The Weekend Boyfriend (Rent-A-Boyfriend #1)

Chapter 1

one

. . .

Javier Rivera always looked good in glitter, but his current look wasn’t even close to what a young business owner should be wearing in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon.

“You can do it,” he told his reflection as he touched up his eyeliner, giving it a flirty lift at the corners of his eyes. “You’ve faced much tougher crowds than this walking for Balenciaga at Milan Fashion Week.”

The pep talk wasn’t helping much. He finished with the eyeliner, then leaned back from the sink in the well-known London office building’s executive restroom he’d been shown to by a giddy assistant, who’d been way too excited about his presence in the stuffy office earlier.

His face was perfectly put together, of course, but none of this was anywhere close to what he’d had in mind when he’d gotten the call that morning.

“I won’t be able to make the job this afternoon,” Gordon had said in a guilty rush. “I, er, I have another gig, a magazine shoot for British Gentlemen.”

“You have a what?” Javier had questioned, his heart sinking fast and hard into his gut. “I don’t remember setting anything like that up for you.”

He’d been working like mad to put together some sort of partnership with British Gentlemen and its parent company, Forester Entertainment Group, that would fit with his passion for creating an agency with a zero-tolerance policy for exploiting talent, but so far, all his efforts had fallen flat.

They’d been interested in booking him for a shoot, but not signing a contract with Rivera Talent.

Javier was so ready to trade being known as a pretty face and a hot body for being regarded as an intelligent business leader.

“You, um, didn’t set it up for me,” Gordon had told him on that call, flustered and distracted by the unmistakable noise of a shoot in the background. “Edwin at Two Ace Talent arranged it all.”

“But you’ve signed with me,” Javier had said, fighting to remain calm. Zero-tolerance for exploitation included not shouting at his talent, even if their words and actions felt like a knife in his back. “There is a non-compete clause in your contract.”

“A contract which expired last week,” Gordon said. Javier’s heart had sunk and he’d felt sick over forgetting an important detail like a contract expiring as Gordon went on with, “I’m with Two Ace Talent now.” At least he had the decency to sound guilty as fuck. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine,” Javier had lied. “I wish you the best of luck with your future endeavors.”

Javier felt the same pit of dread in his stomach now, as he stared at his reflection in the executive bathroom mirror, that he’d felt that morning.

He hadn’t been paying attention to things like Gordon’s contract expiring.

His focus had necessarily been on creating connections and finding jobs with companies and designers who would agree to his non-exploitation mission.

He hadn’t had the first clue that yet another of the models he’d signed a year ago, when he’d launched Rivera Talent, had bailed on him.

If he was a lesser man, he could have blamed it on Maisy, his beloved but slightly daft assistant, for having her head in the clouds and not keeping up with things.

Contracts were meant to be her area. She was the one, believe it or not, with a law degree.

She also had a partner who was in the middle of transitioning.

Javier couldn’t blame her for being distracted.

Truth be told, it was on him for fumbling all the balls he’d been juggling to get his agency off the ground and to keep it focused on the vision he had for making it a safe space for talent of all sorts.

“Not that you’ve been fumbling many balls lately,” he told his reflection in a grim voice.

Before the words were even out of his mouth, the restroom door opened and a middle-aged, balding man in an expensive suit that didn’t fit him right marched in. The man stopped like a deer in the headlights when he saw Javier standing there.

Standing there in nothing but a very small pair of puffy shorts designed to look like a nappy and large, feathery wings that he’d stapled to a white leather harness.

And the glitter, of course.

“I beg your pardon,” the man said, eyes wide, face going red.

He raked Javier from head to toe with a look that said he most definitely did not approve…

of his own reaction to a tall, model-fit, olive-skinned Cupid taking up his executive bathroom space.

Then he dashed into the closest stall, slamming the door closed as if he needed to hide there for the protection of his own errant libido.

Javier would have laughed if he wasn’t so mortified with the situation he was now in because of Gordon’s defection.

He sighed and started gathering up the last bits of his make-up, shoving them into the carry-all that held the clothes he’d walked into the building wearing.

Absolute silence came from the occupied stall, not so much as a tinkle, as he gripped his bag tightly and headed for the restroom door.

He had to turn sideways to exit the room, his wingspan was so large.

In retrospect, he might have overdone it with the feathers.

Gordon had a wider torso and could have carried it off, but on him, the wings looked excessive.

The costume had seemed like a fabulous idea at the time.

Now he wasn’t so sure, especially as he walked down the short corridor with a view of the cube farm of employees on his way back to Alan Mamet’s desk.

“Great!” Alan said, getting up as Javier approached. “You look fantastic. This is going to be so awesome.”

“If you say so,” Javier said with a friendly smile that stopped short of being flirtatious.

He might have been going through the most epic dry spell of his life, but he wasn’t about to start flirting with an overly excitable executive assistant who kept eyeing him like he was a crumpet he wanted to slather in butter.

“This is going to be perfect,” Alan went on in an almost-whisper, stepping around his desk and inching toward the door to his boss’s office.

“Mr. White doesn’t suspect a thing, of course.

I can assure you that this is the most romantic gesture anyone has ever made in the history of gay love stories.

Cher, Gaga, and T-Swift couldn’t come up with something half this amazing if they put all their heads together and made a sacrifice to Judy herself. ”

“Great,” Javier said, fighting to keep a positive attitude about the whole thing. At least his humiliation would be for a good cause.

Gordon had originally talked Javier into the gig as a gigantic favor for a friend of a friend, one who was paying the agency double what most magazine shoots or runway shows paid.

Javier had suspected something fishy about the deal from the start, but since the client had happily signed the contract, and since it was all in the name of love, Javier had okayed the whole thing.

And because of love, when Gordon had canceled on him that morning, Javier had swallowed his pride, learned the song, and taken the job himself.

He’d had to. None of his other talent could sing.

It was a far, far cry from the serious modeling business he was trying to grow up to compete with the best agencies in London.

When he’d left his former, borderline abusive agency to set out on his own a little over a year ago after years of modeling, determined to create the safe, supportive environment for himself and others that he’d always dreamed of working in, he’d envisioned calling in favors and using what he’d thought were extensive connections in the fashion world.

He’d thought it would be easy to create a manifesto of dignity and care, that the industry would welcome it and change their ways, and that he’d be able to do what he’d seen countless others do for him.

Boy, had he been wrong.

“Mr. White will see you now,” Alan said, turning back from where he’d stuck his head through the doorway into his boss’s office. He had a game face on and was trying to be the serious executive assistant, but his eyes gave away his manic excitement.

Javier took a deep breath to get into the right headspace. He set his carry-all on a chair then rolled his shoulders as best he could with his wings. He’d spent nearly a decade near the dizzying heights of the fashion world. He’d walked for Versace, Dior, Ryan Hawthorne, and Michael Kors.

He could deliver a singing Valentine’s Day telegram to some stuffed shirt financial guru.

“Let’s do this,” he said, mostly to himself, grabbed the small bow with its heart-tipped arrow, and marched into the office as Alan held the door for him.

The first thing that knocked him sideways was the size and opulence of the office.

It was one of those corner deals with an astounding view of London’s Canary Wharf out both sides.

Every detail of its decoration was immaculate.

The color scheme was warm, with bespoke, wooden furniture that was polished to a high shine.

That single room probably cost more than Javier’s entire studio apartment.

The second thing that stole the air from Javier’s lungs to the point where he forgot his name, let alone the words to the cheesy song he was about to sing, was the man sitting behind the polished desk.

He was far younger than Javier had imagined he’d be, probably in his early-to-mid-thirties.

He had chestnut hair with a slight wave to it that was tamed by too much hair product used incorrectly, and a strong, neatly shaved jawline.

His lips were pressed in a line, though, and his hazel eyes bored into Javier.

Bored with a distinct hint of interest, but that was secondary to the stiff set of his shoulders and the tension in his hands as they gripped the side of his desk.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked in a wary tone.