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“Here’s my phone number,” he said when he crossed the room.
She didn’t reach for it, feeling immediately wary. “You live across the hall. I think I can find you if I need you.”
“You know anybody here except Rayleen?”
She met his pale eyes and didn’t answer. Yes, I’m alone and vulnerable. Good for you to know.
“This isn’t L.A.” he said. “If you get stuck somewhere at night or your car breaks down in the middle of nowhere, you might not see another car for an hour. So, take my number, all right?”
No, this definitely wasn’t L.A. And if he thought she was afraid of something like being alone for an hour, then he didn’t know what real fear was.
But he took one step closer and pressed the paper into her hand. When her fingers closed over it, he winked. “In case you need me,” he said again, this time with a hint of amusement.
Grace nodded. “All right. I’ll call you if I have any cows that need branding, stud.”
“Stud? My God, you L.A. women are forward. I think I’m blushing.”
She closed the door in his face, and scowled at his laughter as she crossed the hall.
Did he think she’d been flirting with him? He probably did think that. He was undeniably handsome, though totally not her type. Too clean-cut. Too chiseled and… Okay, he was pretty fantastic-looking, but too confident for his own good. He probably thought she’d add a little exotic city-girl spice to his bed. And he probably thought he’d have no trouble getting her there. But Grace wasn’t interested in being his little curiosity. Even if she had any interest in getting laid right now—and she didn’t—she wasn’t going to be his experiment in edginess. His walk on the wild side. He could just sit over there and wonder.
Wanting to get the coffee taste out of her mouth, Grace headed toward the bathroom, where she’d already unloaded her few supplies and one giant box of cosmetics. But when she flipped on the light and got a look at herself, she froze. She’d forgotten to take off her makeup last night, and it had smeared into a crooked mask around her eyes. She suddenly had to consider that Cole’s laughter hadn’t been flirtation at all. Maybe it had just been pure amusement.
Damn.
CHAPTER FOUR
GRACE WAS NERVOUS. She didn’t like being nervous. It made her grumpy and defensive, which wasn’t the best attitude for a job interview.
Not that this was exactly a job interview. She’d caught the bus to the other side of town and was now sitting in Eve Hill’s photography studio, waiting for her to finish reviewing proofs with someone. Or she assumed that was what was going on behind the closed door at the far side of the room. That’s what the sign on the front door had said. The low murmur of voices was a soothing sound, at least.
So far, so good. There were the obligatory bride portraits on a side wall, but for the most part, the pictures were a mix of landscape shots, publicity stills for businesses and some truly amazing fashion shoots that had been done with the mountains in the background and frost covering everything except the models.
This woman was good. Really good.
Grace smoothed down her tight black pants, wishing she’d had an iron. She’d hung her nicest clothes up in the bathroom and turned the shower to hot, but now she felt self-conscious about the slate-blue sweater. Maybe it was the wrong choice. It had been knitted to look ancient and torn apart and shot through with muted grays as if it had faded in the sun. Slightly risky for a job interview, but Grace was counting on the complex beauty of the wool to catch the photographer’s eye. The sweaters normally sold for three hundred dollars a pop at the upscale farmer’s market in La Jolla, but the knitter was a friend who’d given Grace one as a present. It was her favorite piece of clothing. Ever. But maybe it had been a mistake. Maybe in Wyoming a raggedy sweater was just a raggedy sweater that no one would pay two dollars for. Maybe it looked like something she’d pulled from the trash can behind an L.A. soup kitchen.
God. She should go home and change.
Grace stood up, but then froze without moving toward the door.
Change into what, exactly? The signed Dead Kennedys T-shirt she’d bought at a garage sale last year? The silk tunic with the hand-screened Vargas pinup girl that curved up the hip in vivid colors?
Actually, maybe. Maybe a photographer would appreciate Vargas. Or maybe she’d consider it no better than soft porn.
“Damn it,” Grace muttered softly. She didn’t like this. Trying to please people. Worrying how to make a good first impression. She’d put up with this sort of thing for the past year, thanks to Scott, but what the hell did it have to do with how great she was with makeup? And she was great. Anyone in L.A. would be lucky to have her as a makeup artist, much less someone in Jackson, Wyoming. So why was
her confidence shaking like a leaf?
Maybe because this felt like a last chance.
It wasn’t, though. She could work at a restaurant. A gas station. She could clean hotel rooms. Anything. But those jobs would all pay minimum wage. How long would it take her to pay back an eight-thousand-dollar debt at that kind of wage?
The white door opened and a pair of female voices swelled through the room. Grace decided to bolt. This whole thing was a ridiculous idea. But when she started to move, her boot hit the portfolio she’d set on the ground. She caught herself, but wobbled on the four-inch heel of her nicest boots. In that moment, she had to make a decision, and instead of falling face-first in her attempt to escape, she settled on flopping back into her chair and staying put. She had just enough time to straighten up before the women glanced her way.
Grace took a breath to steady herself, then grabbed the portfolio and stood. A woman with a long brown ponytail offered a smile before saying goodbye to the older woman she was with. “I’ll call you with the numbers tomorrow, all right? Hi,” she said as she walked toward Grace. “How can I help you?”
“I’m Grace Barrett.” She held out her hand and thought very hard about the pressure of her handshake.
