Chad was sitting on my couch, paging through an issue of GQ Blair had loaned me. “This coffee is really good.” He smiled at me, putting the magazine down. “I somehow didn’t have you pegged as a GQ reader, though.”

I nodded. “Blair loaned it to me. He thinks I need to learn how to dress better.” I could have bitten my tongue off as soon as the words came out. Nice move, why don’t you make yourself out to be an even bigger dork than he already thinks you are?

He looked me up and down. “Well, no offense, Jordy, but you could really use some help.” He reached out and ruffled my hair. “What happened to that really cute hairstyle you had during Rush?”

He was touching my hair! “Oh.” I bit my lip as he pulled his hand back. “Blair helped me with it, but I couldn’t figure out how to do it myself, so I stopped trying.”

He shook his head, still smiling. “Do you have any product?”

I nodded.

“Then come on, I’ll show you,” he said, pulling me back down the hall to my bedroom. He pulled my desk chair into the bathroom, plopped me down in it, and showed me how to style my hair. The entire time I was so conscious of how close his body was to me it was all I could do to remember to breathe. I could sense his body heat, and every once in a while he brushed against me. Was that deliberate? No, someone like him likes guys like Jacob, remember? Not guys like you. Forget about it. He’s just being nice.

“There,” he said, stepping back when he was finished. “Now, doesn’t that look better? And you saw how easy it was to do. You can do it yourself from now on.”

“Yeah.” It did look better, a lot better. When Blair had tried to show me, it hadn’t made sense to me. But the way Chad explained it, it made sense. It was easy. I could do it myself. “Yeah, I can. Thanks, Chad.”

“Not a problem.” He smiled at me. “Now, do you have any other shorts besides those?”

“Shorts?” I looked at myself in the mirror. “What’s wrong with these?”

“Darling, they aren’t flattering.” He shook his head. “Don’t you want to look your best?”

“Well, yes.”

“Then you need to burn those shorts.” He turned me around. “Now look at your butt in the mirror.”

I looked over my shoulder. “Yes?” I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to see. My butt looked like it always did.

“Those shorts make your ass look like a billboard,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong, those shorts are in style—and expensive—but just because something’s in style doesn’t mean you should wear it. The whole point of clothes is to enhance the way you look, and if something isn’t flattering you shouldn’t wear it. Even if you are the only person in the world who isn’t.” He raised the back of my T-shirt. “See? The cut of these shorts makes the rolls around your waist look even bigger—and your ass look shapeless and wide. That’s a major, major no-no for a gay man, Jordy.” He winked at me. “You’re selling your ass, so you want it to look as good as it can. Where do you keep your shorts?”

“They’re in the bottom drawer of the dresser,” I said absently, staring at my reflection. He was right. My ass looked gigantic, and the way my waist rolled over the waistband was really unappealing. But it had always looked like that. How could anything make it look different? I sighed. I was a dumpy, lumpy guy. I shook my head and walked into the bedroom. He was on his knees in front of my cabinet, the bottom drawer pulled out as he rifled through all my new shorts.

“Here.” He pulled out a different pair of jean shorts. He held them up and pursed his lips. “These should do the trick. Put these on,” he commanded, “and take those awful shorts you’re wearing and throw them out in the trash where they belong. Promise me you’ll never wear that cut again.”

I hesitated. I didn’t want to undress in front of him. I didn’t want him to see my erection.

“Don’t be shy!” He snapped his fingers. “Come on! Off with those shorts! You heard me! We’re wasting time!”

I took a deep breath and pulled the shorts off. He looked away until I had pulled the new pair on. He smiled, then whistled. “That’s so much better. Go look at yourself in the mirror.”

I went back into the bathroom and looked over my shoulder at the mirror again. He was right. The cut of these shorts gave my ass shape and made it look smaller. I pulled my shirt up, and the roll was still there—but it didn’t look nearly as bad as it had in the other shorts.

“I told you so,” he said from the bathroom door, before tossing me another shirt. “Try this shirt.”

I changed shirts, and almost whistled myself. Once I’d tucked the shirt into my shorts, my waist looked smaller and my shoulders wider. “Wow.” I couldn’t get over how much better I looked.

“See?” He grinned. “Your clothes should flatter you and make you look better. They should play up your good points and hide your flaws.”

“That’s easy for you to say.” I couldn’t stop staring at myself. “You don’t have any flaws to hide. Me, I have to hide almost everything.”

He rolled his eyes. “Trust me, I have plenty of flaws. I just know how to hide them, is all.” He ran a hand through his hair. “And you’re being much too hard on yourself.” He stood behind me, looking over my shoulder into the mirror. “You’ve got lovely skin, and when your hair’s styled properly, it looks great. You’ve got a nice frame—nice broad shoulders, and strong legs.” He smacked his own. “I really have to work on mine. I was cursed with my father’s chicken legs. And this great big huge ass.”

“You have a nice ass,” I replied.

“That’s very kind of you.” He smiled at me in the mirror. “Come on, I’m starving. Let’s go get something to eat.”

“You’re so lucky,” he said when we were back in the car and heading out to breakfast. “I can’t imagine what it must be like to come from money. I grew up kind of poor.” He made a face. “My dad makes good money, but he resents spending every cent, and won’t spend one if he can possibly help it.”

“Wow,” I replied, not sure what to really say.

“My dad’s a prick,” he said angrily, his face flushing for a moment, “but my mom’s great, and so are my brothers and sisters. I’m the first one in my family to go to college. You’d think my dad would be cool with that, but he thinks I think I’m better than everyone else. As if I could be worse than him,” he said, his voice dripping scorn. “I don’t go back there very often. I always stay here on breaks. Polk is my home now.” He shook his head, blond hair flying. “And he just hates the gay thing. Are your parents cool with it?”

“I haven’t told them yet,” I admitted. “I don’t know how to bring it up. But I’m sure they’ll be okay with it. My dad’s assistant Lars is gay, and he’s like a member of the family.”

“My dad likes to pretend I’m straight.” Chad sighed. “He refuses to even talk about it. When I came out to my parents—he just ignored me. He’s never acknowledged it.”

“I’m sorry,” I stammered, not sure what else to say.

“Oh, don’t be.” He waved his hand. “It doesn’t bother me. Turn into this parking lot here. Have you ever eaten here before?” He grinned at me. “It’s great.”

The Iron Skillet was packed with college students, but a hostess led us to a booth in the back right away. I didn’t see anyone I recognized, but Chad waved at a number of guys and girls on our way back to the booth. She left us with menus, then disappeared. Within a moment a harried-looking woman in her late forties placed glasses of water on our table. “Hey, Marge.” Chad winked at her. “Rough morning?”

“When you get to my age, Chad, every morning is a rough morning.” She shrugged, resigned. “It’s a usual Saturday morning. Everyone needing grease to kill their hangovers. You want your usual?”

He nodded, and she turned to me. “Um, what’s his usual?” I asked as I looked over the menu. I’d never been much of a breakfast eater. I usually just had coffee and a piece of peanut butter toast.