Julie Benson - Big City Cowboy

The click of stilettos on the hardwood floor interrupted Elizabeth’s daydreaming. She turned to find Stephanie Jones, her black leather makeup case slung over her shoulder, sauntering toward her.

The leggy brunette stopped in front of Elizabeth. “Where’s our model?”

Before she could answer, she sneezed. Not one of those polite feminine sneezes, but one with hurricane force. Darn allergies. “He’s changing,” Elizabeth said, after two more sneezes. “Let me explain what I’m looking for today. Just play up his natural good looks. I want him to stay real, like the cowboy he is.”

“You’re kidding! He’s really a cowboy?” Stephanie’s blue eyes sparkled as if she’d snatched up the last fifty-percent-off cashmere sweater at Barney’s.

What was it about cowboys? Stephanie hadn’t even seen Rory and she was drooling. Mark, the lighting tech, had about stepped on his tongue when Rory walked in.

“He’s the real deal, and I want his pictures to reflect that. I want him to look like he’s just stepped out of the ranch house and is heading toward the barn to work.”

“In designer jeans?”

Elizabeth bristled at Stephanie’s skepticism about her ad campaign.

Breathe. Don’t let her negativity invade your space and make you doubt your decision. This is the right way to go with this campaign.

A big smile on her face, Elizabeth said, “Devlin Designs wants to crack the Western and middle-American market with their men’s jeans.”

“Okay, now using the cowboy makes sense.”

“I hope the public sees it the same way. I won’t keep you any longer. You need to set up, and I need to check other details of the shoot.”

While the stylist traipsed across the room to the makeup table and chair, Elizabeth went to talk to Chloe.

“I can’t wait to get this guy on film,” she said the minute Elizabeth stopped beside her.

Just then, Rory strolled out of the dressing room. The client’s designer jeans fit him perfectly, emphasizing his strong thighs. Ones he’d no doubt obtained from riding. Who’d have thought horseback riding was such a workout? But her quads and glutes had been sore for two days after her horse excursion.

Rory’s tanned skin contrasted nicely with the crisp, white, snap-front, Western-style shirt she’d picked out. Denim and white. Classic, clean. One never went wrong with the basics.

She smiled at the personal touches he’d added—his belt buckle, a royal flush fanned-out poker hand, plus his boots and his cowboy hat. Rugged, but accessible.

Absolutely delicious. Absolutely perfect. Absolutely wrong for her.

“If he’s any indication, they sure raise them handsome in Colorado.” A sinful grin spread across Chloe’s face.

Elizabeth continued staring at Rory. Before meeting him she’d have said her ideal man was more comfortable in a Brooks Brothers suit than jeans. Rory put those immaculately groomed men in their thousand-dollar suits to shame.

She started to move toward him, but Stephanie reached Rory first, introduced herself and led him to the makeup chair.

“Our model is too delectable for words,” Mark said as he joined them.

This was getting a little ridiculous. “Has everyone forgotten why we’re here? And no, it isn’t to ogle Rory.” She was beginning to think she needed to hire a bodyguard for the cowboy.

“There’s no harm in looking,” Mark said, glancing at him longingly.

“But with you it doesn’t stop there,” Chloe reminded the lighting tech.

“Plus I’m pretty sure he’s heterosexual,” Elizabeth added, trying to end the subject without having to give a lecture on professionalism.

“But you don’t know for sure.”

Elizabeth leaned toward him as if sharing a confidence. “I’m counting on you to help me out. This guy isn’t a model. He doesn’t understand the game. We all have to be careful that we don’t scare him off. I think this might be his first visit to New York.”

“All right. I’ll back off. Just for you.”

“I appreciate your sacrifice, Mark.” She smiled in relief. “You’ve done a super job with the lighting, by the way. You’re the best.”

“Can I have that in writing for when review time rolls around?”

“Absolutely.”

He glanced toward the set. “I’m off to be wonderful. I need to reposition one of the lights.”

“You sure you didn’t tell him to back off so you can have Rory all to yourself?” Chloe asked once Mark had left.

“Oh, please. You know my type, and Rory’s not it.”

“A guy doesn’t have to be a Mensa candidate to be worth spending time with.”

“That’s the difference between us. You can be involved with someone for right now. I don’t see the point in that.”

“Fun and great sex.” Chloe nodded toward Rory. “Look at him. I bet he’s amazing in bed.”

“There’s more to a relationship than hot sex.”

“Maybe, but that’s a pretty good place to start.”

“Now’s not the time to talk about this,” Elizabeth said, realizing how far they’d strayed off course. “Nothing can interfere with today’s shoot. Be the epitome of professional.”

“What he does for those jeans is amazing.”

“Thank goodness.”

“Not to stress you out more,” Chloe said as she adjusted the height of her tripod, “but we’re all counting on you to pull this one out. Word is Devlin’s agency-shopping.”

“This time the rumor mill’s right, but I’ve got everything under control.” Maybe if she said that enough times she’d believe it. The whole self-fulfilling prophecy thing. “Rory will help us change two crucial opinions. One, that only gay men wear designer jeans, and two, wearing designer jeans will make a man look like a pretty boy. I want the average, red-blooded, straight male to think that if a cowboy will wear these jeans, he can wear them, too.”

“Then let’s get this show on the road.”

WITHAROOMFULOFPEOPLE, all with their gazes glued on his every move, Rory felt like a piece of meat. Prime choice, grade A, but meat nonetheless.

The stylist opened her black case, revealing small bottles and other containers. His stomach tightened when he recognized it was makeup. He’d figured she might have a hair dryer and hair gel in the thing. He sat horrified as she stared at him, and then selected one bottle. She dumped some of the liquid on a foam triangle and leaned toward him.

“Whoa, hold on a minute. Is that makeup?” Sissy city jeans were one thing, but no way was he wearing makeup.

The stylist nodded. The triangle moved closer.

He leaned away. “Cowboys don’t wear makeup.”

High-pitched giggles greeted his response. “This cowboy needs to, because if you don’t wear base makeup and blush—”

Blush. Wasn’t that the pink stuff women swiped over their cheeks? He resisted the urge to hang his head in shame.

“If you don’t wear makeup, you’ll look washed out under the lights.”

“Better that than wearing that stuff. If any of my friends find out, I’ll never live it down.” He shuddered. “Next thing you’ll be telling me I need mascara.”

“It would—”

“No mascara. A man’s got to draw the line somewhere.”

The stylist lightly swatted his arm and giggled again. The sound grated on his nerves. “There’s no need for you to worry. No one will be able to see you’ve got makeup on, and I swear I won’t tell anyone.”

Her words failed to reassure him. Something in his gut told him that his wearing makeup would get out—that was the kind of luck he had. But what choice did he have? He needed this job, and photos were the first step to landing the gig. The things he did for his mom. “I’ve died and gone to hell, and this is my punishment.”