headed back to the condo. I noticed I had a voicemail from my agent, Harrison, and was furious. How had I missed the call? I’d had my phone on the entire time. Fuck! The damn AirPods were in my ears the better part of the afternoon. My heart pounded in my chest while the message played on speaker as I looked through the freezer for something to make for dinner. I sent up a quick prayer that it would be one of the contracts we’d been waiting on.
“Hey, Oliver. It’s Harrison. I just heard back from the people over at Lagerfeld. They loved your test shots, but it looks like they had their hearts set on a model with black hair. I told them you would totally dye it, but they weren’t interested. Said it wouldn’t be organic or some bullshit like that. Honestly, I think it was that suit you were wearing. I think we need to update your portfolio. I know this amazing photog in the art distri—”
I cut the message off and threw my phone across the condo, where it smacked into the wall and fell to the floor. It spun in circles until it slowed and eventually came to a complete stop.
How fucking symbolic.
That was the third job I’d lost in the past two weeks. My birthday was at the end of the month, and it felt like they would be playing a funeral processional instead of the usual “happy birthday to you” bullshit. My career was fading before my eyes, and the number of candles on the proverbial cake had as much to do with it as the gray hairs I secretly plucked from my sideburns in the privacy of my bathroom.
I was drying up.
I was a has-been.
I would be twenty-seven in two weeks, with no idea of what to do next.
I was finished.
Chapter Two
“Oll, this is amazing. I have no idea how you do this.”
My roommate, Skye, sat back in her chair, eyes closed, and savored the bite of Chicken Marsala she’d just shoveled into her mouth. You wouldn’t know by looking at her—she weighed maybe one hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet—but the girl could eat like an NFL linebacker. Where it went once it passed through her mouth was like a magic trick.
I cared about Skye more than I had ever cared about another human. She was more my family than the people I shared DNA with. I would go to the mat with anyone who hurt her, and I would do whatever it took to make sure she was happy in all things. She was a good woman, a good human being all around. And I’d been all around the world. Literally. I was well aware there were very few women like Skye left. She’s a treasure, and she deserved to be treated like one.
“How I do what?” I smiled with satisfaction because I already knew what she was going to say. I just wanted to hear it again anyway.
“You know what.” She followed her impatient answer with her typical eye roll. “Cook this way. You have a natural skill, Oliver. I can’t boil water without hurting myself. This takes talent.” She stabbed another piece of chicken with her fork, but my next comment stopped her short, just before she put the bite in her mouth to chew.
“I didn’t get the Lagerfeld contract.” I had no idea what made me blurt it out like that, but things were just like that with Skye. We didn’t have to pretend to be things we weren’t when we were with one another. Her gushing about my ability to cook made me feel like I had to counterbalance the positive with a negative. Like “don’t be fooled, ladies and gentlemen; he’s not really that amazing.” I scrubbed my hand down my face.
Skye’s chair scraped on the floor as she stood up. She was at my side, pulling my arms around her waist and climbing into my lap whether I wanted her to or not.
“Tell me what’s going on.” She pulled my face level with hers. “Tell me, Oliver Mason Connely, right this minute.”
“I hate you,” I mumbled.
“No, you hate Jägermeister.” She grinned her smug little grin as she pressed her forehead to mine.
Another biological wonder about Skye Delaney? The girl can drink like an NFL linebacker too. I made the mistake of getting into some random shot-pounding contest with her early in our college days, and she weaseled every embarrassing personal detail out of me, one shot at a time. By the time the night was over, I was praying to the porcelain god, and she was jotting down notes in a journal she now called “How to Make Oliver Twist.” She used them against me at inopportune times like this very one.
Did I mention she’s witty too? And clever? Like a little fox, that one…
“There’s nothing to tell. Hop up.” I swatted the side of her ass, trying to make her get off my lap. “I need to clean the dishes before it all dries on.”
“Stop.” Her tone was serious. “The dishes can wait. I want you to talk to me. Did your parents call? This is the way you get when you’ve talked to them.”
“No. I haven’t heard from them in weeks. But it would be just my luck to get a call right about now. My dad seems to have some sixth sense about my misery.”
“Honey, there will be other jobs. Lagerfeld is a creepy old dude anyway. What’s with the sunglasses all the time? Am I right? Totally not your style to begin with. You should be walking for Calvin Klein—Donna Karan—someone that people can really identify with. Not a guy who looks like he may or may not be wheeled in from Madame Tussauds.”
The laugh that escaped my throat was so unexpected, I nearly toppled Skye right off my lap. I wrapped my arms around her to save her from hitting the floor and buried my face in her hair.
“Why do you always smell so good?”
“Because you always sleep with fashion skeletons who stay thin with ciggies, Ollie. You need to find a nice girl. Spend some time being a boyfriend. Being somebody’s person. You’re so amazing, so special. You have so much to give… Why are you keeping it all to yourself?”
“Okay. Now I’m really getting up to do the dishes. You sound like my mom, and that is where I draw the line. Up you go, Miss Skye Blue.”
I stood up, placing her on her bare feet as I did so.
“I’ll help you,” she said around a yawn so big I actually heard her jaw crack.
“You’ll do no such thing. You worked all day and you’re exhausted. And that big hairy ass crack will have you back in the office at dawn, no doubt. Go take a bath, or whatever it is you do in there, and get some beauty rest.”
She picked up her pumps from where she let them flop off her feet when she came in the door and, with them dangling from her fingers, turned back to watch me clear the plates from the table.
“Can I help you, my lady?” I swirled the dishtowel before me in a gallant gesture.
“Don’t worry about the rent this month, ’kay?” She wouldn’t meet my eyes when she spoke, pretending to fuss with a thread on her skirt. She knew my pride was already fragile at the moment.
Stacking dishes in the center of the table, I said, “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to. I know it’s been a few in a row. I just don’t want you to stress. I make more than enough to cover it, and I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” With that, she went into her room and closed the door.
I felt like the biggest loser on the planet. My twenty-seventh birthday was looming, and I was depending on my best friend to pay my rent. And the worst part about it? She was right. My checking account was under a thousand dollars. My savings account wasn’t any better. I was in deep financi
al shit, and I needed to come up with a plan.
And these dishes weren’t going to wash themselves. If I didn’t come up with something soon, I’d have to parlay my suds skills into a full-time gig.
Most of the night, instead of sleeping, I stared at the ceiling. I made a list of ideas when I finally gave in and admitted sleep wasn’t going to be happening. When the sun came up, I got on the horn with Harrison and proposed a few of my ideas. He shot most of them down before I could even finish my sentence.
“Harrison. Harr— Jesus Christ, man. You’re not even listening to me.” Frustration ate away at my usual good nature.
“Actually, I am, Oliver. I’m listening to you sound so desperate you’re making me want to lose my breakfast. And I paid good money for that ancient grains and kale smoothie, so I’d like it to stay right where it is, thank you very much. Not to mention this suit, aaaannnnd the upholstery in my car. God, can you imagine that smell in this heat? I heard it’s supposed to be a real scorcher again today.”
His prattling made me finally snap.
“Harrison! Shut the fuck up for a minute and listen. Man, what was in that smoothie? Crack? You are wired worse than normal. I need to work. Like right now. I need income, Harrison. I don’t care what it is. I will fucking walk for JCPenney if I have to.”
“Oliver. Connely. You take that back right now.” The lethally calm tone of his voice made me take pause. “Don’t you dare say reckless things like that unless you are looking to retire tomorrow,” he said. “God, please tell me you are not in public right now. Are you?”
“Calm the fuck down. Of course I’m not. I needed to get your attention. I knew that would work.” Even if only half of it was true.
“That was not funny, Ol-i-ver.”
Shit. I knew he was serious when he said my name like it was three separate words.
“I have to pull over. I think I’m having a stroke. Hold on. Actually, let me call you back. I need to check my blood sugar and realign my chakras. Wow, that was probably the cruelest thing a client has ever said to me. I’ll call you back.” With that, he disconnected our call.
I banged my head on the wall of my bedroom.
Twice.
Fucking Los Angeles—so many divas. I was going to be waiting tables by the end of the month, and my prima donna agent thought the worst possible thing that could happen would be modeling for a second-rate department store. At least I’d be getting a paycheck. At least I wouldn’t be depending on Skye to pay my rent.
I decided to make another list. I needed to figure what marketable skills I actually had besides looking good. What other jobs was I qualified to do? This was the exact thing my parents warned me would happen when I decided to quit college. And, because I was foolish and thought I had plenty of time left to work, I hadn’t been smart about saving money for this inevitable outcome. So here I was, no job, no skills, and no one to blame but myself. Homeless and sleeping my day away with the other bums on the lawn of city hall looked more appealing than calling my parents for a loan or, God forbid, moving back to their home.
It had been ages since I’d stared at a blank piece of notebook paper. Big surprise—still as daunting and intimidating as it had been in college. I wrote the number one and got to work.
1. Handsome.
Currently, that wasn’t doing much for me, was it? Number two had to be better.
2. Good manners. Charming.
All true, but how did I parlay them into something marketable?
3. Good lover.
Then I snatched up the pen, crossed out good lover, and wrote GREAT lover. Now, I know every dude thinks he rocks his cock, but I know I can deliver. Even the cute little preschool teacher I met in line one morning at Starbucks finally agreed to play hooky from her job and show me what was under her prim little schoolteacher skirt in a hotel room a few blocks away from where her substitute had the class on a field trip. And, just for the record, I got straight A’s on that report card.
But how do I put that on my resume? With a bit of aggression, I scratched a swift line from one side of the paper to the other, obliterating number three.
“Deep breaths, Connely. You got this.” I closed my eyes, leaned back on two legs of my desk chair, and tried to calm down. It really couldn’t be that hard to switch career paths at my age. I was barely out of school. People did it all the time. Even at twice my age. One more deep breath and I let the chair fall forward to all four legs.
I abandoned the numbering and just went with bullet points. I could go back through afterward and flesh out the ideas into complete sentences.
• enjoy talking with people—if they’re interesting
• amazing fashion sense from modeling
• impressive wardrobe—see above
• body in top condition from modeling for the past nine years
• no addictions
• single
Looking back over the list, I had to chuckle. I sounded like one of the main characters in the romance novels the women were swooning over at the pool. Unfortunately, it seemed that was about all I was suited for.
And then it hit me.
Like really hit me.
The conversation the women were having at the pool yesterday. They each admitted they would love a man like the one they read about in their books. Their “book boyfriends,” they called them.
That was my answer.
I could be that man. Whoever he was.
Be a woman’s book boyfriend. Even if just for one night. Treat her the way she wanted to be treated. By the Cowboy. The Mob Boss. The Billionaire. The Alpha Male. The Motorcycle Club Prez. The Professor. You name it, I could be him. Shit, with all the personal ad options on the internet, I could be him by tonight.
I could work out a fee of some sort. I wouldn’t have to sleep with the woman—or maybe I could? If that’s what she really wanted. All of those details could be negotiated. Off the record, of course.
The idea took root, and I couldn’t contain my excitement. I needed to move on it before I got cold feet. But I needed information about all these book characters, and I didn’t have time to read that many books before setting my plan into place.
The woman at the pool… What was her name? The one who brought the subject up in the first place.
Janine.
I needed her. She already said she was obsessed—her words, not mine. I could enlist her help and let this thing gain wings. She was probably a pretty good representative of the demographic I’d be targeting. If I pitched the idea to her and she thought it was gold as much as I did, I’d place the ad.
No.
Maybe I needed to sleep on it at least one night. Those women were a little more voracious than I was used to dealing with. Maybe I needed to really consider what I was getting myself into.
One trip down memory lane to the look on Skye’s face when she told me she would cover the rent because I was a loser and had no income, and I knew I didn’t need any feedback from Janine or any of the other women from the pool. I never wanted to feel that small and demoralized again. And it wasn’t anything Skye actually did. In fact, she handled the situation while sparing as much of my dignity as possible. That was all on me. I stripped my manhood all on my own by getting into this position in the first place.
Enough navel-gazing. Time to move forward and do something about the mess I’d created. I downloaded a nondisclosure agreement that I would have each client sign before meeting them in person. Once they saw who I was, I didn’t want anyone getting any crazy ideas about blackmailing me for money—that I didn’t have—or going to the press.
My personal ad was listed by noon on two websites with an untraceable email address as the only contact option provided.
Dating websites letting you down?
Real guys not measuring up to the heroes in your favorite romance novels?
What if you could date one of the men from your fantasies instead?
A real-life book boyfriend?
Maybe a Billionaire Business Tycoon? Or a Cowboy? Motorcycle Club President? Fireman? Superhero? Racecar Driver? Sports MVP?
Maybe you have your own story you’d like to come to life…
Book Boyfriend Inc. can make your dreams reality.
Hourly, Daily, and Weekly rates available.
Contact us today: [email protected]
After I posted it, I knew for certain nobody would ever use it. I’d just wasted my morning. Which was a good thing, because…really? Book boyfriend?
And then my email notification dinged.
My stomached lurched. I wanted to look but was so afraid to read the message that I ran out the front door and beelined to the pool instead. When I got to the gate and realized I didn’t have any of my normal things with me, including a bathing suit, I walked back to my condo, checking repeatedly if anyone saw what I had just done, convinced I must have looked like I was losing my mind. Luckily, I’d left in such a panic that I hadn’t locked the door, because I didn’t have a key to let myself back in. Much calmer, I sat down in front of my laptop, pulled up the email account, and read the message.
The client requested a date with a character named Jason Riley from a series called Riley House. She was looking for a single meeting with drinks, maybe dinner, and she checked the “open for possibilities” option on the questionnaire. She requested to meet Thursday night, which, after a quick check of my calendar, gave me roughly sixty hours to prepare.
Deep breath in, then out. See? I could handle this. Now, to figure out who this Jason Riley dude was. Maybe Skye had the book. I checked the bookshelf in the living room but came up empty. I pulled up Amazon.com and searched for Riley House. The entire page flooded with options. Ebooks, paperbacks, audiobooks… What the hell was all of this? Why did so many of them have the same title? Seriously. How could this be so confusing?
Misadventures with a Book Boyfriend Page 2