CHAPTER 21
Julia
Mom
Can you not tell your brother ANYTHING
about the show? He keeps asking me.
He’s like a dog with a bone.
Julia
Is that your way of calling him annoying?
Mom
I mean… if I had to label one of my children that way, it would not be you.
But I prefer to consider him determined.
Julia
I’m sticking with annoying.
“The Ranch? No, that bar is where all the yuppies go.”
My gaze shifts up from my phone, landing on Emmett’s bare, chiseled,
glistening torso.
My mouth dries.
I’ve been trying not to look directly at him since I came searching for him at the barn. But it’s unavoidable. Richard has asked me to find a country bar where Emmett can take the girls out for a night on the town.
The Ranch is far and away the most popular country bar in town. But I was still keen to get his input on where he’d go.
Two days of artfully skirting Emmett since our secret rendezvous and very unprofessional almost-kiss at Prickle Point down the drain.
Because he’s unloading hay from a flatbed, the veins in his arms throbbing with exertion. I can still smell the fresh scent of soap on his skin along with clean sweat and dried grass. Strangely, it’s appealing.
“Well, then, it should be the perfect spot for you and your harem,” I volley, reminding myself of what this situation really is.
My job is to create dates for him with other women. That’s it.
We can sit in a diner and get to know each other. He can be a gentleman and bring pineapple for my eggs. But he’s still juggling seven women in front of a slew
of cameras.
And I am merely a member of the crew.
Which is why it’s perfectly professional for me to watch closely as he drags the back of his gloved hand over his damp forehead.
Perfectly. Professional.
“It’s not where I’d take someone I was actually interested in.”
I swallow and glance at the flatbed loaded with square hay bales. Other staff are picking up the slack while Emmett talks with me, and guilt claws at me for pulling him away from his work. Especially since he’s maintained that his mornings are reserved for farm chores, and he can only film for the show in the afternoons and evenings.
“Okay.” I nod firmly, meeting his gaze again. “Where would you take them?”
“I’ll pick you up at nine and show you.”
“Emmett.”
“Doll.”
I sigh, letting every ounce of tiredness soak into my voice. It’s easier to pretend I’m agitated by his new pet name than admit it sends an unwelcome thrill through me.
I prop my hands on my hips and tilt my head to demonstrate my impatience.
“Just tell me where you want it to be so that I can go do my job.”
He slaps his hands together, dust flying from his gloves before he mimics my stance, facing off. “Sorry. Last time I let you do that you went ass over teakettle down Prickle Point and got injured. It’s for your own safety.”
My eyes roll. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“I’ll admit it worked out pretty well for me. But you were a little worse for wear.”
I flush at the memory and tell myself the entire run-in was practical. Very
clinical.
“I think—”
“That you’ll be ready at nine tonight? Great. I’ll be done filming by then.
Looking forward to it.” He turns on one booted foot and swaggers back toward the mammoth pile of hay, ending the conversation and leaving me staring at his
firm ass and broad shoulders.
Mouth open, catching flies.
Brain reminding itself that we don’t do cowboys. We stay away.
As such, I consider marching over and arguing with him, but it seems pointless.
Especially when he turns around and catches me looking like I’m installing important updates. “Quit gawking at my ass, Silva. And wear something cute for me, yeah?”
He winks, and I flip him the finger like a starstruck teenager.
Fucking Emmett Brandt.
Emmett told me to wear something cute, so I decided to fuck with him and wear something hot as hell instead. A slinky red sundress that’s too short, but with its A-line shape, the fabric drapes over my thighs somewhat more demurely. The black ankle-high cowboy boots dress it down just a little too. I ran out of time to do much with my hair other than pin it up and leave a few loose curls down to frame my face.
He’ll just have to deal with the messy mane. And I don’t even care. Because I feel… hot. And not at all embarrassed about it. Which makes me realize that it’s been a long while since I felt good showing myself off.
I exit the front doors of my building with a confident bounce in my step that feels fresh and exciting.
And it all seems like a fantastic idea until I waltz out into the fading light and
see him.
Waiting for me.
He’s leaned against his truck, thick arms crossed, his cream-colored Henley stretching tight over his shoulders. His ash-blond hair is pushed back, a little darker at the roots, curls tamed into something closer to artful waves. Stubble dusts over his jaw, and a pair of aviator sunglasses perch on the bridge of his straight nose.
I take in the way his brown jeans cling to his muscular thighs. He’s paired them with matching brown square-toed leather boots.
He looks golden, kissed by the sun after hours spent doing hard labor in the heat. Nothing he’s wearing is fancy or out of the ordinary, but he wears it all so damn well. He’s dressed it all up with a gold chain around his neck and a few beaded bracelets stacked with a two-tone watch.
And to be honest, the man could pull off just about any outfit.
But it’s the way he’s staring at me that almost stops me in my tracks. His gaze licks over my skin like flames over dry kindling. Fast, hot, and intense.
His throat bobs as his eyes pause on my hair, homing in on one loose tendril like it’s done something to personally offend him.
“Cute enough for you?” I tease as I draw nearer, refusing to act at all affected by his attention. I do a little spin so that the skirt of my dress flares out and gives him a peek of my bare thighs.
“That’s not how I’d describe this.” His voice comes out rough, and warmth flashes across my chest when he finally locks eyes with me, an accusatory finger gesturing over the length of my body.
I lick my lips, feeling parched. “How would you describe it?”
He gives me another careful once-over, chin tipping as he does. The air between us sizzles. “Trouble.”
My lips tip up, and I allow myself to enjoy the compliment for a beat. All I respond with is a nod. Because… good. Serves him right for strong-arming me into this.
Fuck around and find out, Emmett Brandt.
He opens the passenger-side door for me without a word. His hand finds its favorite spot on my lower back, his fingers wrapping around my hip bone ever so slightly as he helps me into his pickup truck.
“Thanks,” I say breathlessly, turning to look at him.
He grips the door and stares at my legs. When I glance down, I realize my skirt has ridden up, and I reach to adjust it.
But Emmett beats me to it. Calloused fingertips trail over the top of my thigh as he smooths the fabric back down.
Goose bumps spread over my legs. It’s an instant physical reaction to his touch, and we both know it. Because it’s impossible to be cold in this weather.
I can see the outline of his eyes through the dark brown lenses of his sunglasses as he glances up at me. “Like I said. Trouble.”
With that, he slams the door on me and rounds the vehicle. Giving me mere seconds to recover from his touch on my bare thigh and my unexpected reaction.
When he climbs in and starts the engine, country music fills the cab of the truck. Dierks Bentley’s voice is a welcome sound after the loaded silence mere seconds ago.
“You ready?” he asks, pulling away without sparing me a glance.
I settle back in my seat, doing my best to appear relaxed. “If I weren’t, would you turn this truck around and take me back home?”
This time, when Emmett looks at me, he hits me with a wolfish grin. Any signs of uncertainty he may have been wearing before have all evaporated. “Of course not. Haven’t you been warned about me, Jules?”
At that, I laugh. Because, yeah, Theo has warned me about Emmett.
He just didn’t warn me that under all that bluster, swagger, and sharp tongue, Emmett Brandt might just be one of the good ones.
We drive twenty minutes south of Stal Brandt, right to the edge of Emerald Lake, and pull up to a bar in an old strip mall. Conversation flowed easily on the way here, but the sight of the shabby bar makes every word shrivel on my tongue.
“Here? This is where you’d take someone you’re actually interested in?”
“Yes.”
Emmett hops out of his truck, undeterred by my skepticism. He circles the front end as I eye the low-rise building. The Sugar Saloon has a reputation for being a tad rough around the edges. I’ve never been here, but I’ve heard stories.
When he pulls my door open, I turn to face him, edging a foot forward to find the metal runner. The hemline of my dress shifts up, but I’m wearing bike shorts
underneath, so what the fuck ever.
“But this place is—”
Before I can finish my sentence, his hands grip my waist and lift me out of my seat. He places me on the asphalt with little fanfare. But his fingers flex against my hips as he leans in close for a beat. His heady scent—all fresh soap and cedar now —swirls around me, as his breath dusts across my neck. “Trouble? Perfect for you.
Especially in this fucking dress.”
He pinches the fabric between two fingers as he draws away, giving it a firm tug downward. I feel a matching pull deep inside me. It has me sucking in a quick, harsh breath.
One that Emmett hears. One that makes the side of that sinful mouth tip up knowingly.
He’s toying with me. And I can’t for the life of me keep my reactions to him under wraps. He doesn’t gloat though. Instead, he turns and walks away, but not before reaching one hand out behind him, a clear sign for me to take it and keep up.
And against my better judgment, I do. Because there’s a part of me that believes Emmett would never lead me astray.
When we walk into the bar, every pair of eyes in the place swivels to land on us.
I drop his hand, which only draws a deep chuckle from him. I shoot him a quick glare and then take a half step away from him, wanting to keep an acceptable amount of space between us while also not wanting to be out of arm’s reach.
I remind myself that this is a small town, and this is a local haunt. Which means anything people see Emmett and me doing could spread like wildfire through this valley.
“Worried someone is going to tell your golden-boy brother that Emmett the tramp had his baby sister out at the town dive bar?”
His spin on what we’re doing here rankles me. I sneak a peek at him from the side of my eye. He’s holding himself tall and proud, but I know I didn’t just imagine the thread of hurt in his snarky one-liner.
“Nah.” I grab his hand and take a step into the space. “I’m more worried about you getting all obsessed with me,” I toss over my shoulder.
A full, genuine laugh hits me from behind. I grin toward the bar as I weave through the cramped space while trying not to rub the pads of my fingers over the calluses on his hand like a total fucking creep.
The attention that landed on us as newcomers in the bar dies down the farther we push toward the back. And when I spot a small table in the corner, I make a beeline for it, dragging Emmett with me.
He lets me lead him until we make it to the table, then he surges ahead, making a point of pulling out the chair for me.
“Are you pretending to be a gentleman again?” I ask playfully, turning to take a seat.
He flops down across from me, stretches his legs out, and props his hands across his ribs. That devil-may-care energy that makes women shoot furtive glances his way everywhere he goes—including here—oozes from him. “Yeah. Are you falling for it?”
My lips twist in amusement, and I opt to take in my surroundings rather than respond to him. The clientele is of every shape and size and from all walks of life.
Farmers, businessmen, small groups of people—some of whom I might recognize from campus. I wonder if I’d have come here and kicked back with friends if I hadn’t retreated so dramatically the past couple of years.
The place does have a certain… charm.
The wooden floors are scuffed to shit. There are small slot machines in one corner, and a cigarette vending machine next to them. Two birds with one stone, I guess.
On the opposite side, there are a couple of pool tables, and just beyond that, a dartboard that has seen better days. The ceiling is low enough that some of the larger male patrons almost seem to be hunching just to fit.
In British Columbia, smoking in bars has been banned for almost twenty years, but this place defies the odds by carrying the decades-old scent along with the yeasty aroma of spilled beer.
“It’s dark in here,” I mutter, my brain slipping into work mode. I start cataloging the different ways we could produce an episode using this specific location. It would be a challenge. “And cramped. But I like it. The director of photography will hate it at first though.”
“At first?” Emmett asks.
“There’s definitely a vibe.” I turn back to face him.
“What kind of vibe?”
“A dingy cowboy vibe.”
He smirks. “No wonder you like it.”
“Wrong.” I hit with a sidelong glance. “I stay far away from cowboys of all types. Bull riders especially.”
“Listen, we’re not all as annoying as your brother.”
I chuckle and shake my head at him. “What I mean is that I’d rather not be a widow because the person I’m with has an adrenaline addiction that involves crawling up onto an angry bull for shits and giggles. The anxiety of having to watch my brother do it is bad enough.”
All the humor drains from his face. “Oh.”
He knows I’m talking about my dad.
“Yeah. Oh,” I echo, hoping to really draw a line in the sand before we go any further.
But Emmett must not get the memo because after a few beats of watching me with furrowed brows he leans back, settling into his chair and donning that signature smirk before he replies.
“Then it’s a good thing I’m set to retire after next season.”
I start at that tidbit of information. Not because he’s retiring—this sport doesn’t lend itself well to longevity. No, it’s what he’s insinuating that catches me
off guard. He won’t be a bull rider anymore so we could… No. That can’t be what he means.
Flustered, I decide to switch the topic of conversation entirely.
“Is this really where you’d hang out, left to your own devices?”
Emmett doesn’t respond right away. Instead, his eyes trace my features for a beat longer than necessary. “Depends on the company,” he replies cryptically.
“And what type of company am I?”
“The kind I can—”
But before I can squeeze the rest of the answer out of him, a server swings by to grab our drink order, and the line of questioning is lost entirely.
