“Look at you two,” the blonde says, batting her eyelashes. “Real cowboys, huh?”
It’s not a question. It’s the tone people use when they want something from you and think flattery is the fastest route.
“You both look like you could be on camera,” the other says.
The blonde giggles as she says, “Bet you could ride better than our co-stars.”
The innuendo lands with a dull thud. She picked the wrong audience. Rafe and I exchange a look. His expression says exactly what’s going through my head, which is something like:no fucking thank you.
“I’ve got to get back to work,” he mutters, reaching for his reins.
“Wait.” The brunette steps forward and puts a hand on his arm. She’s got long brown hair, with a bright white smile that probably works on most men. “I’d love to pick your brain about ranch life. Character research.”
Rafe freezes.
It takes me a second to see what he’s seeing. The brown hair. The shape of her face. The green eyes.
She looks just like my sister Josie. Not exactly. But enough that it’s a pretty startling resemblance.
Something moves across Rafe’s face, a burst of intense emotion that I don’t understand given that he’s talking to a complete stranger. Then he steps back, politely but with finality, moving his arm out from under her hand.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he says. Flat and courteous and completely closed.
He swings up onto his horse in one fluid motion and rides without a backward glance, straight back toward the south pasture where the actual work is.
Then both actresses turn to me, and I realize I’ve made a tactical error by not following his lead immediately.
Time to make my own getaway.
“C’mon, Lucky.” I click my tongue at the dog.
She lumbers to her feet and her prosthetic slips on the frozen ground. I crouch down to adjust it, hoping if I’m busy enough the actresses will lose interest.
They don’t.
“Oh my God.” The blonde crouches down beside me, uninvited. “You’re Slade Rhodes.”
I say nothing. Keep working on the prosthetic.
“You’re the reason I started watching hockey,” she says. “Those pre-game stretches you do on the ice?” She fans herself. “We watch those over and over and over again.”
I’ve heard variations of this speech more times than I can count, since I was probably sixteen years old. I know I’m not a person to these women. I’m a jersey number. A highlight reel. A brutal enforcer they’re hoping will give them a hard fuck.
I’ve heard as much straight from their lips.
“Is Walker here?” the brunette asks, scanning the ranch. “I love his music.”
“Or Tanner?” the blonde pipes up. “I’ve always wanted to meet a real bull rider.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. About the only thing that makes you feel grosser than a woman wanting you just because you’re famous is a woman making it clear she’d swap you out for your brothers just as easily.
I get the prosthetic adjusted and straighten up.
The blonde steps in front of me. Puts one finger on my chest.
“I’m not due back on set for hours,” she says. “Want a tour of my trailer?”
It’s not the first time I’ve been blatantly propositioned but I’m always hoping it will be the last. I look down at her finger. Then at her.
