“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.
CHAPTER 22
Emmett
BE MYSELF AROUND.
That’s what I was going to say. Because there’s something about Julia that makes me want to let go a little bit. Ignore my hang-ups and rules and plans. To just… enjoy her.
And yet, relief courses through me as the waitress scribbles down my bourbon and Coke and turns to take Julia’s order. Her interruption saved me from myself. Because the last thing I need to do is tell Julia she’s the kind of company I can be myself around.
True as it may be.
If these past weeks have taught me anything, it’s that few people in the world know me well. And certainly, none of the women on the show. Hell, I don’t even know if any of them would humor me by walking into this bar.
Possibly Catherine—the prospect of socializing among the large, bearded men who rode in on the Harleys parked outside, who may or may not be operating outside the law, would enthrall her.
“Just a Sprite is good for me.” Julia smiles at the waitress, and I tilt my head at her.
That dress is criminal, but the way she piled her curls on her head to show off the curve of her neck is a fucking felony.
“You making me drink by myself, doll?”
One slender shoulder lifts, and I imagine hooking my finger under the strap that rests across her collarbone.
“Haven’t been big on drinking lately.”
My brows furrow. “Want me to get something else? I don’t need to.”
“No, no.” She waves me off, propping her arms on the table to inspect the dingy bar. She looks like a sunny spot in her dim surroundings. Shimmering brightness in a dark room. “It’s not like that. I just…” She trails off, licking her lips.
I can see the wheels turning in her head as she weighs her next words. Urging her to talk would be like spurring a bull at the wrong moment, and I know better than to do that.
Her round dark eyes meet mine, a tightness at their corners. “The allure of drinking socially since the cruise has been lost on me. You know?”
“How so?”
“It’s like…” She trails off and covers with a laugh, but there’s no humor in the sound. “I just don’t want to make bad choices under the influence. I don’t want to feel that out of control again.”
“You didn’t—”
She holds a hand up to stop me, her explanation coming fast, almost sounding guilty. “I know, I know. I considered that someone could roofie a Sprite too. I get it. But now, brand-name Rohypnol turns a drink blue when dissolved, so at least in a light-colored drink…” Another one-sided shrug. And my heart fucking breaks. It’s been over two years, and she’s still carrying that night with her.
“Jules. You didn’t make any bad choices. That’s what I was going to say.”
She blinks.
“You did nothing wrong that night.”
Her lips part, a ragged breath escaping between them as her slender fingers knit together. “We don’t have to talk about that.”
I lean forward, prop my elbows on the table, and drop the volume of my voice as the country music blares around us. “I will talk about that night anytime you feel ready. I will clarify any details you want. And I will tell you over and over again that you are not responsible for anything that happened.”