𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐃 | ᴀ ᴅʀᴀᴍɪᴏɴᴇ ꜰɪɴᴀʟᴇ

9

Some men wear expensive suits because they want to feel as if they have money, even if they don't. Others wear them because they want to show people how much money they have. For me, it's all about the mind-set. The attitude. I've never had a problem with confidence, but for guys who do, a custom-fitted suit makes you walk taller, stand straighter. It makes your balls bigger and gives off that GoodFellas, don't-fuck-with-me kind of vibe.

I unbutton the jacket of my charcoal Ermenegildo Zegna and pour myself three fingers of Scotch from the wet bar in the living room. Theo, Harry, and Blaise share my affinity for a well-made suit and are decked out in their own Gucci, Newman, and Armani respectively. Our stud quotient is high—any female within a twenty-foot radius is bound to get caught in our tractor beam.

Then Weasley walks out of his room. Wearing a wrinkled green T-shirt, tan carpenter shorts, and sandals. Yes—frigging sandals.

I take a sip of my drink and stare at him. "If I'd known we were going to the skate park, I would've brought my board."

He's perplexed. Then he looks at the rest of us and back at his own attire. He shrugs. "I like to be comfortable. You guys look like you're going to a funeral. I look relaxed."

"You look like a loser," I argue. "And that's unacceptable for tonight. My guidance will only get you so far. If you wanna attract quality snatch? You need to step up your game. That means a half-decent suit, or at least a pair of pressed slacks—preferably ones not made from the same material as prison jumpsuits." I toss back the rest of my drink. "And what the hell is with your hair?"

Weasley's wavy, bright red locks are less tamed than usual. They're higher—poofier—like an old lady fresh from the hairdresser. He pats the top of his head self-consciously. "I forgot my gel. But it's cool—chicks dig the curls."

"Yeah, if it's 1998 and your name is Justin Timberlake."

Theo intervenes. "I'll hook you up, dude. I always bring my buzzer along. We'll trim the mop-top, slick it back—your own mother won't recognize you."

Blaise sets his Scotch down on a coaster. Then he taps his chin thoughtfully. "And I'll call the concierge—have them send over something from the Armani boutique near the lobby." He eyes Weasley up and down. "You're a thirty, maybe a thirty-two waist, with a slim-cut jacket. A light blue tie will really bring out the color of your eyes."

Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to another edition of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.

And Harry makes it so much worse. He claps his fingertips together daintily and says in a high-pitched voice, "Makeover time!"

My eyes narrow in his direction. "Don't ever do that again."

"Too much?"

"Definitely."

Twenty minutes later Weasley is decked out in a slick navy suit, black shirt, and shiny Prada shoes. His hair has a neat wet look—short on top, combed back at the sides. He looks . . . passable. Extremely awkward and uncomfortable—but passable.

I stand in front of him and brush off his shoulders, inspecting his clothes like a general at boot camp.

While he whines like a bitch. "It itches." He rolls his neck and steps from one foot to the other.

"Stop fucking fidgeting."

He pulls at the collar. "It's stiff."

"It's new—it's supposed to be. Stand up straight." Jesus, do I sound like my father or what?

I drape the blue tie around his neck, to demonstrate how to tie one. But then I think better of it.

There's an excellent chance I'll end up strangling him with the damn thing. And a trip out to the desert to bury a body would be a major inconvenience right now.