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.”
* * *
WITH A ROOMFUL of people, 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.”
The woman used the sponge to dab makeup on his skin. The oily liquid slid across his face, sending ripples of revulsion through him.
“See, that’s not so bad.”
He gritted his teeth at the comment and refused to look in the mirror. He’d wear the blasted stuff, but no way did he want the sight of him in makeup burned into his memory.
“This doesn’t detract from your masculinity at all,” she declared.
He suspected she was a woman who thought a man wouldn’t be interested unless she agreed with everything he said, and complimented him nonstop.
Now little Lizzie—Elizabeth, he’d decided, didn’t fit her—didn’t appear to let anyone tell her what to think. In an effort to tune out Stephanie’s incessant chatter as she fussed with his hair, he’d watched Lizzie out of the corner of his eye.
Dressed in a black skirt and white blouse that showed off her knockout curves, she efficiently circled the room, checking lighting and the setup. What was it with all the women here wearing black? Hadn’t they heard of color in New York?
As if thinking about her pulled her to him, Lizzie walked his way. “Is he ready to go, Stephanie?”
“He’s perfect.”
Rory almost laughed. Perfect? Not in his universe. He looked like a sissy in these tight, fancy stitched jeans. “Anybody gonna ask me if I’m ready?”
Both women turned to him, their mouths hanging open. Guess he’d broken another photo shoot protocol.
Lizzie recovered first. “I’m sorry, Rory. I didn’t mean to appear rude. I need to make sure Stephanie’s finished her job, which is to make sure you look your best under the lights.” She turned to the stylist. “Once again, you’ve done super work. Now, Rory, if you’d come this way. I’d like to introduce you to the photographer before we start shooting.”
Rory
