CHAPTER 23
Julia
Emmett
Hey, are you around today?
Emmett
What about today? I need to talk to you about the bar.
Emmett
Jules. Stop avoiding me.
“Honestly, Julia, you can’t just go rogue like this. It’s unprofessional,” Richard scolds me.
My mouth gapes as I stare back at him, his harsh delivery rendering me speechless. But more than that, I am just plain confused by the fact that Emmett has changed his answer regarding which bar we should film at.
I’ve been ignoring Emmett’s texts in the name of professionalism—we have nothing to talk about. We almost got busted out together and that was enough to scare me straight.
But today he’s going to get a fucking earful of unprofessionalism. Because I have things to say.
If his wishy-washy bullshit costs me that reference, I’ll kill him before he gets to pick a wife.
Dick Wad sits at his desk in the utility trailer, shuffling paper. He isn’t furious, but he’s definitely talking to me like I’m an idiot. Sunlight streams through the open door, highlighting his coiffed hair and pale eyes.
All I know is that I don’t want to be added to his blacklist.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself, or are you just going to stand there gaping at me?”
I snap my mouth shut. “Sorry, I just… this was the bar that…”
Emmett took me to?
How do I explain this to my boss without getting one of us in trouble? Because as much as Emmett’s deer-in-the-headlights reaction to my confession on that ancient dance floor after a couple sips of liquor rankles me, I don’t want to get him in trouble with the boss.
There’s too much on the line for him and his family, and I can’t let my pride get in the way of that.
I straighten and stare back at the older man, refusing to cower. “You told me to find a good country bar. Someone recommended it to me.”
“Well, how about more due diligence next time? When I showed Emmett the pitch for this scene, he said he’d never take the girls there. It looks like a fucking dive. And I need Casanova on board because he’s proving to be a frigid pain in my ass.”
My molars clamp together as I let myself daydream about pushing Emmett down the slopes of Prickle Point.
Because why the hell is he changing his pick for a bar and throwing me under the bus like this?
“Yes, sir, of course. I apologize.” I bite the words out, but Richard doesn’t seem to notice or care about the edge to my tone. He’s too busy… filing his nails?
My nose wrinkles as I realize the file is what he was looking for among the sheets on his desk. Fine white powder scatters over the papers, and I cringe.
The guy has no fucking boundaries.
“Good. Now you can put all that fancy education to use today and fix this. I want to record at The Ranch on Saturday for the elimination ceremony. It looks like the perfect place to give viewers a taste of country life with our bull rider playboy.”
I bite my tongue and focus on not exploding or running from this trailer in horror.
“So chop-chop, make it so.” He claps his hands at me, a puff of nail dust catching in the light.
“I know you didn’t just clap your hands at her.” Emmett’s deep voice booms behind us. The trailer shifts as he steps up into the doorway, blocking the light with the bulk of his broad shoulders.
Richard laughs. I stand frozen, willing myself not to turn around. Because if I do, I might kick Emmett in his shins for throwing me under Dick Wad’s shitty bus for some unknown reason.
Part of me also doesn’t want to face him. I’ve been dodging him for the past few days because I turned into a sappy loser in his arms, and he just stared at me like I was a dodo bird come back from extinction.
It’s been easy enough to steer clear of the set or show up in the mornings when I knew he was busy. The rest of the time, I buried myself in emails, application forms, and prep work. Plus, according to today’s schedule, Emmett should have been busy showing the women how to mend fences around the property.
Thrilling.
“Ah, if it isn’t our very own cowboy Romeo! Ready to spin some girls around the dance floor on Saturday?”
“I’d rather go back to talking about—”
“How you’re going to be thinking about the women I’ve carefully selected for you and not the help?” Richard’s eyes narrow over my shoulder, his persona slipping from carefree to venomous.
My stomach flips, and my throat burns. I feel like a kid caught doing something they shouldn’t, and nothing has even happened.
Still, I need to cover for us, so I scoff and shoot a dirty look over my shoulder, the first attention I’ve given Emmett in almost forty-eight hours. “I can assure you that Emmett doesn’t think about me.”
“Well, obviously. You’re no Evelyn.” Richard spreads his hands in a gesture that implies he’s settled this conversation. “Now, both of you get out. I need to make some phone calls.”
I give him a firm nod and spin on my heel to depart the trailer. I turn my body to edge past Emmett, careful to avoid all contact with him. Which includes keeping my eyes trained on the metal steps that lead down to the grass.
“Jules,” he hisses, his heavy footsteps following me across the pasture where the crew has set up.
I don’t look back.
“Jules, wait.”
“Sorry! I’m busy!” I call back, sounding as unaffected as I can. Really, all I want is to go to the gym, put my headphones in, work out some aggression, and go home. Maybe have a pity party while I fertilize my plants because I hate dropping the ball at work. And I’m not in the mood to unpack whatever transpired between Emmett and me.
I round the back of an equipment trailer. Hoping Emmett will give up if I weave through the trucks where the crew likes to find a sliver of shade, flip open a lawn chair, and kick back with a drink.
But I’m shit out of luck, because as I turn, a hand clamps down on my arm, pulling me to a screeching halt. Forcing me to turn and face him. Stubbled jaw clenched tight, curls mussed after a morning spent pounding fence posts, eyes brimming with concern.
“Are you okay?”
I yank my arm out of his grip and step back, spitting the word back in his face. “Am I okay?”
He pops his tongue into his cheek, regarding me through narrowed eyes.
“You tell me, Emmett. How am I supposed to be after you went behind my back and told my boss that I scouted the wrong bar?”
He says nothing, which aggravates me even further.
“You are infuriating. You know that?”
“You weren’t on set yesterday.”
That’s his response?
“No shit. I was busy wasting hours prepping that location. And you told Richard that you’d never take the girls there?” I step closer, poking him in the center of his chest. “You made me look bad at my job. And I’m not. That might be the worst part.”
“You are very good at your job,” he confirms, voice stern and sincere.
His agreeing with me just angers me more. “That’s what you have to say for yourself? Not an apology? Am I supposed to pretend that you didn’t just pull a one-eighty on me and demand we film at the The Ranch? Should I stumble all over myself to cater to your ever-changing whims? Because I’ve got news for you—”