Bachelor Swap - Lacey Black Page 0,2

if it were a painting in a museum.

“Good afternoon, sir. If you’ll follow me,” a gentleman in a uniform says, opening the front entrance.

“Thanks,” I reply, stepping through the doorway and into the spacious lobby.

Then I notice is a large bar. There are a handful of men sitting around, but it’s the women who catch my attention. There’s almost twice as many women as men in the room, all dressed to the nines with their assets on full display. Yeah, this place is nothing like the Smoky Saloon back home.

Sighing, I follow the doorman to the elevator. “Mr. Wilder is expecting you, sir.” As soon as the car door opens, I step in and wait, not sure where I’m going. The doorman makes it easy though and presses the button for the twelfth floor. “Twelve oh four, sir. Have a good day.”

Then the door closes behind him and I’m left in silence.

Sagging against the back wall, I close my eyes and contemplate all my options once more. Yeah, I’ve already been over them a million times, which is why I’m actually here—in Boston—and riding the elevator to my brother’s apartment.

The bottom line is I don’t have any options.

Not if I want to keep my ranch.

The damn beef prices dropped and have been down too long. The cost of feed isn’t helping either, and over the last year, I’ve gotten behind. I’ve let all of my farmhands go in an effort to save money, but it’s not enough. The bank is breathing down my neck, threatening to take what I’ve built if I don’t come up with half the back mortgage now, and the other half in three months. It’s not like I can just snap my fingers and produce one hundred and fifty thousand bucks, dammit.

That’s when my brother called.

Convenient, isn’t it?

I’m saved from having to speculate into the whys and hows of my brother’s timing when the door opens for the twelfth floor. I step out and glance down the long hall, finding a handful of other doors, all spaced pretty far apart. I have a feeling this place isn’t some small apartment with minimal closet space.

Just as I approach door numbered 1204, it opens, revealing my twin. Even though we haven’t seen each other in well over two years, Matthew looks exactly the same. Hell, he looks exactly like me, if I were to shave my face and put on clothes that probably cost more than my work truck back at home.

“Mason,” Matthew states in way of greeting. He steps back to allow me to enter and glances down the hallway before closing the door behind me. “How was your flight?”

I shrug and glance around the apartment. “It was fine.”

“Good.”

We stand there awkwardly for several long seconds, each taking the other one in. My brother and I have always been more different than one would expect. Our similarities stopped in the looks department, that’s for sure.

Matthew is well-dressed and regal. He’s wearing suit pants and a button-down shirt, even while at home in the middle of a Saturday. He no doubt has a standing appointment to get his hair cut at a salon and his nails manicured. The leather shoes on his feet probably were flown in from Italy or Paris, where fashion reigns supreme and money is no object.

Me? I have cowshit on the bottom of my dusty ol’ work boots.

“Why don’t we head into my office and we’ll discuss the reason I brought you here,” Matthew states, his tone flat, as if he were making a business transaction instead of visiting with a brother he hasn’t seen in a while.

But I guess that’s what this is.

A business deal.

As I follow behind my twin brother, I can’t help but notice how clinical this place is. Not a splash of color anywhere. White carpet, tan leather furniture—that looks like it just rolled off the showroom—and boring black-and-white art that looks like it was done by a kindergartener. And the kitchen? From what I can tell, it looks like it hasn’t actually ever had a meal cooked in there.

The room my brother uses as an office, however, is a night and day contrast to the rest of the home. Old, worn leather chairs and a large desk with character. A large shelving unit with books, no doubt collector editions. Matthew only collects things he can make financial gain from in the long run.

“Have a seat,” he says, walking over to a small bar and pouring a finger of golden