"Thanks for doing my eyeliner, even though it ain't for the stage," Julien says, licking a stray droplet of his drink from his lower lip. "Hope it's still holding up."

You're his designated makeup artist. That's how Julien puts it. Given Molly Maverick's limited funds, it's not your only task.

Before you started powdering his face, the stage lights weren't doing him any favors. In those early performances, he looked like he'd missed the mark at a Chippendales audition, sweat glistening like body oil under the fierce glare of the spotlights—a rookie mistake.

With practiced casualness, Julien's gaze drifts over the bar, past Mica chatting up her flavor of the night, and lands on the mechanical bull.

Julien nods towards the inflatable pen, all faux nonchalance and youth. "Ain't much of a line." He flashes what he hopes is a charming grin, pretending like the idea hadn't been on his mind since before you entered the bar.

"I can show you how it's done," Julien declares. He prays you'll jump on the bull with him and he's not making a fool out of himself. "You're looking at a real cowboy here, darlin'."

Julien isn't usually one to be so forward; he's more of the 'slow and steady wins the date' kind. But emboldened by liquid courage and newfound secret superhero confidence, he's feeling daring.

He hopes he's reading the signals right and that you're sweet on him, maybe, hopefully—after all, you always give his makeup more attention than the others.