CHAPTER 10
Julia
I DRAG MYSELF OUT of bed after a fitful night of sleep. Thoughts about Richard, Emmett, and Emmett’s true reasons for signing up for the show kept me up thinking—overthinking.
I don’t know what I expected from him yesterday, but it wasn’t the dread on his face, or the self-loathing that coated his every move on camera.
After over two years of avoiding thinking about Emmett Bush at all costs, I caved last night and let my brain run rampant with all my questions about him.
Why does he hate my brother? If he does, then why does he speak so highly of him to his family? Why did he bother staying with me that whole night on the cruise ship when he could have dumped me off at medical? And if he’s so full of himself, why didn’t he use that night to brag about being a hero?
But all my thoughts only led me to an entirely different question: Who is Emmett Bush?
Because I’m starting to think I don’t know the answer to that at all.
Last night, I’d lain awake, replaying the moment that one contestant, Evelyn, approached him. The way she’d tugged on his tie and slipped her hand into his suit jacket as if she knew him, as if he’d invited it.
And then I’d tried to remember the look on his face. Part of me thinks he’d gone stock-still, frozen up in surprise, but maybe that was all in my head. Maybe I was just watching the interaction through the lens of someone who has avoided physical contact with the opposite sex for the past two-plus years.
I sit on the edge of my mattress, head dropped in my hands, as I search for some shreds of energy to get started on what is only day two of this show.
As I struggle to wake up, I continue to think about that moment, because something about it isn’t sitting right with me.
Clearly, I didn’t know about the financial troubles that his family or their farm had fallen into. And as I pad to the bathroom and stare back at my tired-looking face, I decide that I can’t make Emmett more comfortable than he is with what the show requires of him. But I can set the stage—seek comfortable locations— for great TV that will make completing the task a bit easier for him.
It’s a simple, neighborly sort of kindness.
My mom has often told me that we can only control what only we can control.
And this is exactly that.
A fresh lens on the experience makes me feel better about my role in this seedy mess. With a steadier focus, I twist my unruly curls up into a bun on my way to the kitchen. The rich scent of coffee fills the air after I press the start button on the pot I had the foresight to prep before bed—despite being dog-tired.
Once it’s ready, mug in hand, I pad out into my plant-infested living room and plunk down on my too-soft love seat. My laptop waits on the cushion beside me. I flick it open and type “Prickle Point” into the search bar, wondering where it is and why, even though I grew up in the same valley, I’ve never heard of it.
After one full cup of coffee, my search is still fruitless, and the first stubborn knots of frustration tighten in my shoulders. Not because I can’t find it. Because, like it or not, I am going to have to ask Emmett for help after all.
A quick search through my inbox pulls up his phone number from the staff directory the studio sent me. I swore I’d never use it to contact him directly. But today, I cave.
I frown as my fingers tap across the screen of my phone.
Julia
Hi. It’s Julia. I don’t know if you’re awake yet, but when you have a moment, could you clarify the location of Prickle Point?
I toss my phone down and pad back to the kitchen to refill my coffee, irritated that I had to resort to asking him for help. When I get back to my seat, he’s already responded.
Emmett
Which Julia?
My eyes roll. What a douche.
Julia
The one who agreed not to tell her
brother about your offseason
shenanigans but who still could, at any moment, if the inclination strikes her.
Emmett
Blackmail. Nice. How very un-Silva of you.
I bristle at that. I am very Silva. I am kind. I’m just not… peppy the same way as
my mom and brother.
Julia
Pretending you have too many Julias in
your phone to keep track of? How very on-brand.
Emmett
Don’t worry. I have your contact card
squared away now. And it’s very on- brand.
He sends a screenshot through. And as much as I hate myself for it… I smirk.
The contact with my number below it reads: Julia Theo’s Hot Little Sister.
Julia
That’s so funny. I have you in my phone
as Emmett the Guy Who Lost to Theo.
Now quit dicking around and tell me where Prickle Point is.
Emmett
After a mean text like that? Unlikely.
I groan and glance up at the ceiling. I’m negotiating with a toddler.
Julia
Okay. I’ll just make my way to Stal
Brandt. Spend some quality time with
Leon and Tina. I bet they can tell me where it is.
Emmett
Well, they love you, so that would probably make their day.
Okay, that backfired. I thought he’d want to keep me as far away as possible
from his family. And as much as I don’t hate the idea of inhaling a few more of
those freshly baked cookies, time is of the essence.
Julia
Can you please help me be efficient
about this? I don’t want Richard on my ass.
Emmett
I really hate the mental imagery that comes with that sentence.
Julia
Enough to help me?
Emmett
If you let me come with you, I could show you where it is.
Julia
No, thanks. Let me do my job, and I’ll let
you do yours. You’ve helped me enough already.
Emmett
What’s my job?
Julia
To find a wife. Or girlfriend. Or whatever.
Emmett
That’s exactly what I’m trying to do right now.
My brows furrow as I blink at the screen. Does he mean that? I glance down at
myself. Oversize Shania Twain T-shirt. Boy-short underwear. And prickly legs
because shaving is just too much fucking work sometimes.
Surely not.
I decide to breeze past that comment. This man would flirt with a rock before
he’d flirt with me.
“Hot Little Sister” comment notwithstanding.
Julia
Drop the location.
His next text message is a dropped pin for a place called Mount Bouchard.
Clearly, Prickle Point is an unofficial name for the place, but he doesn’t elaborate on that. No words, no innuendo, no jokes.
And strangely, I’m a little disappointed by his silence.
I prepare myself for the day, already knowing that Richard will want a report the minute I step into his office about my first scouted off-site location. I shower, begrudgingly shave my legs, slather myself in sunscreen, and slick my hair back, too tired to straighten it like I normally do.
With the temperatures rising, I pull on a loose pair of jogging shorts and a sports bra, tossing a T-shirt into my bag for later. There’s no way I’m going into Richard’s office wearing only a bra.
Sneakers tied, I hop in my car and head south, weaving through the streets of Emerald Lake before most businesses have even opened. A few early risers are seated on patios, reading the paper and enjoying a cappuccino before the temperature spikes. Even more people are out walking, running, or biking along the lakeside path, all attempting to beat the heat.
The lake glimmers a shimmering navy blue under a cloudless azure sky. For now, the water is still, but soon, boats, Jet Skis, and loud thumping music will overtake it and turn it from a marvel of nature into a tourist playground. But that’s summer here in Emerald Lake.
I turn at one of the town’s major intersections, away from the lake and toward the rows of vines that cover the slopes nearest the water. Wineries stretch throughout the valley, another draw for visitors. Emerald Lake is one of Canada’s top wine-producing locations, but it’s also home to many other agricultural industries. Fruit, vegetables, dairy farming, ranching—the valley’s diversity is staggering.
I admire the scenery. The farther I get from the lake, the more rugged and rural the landscape becomes. The hot, arid hills that are home to Stal Brandt glow a light brown against the darker shades of the mountain rocks and coniferous trees.
My GPS leads me toward Mount Bouchard, a.k.a. Prickle Point, which practically borders the farm. I’ve decided that parking on set is the easiest solution.
According to the digital map, all I have to do is ditch my car at the crew’s designated parking area and take the gravel lane past Emmett’s cottage. Behind it, a gate leads off the property and onto the backcountry road that runs next to the trailhead.
It makes perfect sense that Emmett and his siblings would ride out this way, and I want to walk that same path. To see where he’d have gone as a child. It’s all part of the story that this scene will tell.
Parked and ready by eight a.m., I zip my keys and phone into my hip bag and head out under the already scorching sun. I make my way down the gravel road that Emmett and I had strolled mere hours before. His cottage comes into view up ahead. Unlike the main house, it’s not as well kept, though I suspect it may have once matched it fairly well.
Cedar shakes cover the cottage, but unlike the main house, these are weathered, making them appear more gray than brown. The windows are trimmed in red instead of blue, the paint cracked and this close to peeling. It’s missing the matching tin roof, and no lush gardens soften the worn edges of the property. A barnwood archway frames a gate that opens onto cracked, circular stepping stones. Follow those and you find yourself at a small front step below a faded red door.
Our budget didn’t allow for a full update of the property. Richard had mentioned the slightly run-down appearance gave Emmett a real “salt-of-the- earth” appeal for the girls.
I’d bristled at that hot take. Maybe I’m small-town in my tastes, but I find the
cottage incredibly charming.
Unlike the man living inside.
My hope when I headed out this morning was that Emmett would be gone for the day. He was adamant to the producers that work around the farm still needs to get done and that his mornings will be set aside for that.
But as I draw closer to the cottage, it becomes clear that where he’s concerned, hope is not enough.
Because there he is. Sitting on a rocking chair on his front porch, sipping a cup of coffee, wearing nothing but his boxers and a generous layer of muscles. He grins at me like I’m the most amusing thing he’s seen in his life.
“Good morning, Baby Silva,” he calls with a jovial wave that seems more mocking than genuine.
“Is this what you do?” I reply, wagging a finger at him as I approach the picket fence surrounding the yard. “Just sit outside wearing your underwear, hoping a girl comes by to admire you?”
His gaze licks across my skin. My legs, my stomach, my chest. “Are you saying that you’re admiring me? Because I kind of thought you were the only girl in the world who didn’t. For anyone else, I’d have skipped the boxers entirely.”
My lips purse as I make a show of looking him up and down. “I’m happy to see that a night of rest has restored you to factory settings. The earth is healing. This is exactly the type of assholery Richard wants from you. He’ll be thrilled to know you’re ready to live up to your reputation again.”
For the briefest flash, something close to wounded crosses his face. But it’s there and gone before I can analyze it.
“Well, if it doesn’t mess with my reputation too much, I’m going to offer one last time to accompany you up to Prickle Point. I’m assuming that’s where you’re going and that you didn’t just walk this way to shit-talk me to my face. I can even put some pants on for you—unless you prefer I don’t.”
He winks.
I roll my eyes and forge ahead.
“Yes, yes, you do have a bad habit of behaving rather gentlemanly when I’m around, but you don’t need to do that. I’m on the job. I’m twenty-five. Don’t need a chaperone. And who knows, someone who actually wants to see you in your underwear might swing by. I’d hate to spoil that opportunity for you. So…” I hike a thumb over my shoulder and back away. “I’ll see myself out.”
I expect him to toss back a witty jab—deep down, I’m even hoping for one. A little more of this back-and-forth with him would, at the very least, be entertaining. But all he offers me is a dip of his chin as he raises his coffee cup in
my direction. Then he leans back, eyes drifting over the fields while rocking gently in his chair, dismissing me.
I swallow and drop my gaze, smiling down at my feet awkwardly as I hustle out of sight. I pass his house and head toward the wide metal gate that leads off the Brandt property. Desperate for an escape.
Once I hit the trailhead, thoughts of Emmett fade away, replaced by a single- minded focus on my job. I snap photos of the area with my phone—the small parking lot and several angles heading up the trail to the mountain’s summit—so production can see where the cameras will need to go. As I explore, I jot a note to contact the local parks board to get a permit for filming. I take video footage, illustrating the difficulty of the main path and noting a halfway point with a bench that could work for shooting B-roll interviews.
Then, I make my way to the top. This mountain is more like a steep hill, but the view from the crest would still be worth it if it were a harder trail.
I prop my hands on my hips, take a deep breath, and allow myself a moment to soak in the views. The lake, the trees, the perfectly spaced rows of vines from all the different wineries in the valley below. This part of British Columbia feels almost desertlike, the scorching sun undulating in waves over the dry loamy soil and glinting off the shimmering lake. Native prickly pear cactuses bloom along the slope before me, giving the entire setting a dreamlike quality.
Once I’ve caught my breath and looked my fill, I lift my phone and start snapping away to give production a road map of the location. It’s as I’m taking a video and explaining the approximate size of the summit that my foot catches on a piece of dry, ropy root.
And with only a few stumbled steps, my center of gravity is shot. Suddenly, I’m falling backward down the slope of the hill. I don’t fall fast or hard, it’s more of an embarrassing, clumsy, childlike roll down a hill.
A hill that is quickly revealing why Emmett refers to it as “Prickle Point.”
