There’s a smattering of laughter and sarcastic applause.

“You’re charging money?” one of the freshmen squeaks.

“It’s a nominal fee,” Weston says with a shrug.

“But it makes you sound desperate,” the youngster says.

“Nah, it makes me sound like I value my own time and company. And I always get multiple offers. The fee keeps the nutters away. Only women who really need my help will apply.”

Someone asks: “What if it’s a dude who calls?" And the whole table snickers.

I’m surprised when Weston just shrugs. "That would be fine I guess. Fake love is fake love.”

Twelve hockey players howl with laughter.

And I am captivated. There’s nothing on Netflix that’s half as interesting as Weston Griggs hiring himself out on Thanksgiving. Boyfriend for Rent.

I wonder if there’s a rent-to-own option?

“Weston, is this even legal?” one of the twins asks. "Coach will be pretty pissed if you’re busted for solicitation.”

“Does the team have a bail fund?” his brother asks. And then they high-five each other.

“Don’t twist my good deed into something tawdry.” Weston lifts his perfect, masculine jaw and gives the twins a glare. “My intentions are pure. Last Thanksgiving I had a lovely meal with a sophomore nursing student in Winooski. She’d recently broken up with her high school boyfriend, and her parents were upset about the breakup. God knows why. So I went along and they didn’t mention him once the whole day.”

“Huh,” Tate says. “So I guess she got her twenty-five bucks’ worth in peace of mind.”

“Exactly. And I enjoyed a lovely turkey—cooked sous vide style, so it was extra moist and juicy. Then her mother rubbed the skin with butter and crisped it up under the broiler. And there was a sausage stuffing with water chestnuts so good I almost cried.”

“Water chestnuts?” Tate shudders. “That’s just wrong.”

“No, it’s glorious.” Weston puts down his beer glass. “And now I’m hungry again. We’ve got to stop talking about Thanksgiving. It’s a whole week away.”

“You started it,” Tate says with a chuckle. “And the Pats are totally going to win this year.”

“Bullshit,” Weston mutters. “Maybe I should come over just so I can watch your dad cry.”

“Bet you a four-pack of Goldenpour they win,” Tate challenges.

“Deal. We’ll settle up after the holiday.”

Then Weston gets up and hangs his flyer on the bulletin board right by the door.

* * *

They depart forty minutes later, leaving behind a tip of fifty-five bucks. Totally worth it! I yawn my way through the rest of my side work until it’s time to race home to burn the midnight oil for my test.

But before I leave the Biscuit for the night, I stop in front of the bulletin board. If I hadn’t overheard that conversation tonight, I wouldn’t have looked twice at this sign. Weston didn’t put his name on it. There’s nothing there to advertise the fact that whoever hires Weston on Thanksgiving is getting a date with the hunkiest man on the hockey team.