IN SHINY BLACK skinny jeans, a black-and-white Western shirt with jeweled studs and white cowgirl boots, Natasha ran her fingers through her long auburn curls Saturday morning, taking one last look at herself in her makeshift dressing room.
Would Spencer like how she looked? She leaned in. She might be used to getting her own way. Obviously she was bossy. But she was also kind. And caring. Did that show in her eyes?
Hazel eyes gazed back at her. She knew the color well and had grown up hating its indecisiveness. They weren’t green. Or brown. And they didn’t show her much else, either.
“Natasha?” Angela had followed her makeup artist, Lori, out of the room. Natasha should have followed them.
“I’m coming,” she said, pressing her lips together to make certain that her lipstick was set. What did it matter how she looked to Spencer Longfellow?
He’d agreed to take a look at whatever business papers she had drawn up to solidify a yearly Longfellow Ranch segment of Family Secrets.
“Spencer’s asking for you.” Angela popped her head in the door, one of four, at the back of the barn they’d transformed. “He’s not saying so, but I think he’s nervous.”
“Where are the twins?” As long as Justin and Tabitha were happy, he’d be happy.
Besides, she wanted a word with them before she got too busy.
“Justin’s out front with Lionel, helping tape cords, just like you said.”
“And Lionel knows that he’s to keep the boy busy and then sit with him during the show?”
Their high school intern for the segment was a nice kid who was almost as energetic as Justin.
“Yep.”
“And Tabitha?” Natasha glanced around as she walked toward the front of the barn, looking for the little girl, for Spencer, but also noticing every other aspect of their operation: lights, staging, cameras, kitchens, the pantry where all shared ingredients were stored. She’d checked every kitchen herself early that morning. And the supply truck had just arrived and been unloaded, so she could personally ensure that all contestants’ ingredients matched the lists they’d submitted earlier in the week.
A couple of members of her staff smiled as she passed. Most were too busy to notice. Her people were hardworking. Focused.
And loyal, too. They were a family.
Her only family.
She loved them. They gave her the affection and respect due a matriarch.
“Tabitha’s in wardrobe,” Angela was saying. Spencer had insisted that the little girl wear one of her own dresses. Natasha had insisted that they’d find something for her in their stock.
Not because it was mandatory. Which she’d have told him if he’d asked. But he hadn’t. And she hadn’t said, because the day before, Tabitha had bounced in her chair when she’d heard she could choose her own “costume.”
“There you are.” Spencer came around the corner. Natasha nearly bumped into him. Reached out to steady herself by grabbing his arm.
And then held on too long.
She and Angela had made the decision to have the handsome rancher cohost his segment with her because they’d known he’d make viewers drool.
He wasn’t supposed to make her feel like doing so.
“Nice jeans,” she told him, stepping back to give him what she hoped was a professionally assessing look. He’d wanted to wear blue jeans—insisting that cowboys didn’t wear black jeans when they worked. Showed too much dirt and got too hot.
After she’d explained that he needed to be in fancier clothes for television, he’d agreed to purchase a pair of black jeans.
He looked like they’d been made on him.
His boots were black, too. And the black, white and red shirt—a masculine complement to hers—was the one Family Secrets had purchased for him. His chest left no spare fabric.
Tending to a question from their lighting crew, Angela moved out of earshot.
“I’m a rancher, not a television host.” Spencer’s delivery was a bit harsh. But she saw the uncertainty in those dark eyes.
She hadn’t been able to find any hint of emotion in her own mirrored gaze…
“And that’s why you’ll be so appealing to our viewers,” she told him, smiling. Lori had applied the minimum of makeup, just as Natasha had specified. “You’re being paid to be yourself, Spencer. If I wanted a professional actor, I’d have hired one.”
His hooded glance, accompanied by a hint of a smile, sent tingles down her spine. Good ones.
“Are the contestants here?” His question gave no indication that he’d felt any frisson of his own. Or was aware that she had.
Call was still an hour away.
“Yes, they’re all in the green room.” The largest room the crew had constructed, it was on the other side of the barn and even had a linoleum floor.
“Natasha?” Angela called out to her and she had to rush off, but as she did so, she gave the cowboy’s hand a squeeze.
And felt him squeeze back.
* * *
HE NEEDN’T HAVE been concerned. There was no audience. The taping started and stopped as necessary for all kinds of adjustments—not one of them due to the rancher guest host.
Walking out with Natasha, standing with her at the podium, was a bit of a rush—in a temporary kind of way.
When she grabbed his hand, holding it as they walked off stage—something that had very definitely not been rehearsed—he almost missed a beat. Until he realized that she was just ad-libbing the part they were playing. Cooking show host having chemistry with rancher guest host.
A fact made more clear as she dropped his hand the second they were out of the camera’s view and rushed off without even a glance in his direction.
He was glad. The bit of a dip in adrenaline was due to the fact that he was off stage. Away from the lights, camera and action for a few moments.
He should have invited Jolene to the taping. The thought had never even occurred to him until that moment. Or maybe it would be a good first date if he liked the profile he read online. He’d get to it that weekend. Plenty of time to make plans before next week’s segment.
They had four minutes off stage before going back on to welcome the contestants to their kitchens. To introduce them with pre-scripted bios scrolling on the teleprompter.
Four minutes assuming there were no glitches. Some lighting changes were happening behind the scenes. For the final airing, he’d been told, commercial messages would be dubbed into the break.
For Spencer’s part, his job was to stand and wait for Natasha to come back to his side and walk on stage with him. So he stood.
And with so much time on his hands, he thought about, for the return journey, lacing his fingers through hers rather than the generic hand clasping she’d instigated on the way off.
She was paying him for spice.
And he was a man who always earned his keep.
* * *
NATASHA WAS MORE than sixty seconds late. Not a big deal considering they weren’t live. But every member of the crew present stared as she slipped into her place beside Spencer. Angela, who was calling the show, gave her a pointed look, a raised brow as though asking if everything was okay.
Natasha turned away from the curious glance. “Tabitha’s with Lori,” she said hurriedly, putting her game face on as she waited for their cue. “She’s in show riding clothes, white leather, red blouse, white boots…” Like Natasha’s, the little girl had proudly pointed out, sticking the tiny boot out for inspection. “And in seventh heaven,” she added.
Why wasn’t Angela calling them? Glancing over, she saw her assistant still watching her. She’d forgotten to give her nod, signifying that she was ready.
Rectifying the situation, she said, “She’s absolutely adorable.”
Angela gave them their cue, which would afford them time to get into place at their podium on stage before the contestants filed from the green room for introductions. Spencer linked his fingers with hers.
She took that as a sign of his approval of her as a friend for his daughter.
* * *
ONCE THE CONTESTANTS were on stage, Spencer was to remain there with Natasha until the show’s end. If, during these taped segments, he needed to leave for any reason, there was a small gap in the set where he could do so—and then return the same way. Contestants could also leave the stage via the fake wall without disrupting filming.
“So tell me, Spencer, how do you think this city girl did last week when you woke her in the middle of the night to birth a calf?”
The words weren’t on the teleprompter. The look she gave him told him exactly what she was doing. Showing him that not all city girls were alike. Or something like that.
His spine tightened up. He was not going to start wanting things he would never have. No, to the contrary, Spencer Longfellow lived his life grateful for his blessings. His kids. The ranch.
But…he was a guy…on national television.
“You surprised me,” he said, giving her a look that was more about physical attraction than cows—letting her wonder, if she chose to, what else he might be thinking.
For their audience, of course.
“So…” She grinned at the camera and then turned that look on him. “You’re admitting that a city girl can fit in on a ranch if she has a mind to.”
The lights were making his blood too warm.
They should have stuck to the script. He was going to put that forward as a condition of his continued cooperation. Maybe.
While he didn’t like squirming, he kind of liked being playful, for once in his life, because it was all an act.
“I’m admitting that your performance the other night was…pleasantly surprising.”
Suddenly he wasn’t talking about cattle. It was the night before. And they were back on his old man’s truck. The way she’d talked to him, like they were equals, like she was talking to him simply because she enjoyed doing so…
“And with that, we’re moving back to…”
With complete professionalism, Natasha broke the moment. The cameras cut away. And they weren’t smiling at each other anymore.
Most of the time, unless Natasha was parrying with him, his job was to appear avidly interested in the cooking going on in the eight kitchens, arranged in two sets of four, on either side of the stage. While a camera remained on him at all times, only small clips of that footage would be used as the final show aired that evening. So he watched the cooks. And waited for his next cue.
Trying his best to ignore the woman standing so close he could smell flowers with every move she made.
So he noticed when she turned off her mic.
“What do you think?” Natasha asked, leaning toward him, her hand by her mouth, her gaze on the eight chefs trying to work their magic. To the camera, she could have been whispering about any one of the contestants.
He wanted to appear macho. Nonchalant. He grinned. Turned of his mic. “I think it’s a hoot,” he told her. “I had no idea so many people did so much work for a one-hour show.”
“You’ve seen only a glimpse of it,” she told him. Her glances were not for him. Or on him. Her smile didn’t fit the words, either. She had her TV face on all the way.
He missed the woman who’d been sitting on his truck the night before, asking him to play a song for her.
But knew that the woman before him, reality TV star and producer, professional chef Natasha Stevens, was the real her.
“No one’s going to believe there’s something going on between us,” he told her—mostly for his own benefit.
Dumb of him to think about her as a woman at all. She was his business partner. But as the show played on, as the mics went back on and he continued to trade lightly flirty banter with his cohost, he tried to think of her only with the respect and affection that came with the hope for financial remuneration.
And nothing more.
“What do you think of Chef Tammy?” Natasha was leaning in, her mic off again. His gaze traveled along the eight chefs before them. No name tags. Five were women ranging in age from twentysomething to sixtyish.
He’d introduced all five of them, leaving the male contestants to Natasha. He’d read the women’s bios on camera for national television. He read. He hadn’t paid attention to who was who. “Which one is she?”
Her grin could have been deprecatory. Or pleased. With that fake TV smile plastered on her lips, he couldn’t be sure she’d really grinned at all.
“The blonde. Stage right, kitchen three.”
Thankfully he was better at retaining directions than names. Tammy. The twentysomething. She was tall, leggy. Wore her jeans like a pro. Her big, glitzy belt buckle could have been merely an accessory, but he didn’t think so. It looked like the result of a national win.
And he remembered. “Miss Rodeo Kentucky.”
“Right.”
He watched her dicing several different vegetables, one after the other, with perfect precision. “She seems to know what she’s doing.”
Natasha had offered him the chance to watch the previous week’s taped interviews as a way to familiarize himself with the contestants. He’d found no point in the time suck. He didn’t need to know any of them. He just needed to be able to read from the teleprompter.
“I was asking what you thought of her as a woman. She’s single. A cowgirl. Right up your alley.”
So much about the statement offended him. She thought he needed a matchmaker? Like he couldn’t find a perfectly suitable woman on his own?
It was completely unprofessional of her. She might have even violated some workplace sexual harassment law.
Her mic back on, Natasha gave a softly spoken tutorial of reducing wine in a shallot sauce—describing the actions of the chef in stage left, kitchen two. Chef Michael, he heard her say.
Was Natasha under the impression Spencer was developing an interest in her? Was that why she’d been trying to pair him up with the pageant queen? If he’d even remotely given her that impression, he needed to set things straight.
“I was toying with the idea of some banter between the two of you,” Natasha said, still smiling toward the contestants, her mic off again. “Ranch owner and rodeo queen…”
He glanced Tammy’s way.
Natasha hadn’t been warning him off?
Had he let on that he cared that she had been? Because he didn’t really care. About her or what she thought. At all.
His life’s plan showed all signs of growing quite nicely.
Giving her a quick glance, he was startled to find her watching him. He watched back. They hadn’t gone over this eventuality.
She blinked. He felt like her lashes had brushed against his heart.
“Whatever you think is best,” he said, panicking for a second that something was wrong with him. That the woman had some kind of powerful effect on him.
She nodded. And moved immediately into a little rehearsed ditty distinguishing feed corn from sweet corn. He hadn’t even seen her take her mic live.
Anything that might have transpired between them had clearly been his imagination. He was in full control. He reminded himself to look hunk-like for the camera. He really didn’t care whether or not Natasha Stevens found him attractive.