by Elise Sax
“Like Eisenhower could handle what I do on a daily basis,” Olivia says, rolling her eyes. With the kids settled, Rosalind takes my suitcase, and we march into the inn. I’m vaguely aware of the Western décor in the lobby, but I’m being pushed through it so fast toward the elevators that I don’t have much of a chance to admire anything.
Rosalind looks at her phone and shakes her head. “We’re three minutes behind schedule,” she complains. It really is like D-Day. I know some of the details, but I have a feeling that Rosalind and Olivia have more in store for me than we planned.
“Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” I squeak. At first, I don’t think they’ve heard me, but I catch them exchanging looks as Rosalind pushes the elevator call button.
“We’re on the top floor,” Olivia says, changing the subject. Rosalind looks at her phone. Drat. No way are they going to change their minds.
The elevator takes us to the top floor, and Rosalind opens the double doors to our massive double suite. Olivia’s mother, Diane, greets us in a fluffy robe and slippers.
“Look what came with the room,” she announces, gleefully running an appreciative hand over the front of the robe. “There a fridge, too. I’ve already eaten three Toblerones.”
Oh, Toblerones. I look around for the refrigerator. I could use a chocolate infusion. There might be tequila, too. But before I can find the fridge, Olivia hands the stroller over to her mother and begins unbuttoning my blouse. “I can undress myself,” I say.
“This is faster,” she says, moving on to my belt.
“Wait a minute, why am I getting undressed?”
Rosalind answers me by coming into the room, holding a cowboy hat, boots, and an outfit that screams yee-hah. Like Dolly Parton became a meth addict and decided to go out for the evening. “No,” I say, shaking my head. “Nope. Not going to happen.”
Olivia pulls my pants down, and somehow she manages to get me down to my bra and panties without my help. I guess it’s a skill that she’s honed being the mother of four unruly kids. Rosalind crouches down in front of me and holds out the pants.
“Be a team player,” she orders, shaking the jeans for me to step a leg in.
“Team player?” I shriek. “What are you talking about? I don’t see you putting on jeans with neon pink rivets down the legs.”
“And they glow in the dark,” Olivia says with a smile.
I stomp my foot. “Listen, I’m working here, and I have to maintain a professional look. I’m not supposed to look like Flo from Mel’s Diner.”
“Lighten up. It’s a rodeo, princess,” Diane says. She puts the kids in the corner of the room, which is filled with every toy imaginable. “It’s not fashion week in Paris. Everyone here is going to wear glow in the dark rivets on their jeans. Do you want to look out of place? Do you want to insult the billionaire hottie crush of yours?”
She has a point. What do I know about rodeo attire? Maybe my sensible but smart black suit with two- inch pumps will stand out. Maybe Cole Stevens hates city girls. Maybe pink rivets are catnip to cowboy billionaires.
“Fine, old woman,” I growl after a moment. “But I get a Toblerone, too. No way am I doing the Annie Oakley bit without some good Swiss Chocolate.”
Diane pulls a Toblerone bar out of her robe pocket and looks at it longingly. “I guess I can give you a bite.”
I step toward her and stare her down. “Give it to me,” I growl. I’m not playing around…I’ll knife her for the damned chocolate. She’s perceptive because her expression goes from haughty to terrified, and she hands over the Toblerone. I take it from her and give her my best scowl. After all, the fridge was stocked by my client, so ipso facto, the chocolate is mine. I open the wrapper, and shove a piece into my mouth.
Rosalind taps the toe of her designer shoe on the floor. “Time is ticking away,” she complains. I take another bite of chocolate and feel better, almost ready to go out looking like I’m selling tickets to a Garth Brooks concert.
She hands me the jeans, and I slip one leg in. Well, almost. Olivia purses her lips and pinches her chin, as if she’s trying to figure out a puzzle.
“Try the other leg,” she says.
I put my other leg in and pull up, but the jeans stop dead, halfway up my legs. “You said you’re a size six,” Rosalind says, annoyed.
“I am!” At least I was before I hit puberty. Sheesh.
“Yank harder,” Olivia urges. “Suck it all in. Why aren’t you sucking it all in? Can you suck it all in?”
“I’m sucking,” I tell her. I take another bite of the Toblerone and put the rest of the bar down on a table, throwing a threatening look at Diane, in case she’s tempted to take it. I begin to yank in earnest and manage to get the pants to my hips, but I’m in pain. “Why did you get me the only jeans in existence without stretch? Who buys non-stretchy jeans? It’s un-American. Stalin would buy non-stretchy jeans.”
“Stretch is not cowboy chic,” Rosalind says. “You need to be authentic.”
I don’t think pink jeans are authentic cowboy chic, but I let it pass. Maybe I’m mellowing or maybe it’s just the effects of the pants cutting off my circulation. Anyway, I keep trying to hike them up, but it’s a little like squeezing an elephant into a Volkswagen.
Not that I’m an elephant.
“There’s no way this is a six,” I complain.
“Are you impugning my shopping abilities?” Rosalind asks.
“Yes.”
“No problem, because Olivia was the one who bought them.”
I whip around and give Olivia the death stare. “They’re a size six!” she insists. “Sorry about the stretch. I thought they were so pretty.”
I don’t have the heart to be angry at her. Olivia is one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. She’s had a terrible few years, and she’s hanging on by a thread. Rosalind’s generosity, along with her contagious go get ‘em attitude has helped Olivia believe that she can get on with her life and survive, and for some reason, hooking me up with the perfect man is the first step to her happy ending. So, my complaints about the jeans deflate, as if I’m a balloon.
A really fat balloon shoved into a tiny tube.
“Are you sure it’s a six?” I ask, my voice meek and calm.
Olivia takes a look. “It’s not a six,” she says. “I’m sorry I made a mistake.”
“See?” I tell Rosalind. “It’s not a six. What size is it, Olivia?”
She steps back and shakes her head. “No.”
“No?”
“Size is just a number.” Her face is drained of color, and she looks scared.
“I know size is just a number,” I say. “So what number is it? A four?”
Olivia throws a panicked look at her mother and at Rosalind. I have no idea what’s going on. I twist my body and crane my head to see the tag.
Size 8.
“Size eight?” I screech. “Are you kidding me with the size 8? These jeans can go straight to hell with its size eight. Where did you buy these? Is this a cruel joke? What is this…a size eight in dog years? Is this a size eight on the metric system? Am I being punk’d?”
I may be yelling, and two of the kids start crying. Olivia seems relieved to go check on them. Diane smiles wide and prances over to my Toblerone and picks it up. “I guess this is mine, now,” she says.
I can’t argue with her, since I’m standing with the jeans cutting me in half. “Come on, I’ll help. We’re already late,” Rosalind says, grabbing hold of the waistband and pulling with all of her strength. It’s a miracle of physics that would confound even Einstein, but we manage to get the jeans on.
“Don’t drink anything,” Rosalind says, wagging her finger at me. “There’s no peeing for you until bedtime. As it is, we’re going to have to cut you out of there.”
“Great.”
“And no sitting.”
“I’m no engineer, but even I figured that out. I can’t feel my legs.”
“Don’t worry. The cowboy boots are a
half size too small, so the pain in your feet should stimulate feeling in your legs.”
“This keeps getting better and better,” I mutter. They dress me in a hurry and paint me in two coats of makeup and tease my hair, only to cover it with a pink cowboy hat. I look in the mirror and sigh…because I’m speechless. I literally can’t speak. No words will form in my mouth. And not just because no blood is getting to the half of my body bound by hard as nails denim. I look like the entire city of Nashville threw up on me.
Olivia hops on her heels. “You look great!”
“Define great,” I say.
“He’s going to eat you up,” Rosalind says, smiling. “I smell a huge success in part one of Operation Billionaire.”
I don’t know about Operation Billionaire, but I’m pretty sure that Cole Stevens is going to laugh his head off when he gets an eyeful out of Calamity Jane.
Uh oh. Cole Stevens.
My mouth goes dry, and my skin prickles. In all the excitement about jeans that don’t fit, I’ve forgotten that I’m about to meet Cole Hunka Hunka Stevens.
My heart stops, and my brain bleeds. A hurricane blindsides me, and an earthquake rocks my foundation. “I can’t see him like this,” I croak. I can’t see him at all. I need to be an invisible event planner, keeping busy with place settings. He’s everything, and I’m a homeless woman in a pink cowboy hat. What was I thinking? Who do I think I am? I’ll tell you who I am…I’m a poser. A fake. A phony.
“No!” Olivia shouts. “Don’t freak out. Don’t back down. We’re all here to support you. Be a sneaker and go for it.”
I would love to be a sneaker. My feet are already killing me.
Rosalind pats my back. “It’s going to be great. We have it all planned. This is just the first day. You don’t have to stick your tongue down his throat, yet.”
“Am I sticking my tongue down his throat?”
“Not yet,” she says.
“This is going to be good,” Diane says, eating my Toblerone. The TV is on, but I’ve become her new entertainment. She’s riveted to my new image, like watching The Titanic before it leaves the dock.
“T-minus two minutes,” Rosalind announces. She hands me my tablet and notebook with all of the details for the gala. “You need to get down to the rodeo grounds for the welcome lunch.”
They know the details of the event better than I do. “I’m going to get fired,” I say.
“If you do, you’ll get another job. You’re a kickass event planner. Your gala looks breathtaking.” Rosalind is always positive and uplifting, and I almost believe her.
She turns me around and pushes me toward the door. I take a deep breath, open it, and step into the hallway, alone. Dead man walking, I think as my cowboy boots clop on the multicolored carpeting. Two of my colleagues are waiting at the elevator and do a double-take when they see me.
“Hello, Beatrice,” Cindy Graves says, but her eyes are all over the place except for on me. I don’t blame her. An awkward silence descends on us, and Judy, my other colleague, taps furiously on the elevator call button. They don’t ask me why I’m dressed like a deranged Western music backup singer, and I don’t tell them. I don’t think explaining that I’m dressed this way to snag our billionaire client would be taken any more seriously. I pretend to focus on my tablet, trying to look professional.
How ironic.
Finally, the elevator arrives, and then they ignore me in a smaller space. I want to kill Rosalind and Olivia. How dare they do this to me? I give up. As soon as I find a pair of scissors, I’m going to cut myself out of this outfit and call it a day.
Chapter 4
Beatrice
When I leave the inn, there’s no more time to anguish. Outside, there’s a beehive of activity with people coming and going, which reminds me that I’m here to work and that there’s a lot of work to do. Cole’s rodeo is an annual event, which takes a crazy amount of preparation. Employees and volunteers take over a week to get the ranch ready for the series of events and vendors. Cole is such a generous and gracious man that he puts on an amazing barbecue lunch for everyone involved before the rodeo gets started. Even though as an employee, the lunch is for me, too, I’m still working. I hug my notebook and tablet to me and climb into the van, which is supposed to take us to the barbecue, with all the professional self-confidence I can muster.
No, I can’t sit down.
I try, but my knees won’t bend more than two inches. Playing it off like I don’t want to sit, I stand, half-bent over, as the driver puts the van into drive. Of course, all eyes in the van are on me, but it’s a toss-up if it’s because I’m leaning over, clutching on to the side of the van or because in the dim light, my legs are glowing neon pink.
Thankfully, the trip to the picnic grounds is a short five-minute ride. We file out of the van, and I take stock of my surroundings. We’re next to the rodeo grounds. There are about twenty round tables set up, a lot of American flags, and a live band playing. All around us is open sky and mountains in the distance. It’s paradise.
I walk into the center of the action and schmooze. I’m a great schmoozer when it comes to work. Talking to strangers and making them comfortable is another part of my job. I meet several locals, who are regular volunteers at the rodeo.
“I’m Bessie,” one of them tells me. “I’m bionic. You want to feel my hip? It feels normal, but it’s really titanium. That’s better than steel.” She’s stuck like glue to me, probably because we’re wearing similar outfits. Hers is a bright yellow, though, and she seems able to move better in her jeans. Maybe it’s the power of titanium.
I nod and smile and glance at my tablet to show her that I’m busy and have to leave. She doesn’t catch on. “I’ve been coming here since Cole started. He’s a good boy,” she says. There’s a breeze, and a cloud of barbecue smells go up my nostrils. Yum. But I can’t eat. If I do, my jeans might explode, and I could take out the whole crowd with projectile rivets. “There he is,” she continues, nodding toward a group.
“Oh,” I say, like the wind has been knocked out of me. There’s no mistaking Cole Stevens in the group of guests. It’s not just that he’s a head taller than everyone, but he’s the only one emitting waves of sexy like a human pheromone machine.
“You got the hots for him?” Bessie asks me.
“What? No!” I say, a little too loudly.
“I was his kindergarten teacher.”
I whip around to look at her. “You’re lying.”
She touches her chest. “Cross my heart. And you’re not the first chickadee who’s interested in him. Ever since he was five years old, everyone with a hoo-ha and half of everyone without one has been after him.” She looks me up and down. “You got a chance.”
My eyes spin around in their sockets, and I might be having a stroke. Or a panic attack. I take a step closer to Bessie and grab a fistful of her fringe covered top. “Don’t fuck with me.”
She blinks a few times. “I wouldn’t fuck with you…uh…”
“Beatrice,” I supply.
“Beatrice. Easy does it, Beatrice. Men don’t like desperation.” Damn. If she’s right, I’m shit out of luck. I’m one hundred percent desperation. Bessie gently removes my hand from her blouse. “I’ll introduce you,” she says, charitably and starts to walk toward him, but I don’t follow her. Either I’m too scared, or I’ve lost the ability to move my legs.
“You’re doing great,” a woman whispers into my ear. It’s Olivia. She’s dressed in a black and white server uniform, and she’s carrying a tray of drinks.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m undercover. I’m your backup.”
“Do I need backup?” I ask. Of course I need backup. I need backup and frontup and side to side up. I’m ready to pass out, and I think I’m allergic to my cowboy hat because my throat feels like it’s closing. Up ahead, Bessie is talking to Cole.
Then, she points at me, and he turns in my direction.
Holy shitballs.
Yep, my throat is closing.
“Rosalind has staked out the grill,” Olivia continues. “She says that sexy men like meat, so Cole will have to give it a visit… oh my God. Is that him? Is that Cole? Oh my God.”
I nod.
“That can’t be. He’s…he’s…” She stops talking, and I wonder if her throat is closing, too. But I know what she’s trying to say, because I’m thinking it, also. He’s breathtaking. He’s a God. He’s a movie star, sex symbol, Adonis.
But a lot better looking.
Oh, no. This is never going to work. He’s steak, and I’m hamburger. Worse, I’m a tofu burger. A gorgeous billionaire cowboy from Idaho doesn’t want a tofu burger. According to Rosalind, sexy men want meat. A gorgeous billionaire cowboy would spit on a tofu burger. Tofu burgers are probably not even legal in Idaho. The cops are probably on their way right now to get me. Twenty-five to life for posing as a steak when clearly I’m a tofu burger. I can’t go to jail. I look terrible in orange.
I don’t want to be a cell wife.
“Abort. Abort,” I hiss.
Olivia focuses back on me. “What? No! We can’t abort. It’s all going to plan.”
“What are you talking about? Look at him. Look at me. The plan sucks!”
“Take a drink. That will calm you down.”
“I can’t pee, remember?”
“Don’t look now, Beatrice, but Cole is looking right at you.”
He is. Bessie is pointing in my direction, and Cole’s sexy brown eyes are staring right at me. “No, he’s not,” I say.
“Yes he is. He’s looking right at you.”
I punch her in the arm, and a glass falls to the ground. “Shut up.”
She stumbles but catches herself. “He’s not even blinking. His eyes are focused directly on you.”
I’ve got the biggest case of stage fright in the history of the world. I’m going to pass out, throw up, and pull out my hair all at once. “No, he’s not. He’s looking for a door or the exit.”
“Beatrice, we’re outside. There’s no doors or exits. Oops, here he comes.”
