There were awkward moments, but he did try to be more himself in front of the cameras. I suspect his comfort will only grow and read more natural as the show progresses.
No major moments of physical contact. Will begin to weave that in with one-on-one dates next week.
All in all, a successful first week! Onto the next.
Sincerely,
Teri Baker
Story Producer
CHAPTER 17
Julia
Theo
Mom says you’re really busy. Which makes sense considering I haven’t heard a single thing from you.
Julia
That’s funny, because I had to hear from Mom that you were coming for a visit. So I guess we’re even.
Theo
How’s the new gig?
Julia
It’s good. Learning a lot. Long-ass hours, though.
Theo
With who?
Julia
Cast and crew.
Theo
And they are?
Julia
Protected under NDA.
Theo
Boring.
I slam my car door and let my body sink into the driver’s seat, head flopping back against the headrest as my eyes flutter shut and a heavy sigh rocks my body.
I’m only one week into this six-week job, and something about today has left me overwhelmingly tired. It’s one of those moments where I war between wishing desperately for my own bed and being so hungry that I can’t think about anything other than food.
Except that’s not true.
I can think about Emmett.
Images of him on set filter through my mind as I sit like a wooden statue, staring through my windshield. Emmett mending fences with deft fingers. Emmett driving a tractor with no shirt on. Emmett setting jumps for his baby sister and then watching her soar over them on horseback with a expression of proud wonder etched on his handsome face.
And then there’s tonight.
His pinched features haunt me. I told him to own it. To lean into it. And he still looked miserable.
Or maybe I’m overanalyzing things. Maybe he was into it. Or… maybe not. Maybe the promise of a paycheck has him overlooking his comfort just to bring this show to life.
The thought that I could be a part of making someone uncomfortable in that way churns in my stomach. I want this show to be the best it can be, but at what cost?
Based on what I know of him, I expected he would be perfect for this role. And yet, something about today sits heavy in my heart. It was when he’d turned and met my gaze that I couldn’t help but see something else in his eyes. It almost looked like a plea, like he was begging someone to toss him a lifeline.
All I know is that I can’t shake this gut feeling about Emmett.
But there’s nothing for me to do about it now, and I decide there’s no way I’ll sleep well if I don’t have food in my stomach. So with that, I reach forward and press the start button on my car before backing away from Stal Brandt.
The crew is still busy filming follow-up interviews and undoubtedly watching Evelyn get invited into Emmett’s house. But my work on set is all wrapped up, so I have no reason to sit around and watch shit go down.
Instead, I drive away—away from the bunkhouse and away from Emmett’s cottage. I pass the stables and the charming indoor arena. This week, I heard Emmett tell the daters that his grandfather had built the iconic arena by hand for his little sister years ago, so she’d have somewhere to train during the winter.
He recounted a story of a younger Riley having to bundle herself in full winter gear while training her horses because the arena only provided cover from the snow with no reprieve from the biting cold. And he said it all with an adoring, faraway look in his eye, overflowing with pride.
The facility had been built with love, the same love I saw twinkling in Emmett’s bright blue eyes as he explained the origins of their facility to the women—in spite of some of their sideways glances.
To me, the fact that their grandfather made it for her makes it one of the nicest facilities I’ve seen.
When I pass the main farmhouse, it glows from within. Every window is bathed in golden light. I can see Leon and Tina inside.
I slow and watch the elderly couple dancing in their living room. Her arms slung over his neck, his around her waist, her head thrown back in laughter.
And his expression? Pure adoration.
My chest pinches as I regard them, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s what my mom and dad could have had under different circumstances. Hell, it makes me wonder if I could ever have that one day. If nothing else, it looks like something meant more for the movies than real life.
A scoff leaves my lips as I drive past and turn onto the main road, speeding away from the farm that holds so many competing feelings for me. The possibility of finding a love like Tina and Leon’s seems to shrink into the distance, just like their home. Because at this rate, I won’t be meeting anyone anytime soon.
I carry that loneliness with me down the highway, toward my favorite roadside diner. It’s my regular late-night study spot. The owner, Martha, and her wife, Danielle, who runs the kitchen, have become two of my closest friends. They know me by name, keep the coffee flowing, and don’t balk at making my weird custom omelet at all hours of the night.
All of which are the way to my heart.
I park in the lot and turn off my car, and in the sudden silence of my vehicle, my stomach grumbles loudly.
“Jesus, Jules, you should eat something,” a gravelly voice announces from the back seat.
Every last bit of self-defense knowledge or plans for how I’d react under attack evaporate from my brain. My hands shoot up, and all I do is flap my arms in the air and scream like a girl in a slasher movie.
“Jules, Jules, Jules.” A warm hand touches my shoulder, and I slap it away while reaching for the door handle in a clumsy attempt to flee.
“Jules, it’s me. Emmett.”
It takes my panicked brain a few seconds to make sense of the words. I’m halfway out the door before I put it all together. But when I do, I turn toward the back seat and come face-to-face with our bachelor.
He’s still wearing his suit and bolo tie from the elimination ceremony. His thick, sandy hair is tousled, and he’s holding his hands up in surrender.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I yell, making him wince.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay?”
And he does look sorry. Sorry and slightly embarrassed.
“Okay. Stop telling me you’re sorry and explain yourself. Because, Jesus Christ, Emmett, you don’t just pop out of the back seat of a woman’s car late at night. Or ever. It’s fucking creepy.”
“I wanted—” he starts, but my brain is a runaway train, and I can’t stop talking.
“You don’t… you don’t fucking do that!” My voice is shrill. “This is—this is something that Catherine the murder girl has probably read about or listened to on a podcast, except in her version, I get killed and chopped up into tiny pieces.”