LITMIR.BIZ

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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.”

       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 stood, thankful to put distance between him and Stephanie before she jumped him in the chair. “Lead on.”

       He liked the white shirt Lizzie had picked out for him, but the jeans wouldn’t last a week on the ranch. “Just out of curiosity, how much do these pants cost?”

       “The pair you’re wearing retails for two hundred dollars.”

       He whistled. “Men actually spend their hard-earned money on these?”

       “Devlin’s men’s jeans are among the hottest in the upscale market.”

       Guilt swirled inside him at the thought of playing a part in convincing people to waste money on high-priced jeans, when a pair of Wranglers or Levi’s worked fine. The world was so out of whack. Kids got killed over expensive sneakers. People who couldn’t pay their rent found money to get tattoos. Stuff didn’t make a person. Didn’t people get that?

       Lizzie led him to a tall, slender woman with shoulder-length black hair, dressed in a long, flowing purple skirt and a red T-shirt with a baggy white sweater thrown over that. Big chunky beads hung around her neck. Finally, a female who wasn’t dressed as if she was heading to a funeral.

       She introduced herself and tossed him a look that said she was interested in more than taking his picture. What was the deal with everyone at this agency?

       “Are you ready to get started?” Elizabeth asked.

       “Tell me what you need me to do.”

       Chloe smiled. “Just be you. I’ll do all the hard work. Let’s start with some simple shots of you sitting here on the hay. That’ll give us both a chance to warm up. I hope you don’t have allergies like Elizabeth. She’s been sneezing since she arrived.”

       “Thanks, Chloe, for pointing out the obvious.” Elizabeth punctuated her statement with an unladylike sneeze, followed by a delicate “excuse me.”

       “The hay won’t bother me. I’m around it all day long.”

       “Good. Chloe, you get behind the camera and see how everything looks. Rory, come with me. I’ll position you.”

      Position him? A very intimate picture of him and Lizzie tangled together in bed popped into his head. “Excuse me?”

       “I’ll show you where to sit on the set, which way to look, that kind of thing. That’s what we call positioning. What were you thinking?”

       “I had a more intimate picture in mind.” As Rory followed her he couldn’t keep his gaze off the way her little black high-heeled shoes made her hips sway, causing his blood to pump.

       She froze and a pretty

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