“Boys!” she exclaims with enough enthusiasm to let me know she’s been looking forward to this moment all day, month, and maybe year. “You both look absolutely perfect! And Lottie, Carlotta, what a wonderful sur—oh my goodness, Lottie, what happened to your eye?”
“Chandelier incident,” I reply, because at this point it’s becoming my standard explanation for everything.
“Chandelier incident?” Muffin blinks at me with confusion.
“My fault,” Carlotta adds cheerfully. “I was swinging from one and accidentally kicked her in the face. Turns out, my foot and Lot’s face had a scheduling conflict at the same chandelier. Spoiler alert: my foot won.”
I nod. “Usually, it ends up in her mouth. Word to the wise—stay out of her way.”
“I will, indeed.” Muffin winces. “Well, it gives you a very mysterious, dangerous look. Very femme fatale. If you want, you can be in the calendar, too. That black eye will photograph beautifully.”
“I’ll pass,” I tell her.
She shrugs. “Well, Lottie and Carlotta, you’re a wonderful surprise.”
I’m pretty sure our presence isn’t actually a surprise, but Muffin has the kind of social grace that comes from years of pretending unwelcome guests are delightful additions to any gathering. She’s a Whitmore. A multi-millionaire at that. They attract unwanted guests and apparently, unwanted killers, too.
“Let’s get out to the barn,” she says, stepping outside of the house and joining us on the porch. I’ll admit, I’m more than a little disappointed. I was dying to see the glitz and glamour of the Whitmorehouse. “I’ve got the most amazing setup prepared. I’ll shoot you both at the same time just from different spaces so we can save you a lot of time that way,” she continues, gesturing for us to follow her toward the ranch grounds. “Multiple backdrops, professional lighting, and enough props to make this calendar absolutely irresistible!”
A spray of blue stars appears by my side, and Lenny materializes with the expression that says he’s about to witness something that will either be highly entertaining or deeply traumatic.
“This should be interesting,” he rumbles. “I’ve seen mating displays in the wild that were less elaborate than whatever’s about to happen here tonight.”
“Mating displays?” I ask under my breath.
“Oh yes,” Lenny replies with obvious amusement. “Two grown men about to strip down and pose, each trying to look more casual about it than the other. This should be educational. Notice how they’re sizing each other up? Neither wants the other to look better in the photos.”
Carlotta nods. “Two men who share everything are about to compete over who photographs better shirtless. And lucky us, Lot, we get front-row seats!”
“Lucky us, indeed.” And I mean it.
Muffin leads us away from the main house and down a cobblestone path that probably cost more to install than most people spend on their entire homes. We pass manicured gardens that look like they require a team of horticultural engineers and several trust funds to maintain, before arriving at what appears to be her staging area near the main barn.
She’s created a photographer’s paradise that combines an elegant mansion backdrop with rustic ranch elements in ways that suggest someone has been reading far too many romance novels featuring wealthy cowboys with questionable business practices and an unhealthy obsession with shirtless horseback riding. Or in her case, they’ve beenwritingthose romance novels.
The barn itself is one of those structures that’s been “restored” to look authentically rustic while secretly costing a mint in materials.Weathered wood that’s been carefully distressed by expensive contractors, vintage farm equipment that’s been polished to museum quality, and hay bales arranged with the kind of artistic precision that saysI hired a staging consultant who specializes in rural fantasies.
Strategic lighting equipment is positioned around wooden fence posts and antique farming tools that have probably never been used for anything that might contain dirt. There’s even a vintage tractor that looks like it rolled off a movie set rather than out of a working field, positioned at the perfect angle to provide what I can only assume is masculine backdrop appeal. And boy, does it ever deliver. I can hardly wait to see Noah and Everett posing in this country-fried wonderland.
“I’ve spent hours preparing this setup,” Muffin announces while gesturing toward her creation with such enthusiasm you’d think she was unveiling a masterpiece. “Multiple angles, perfect lighting, and enough props to capture every possible fantasy involving authority figures and rural masculinity.”
I knew that’s what she was doing. She’s a smart cookie, I’ll give her that. Suddenly I’m craving both cookies and biceps.
“Now then,” Muffin announces, pulling out an impressive array of props that looks like they were borrowed from a costume shop specializing in dark fantasies that are only quasi-legal. “I’ve got the perfect accessories for each of you!”
She hands Noah a deerstalker hat and a magnifying glass as if she’s bestowing knighthood on him. “For our sexy detective theme.”
Noah takes the props and grimaces as if he’s just been asked to don a clown costume. “Sexy detective?”
“Oh yes,” Muffin breathes. “Very mysterious, very commanding. Think Sherlock Holmes but with better abs.”
“Foxy’s got some serious abs himself,” Carlotta offers.
I’d nod, but Everett’s watching.
“Well, they will be shirtless.” Muffin winks at Carlotta. “So I guess we’ll see both of their abs.”
I give an audible gulp. The nudity around here is about to get real.
