Текст книги "Fever dream"

Автор книги: Elsie Silver

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

OFFICIAL MEMO

To: Richard Wadsworth

From: Teri Baker

Subject: First Elimination Ceremony

Bachelor has eliminated Cynthia and Madeline.

I know we had hoped to keep Madeline around to explore some family drama, but I couldn’t produce him in that direction without losing trust. He was adamant that she go and appears very protective of his sister and family.

Tension is already unfolding in the bunkhouse. Much like the casting producer told us, Evelyn seems to enjoy stirring up the other women. I will continue to produce that.

Looking for another dater to play off Evelyn as the “good girl.” Perhaps Cookie?

It appears the threat of revisiting his contract helped Emmett find his focus this week. It’s a good trump card for you to keep in your back pocket if things go sideways. He seems to be very driven by the payment. Hopefully, the installments keep him motivated throughout.

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

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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.”

“Okay,” he replies, now sounding a little too amused for my taste.

“This isn’t funny! This isn’t cool!”

“Julia,” he says once, forcefully. “I’m very, very sorry. It’s definitely not funny or cool. It’s stupid and humiliating.”

I nod, heart pounding against my sternum. My whole body seems to vibrate with the weight of my fear. In fact, I’m shaking.

Even though it’s Emmett, that fight-or-flight response has taken over every limb.

“I just had to get out of there,” he says, running his fingers through his hair. “I’ve got one delusional girl crying, one miserable girl who’s mad at me for eliminating her. Like, Jules, I’ve known these people for one week, and it’s not as though I’ve spent that much time with them or gotten to know anyone on a personal level. It’s such a load of shit, and here they are, mad at me. And somehow I feel fucking awful about it. And then there’s Handsy Evelyn—”

I snort a frantic laugh and scrub my hands over my face. “Oh my god, she’s so handsy.”

I groan into my palms, thinking back on her while Emmett lets loose a heavy sigh.

I unbuckle my seat belt and turn to face him. He looks oversize in the back of my sedan, sitting in the middle seat with his legs open and his chin dropped. As I listen to him recount what led him here, it’s impossible not to put myself in his shoes. And there’s a part of me that gets it. I signed up for this experience, too, and I can’t say it’s exactly what I thought it would be. So I can only imagine how he’s feeling.

“She was heading straight to my house uninvited, I overheard her say it, and they were all just watching her, waiting for us to have some weird, fabricated moment. Then I… I saw your car sitting there and thought, you know what? Fuck this. I just had to get out.”

He peeks up at me now, with the very tip of a playful smirk on his lips. “And also, you should be more diligent about locking your car. You never know what type of riffraff could stumble in.”

“Emmett, don’t be a loser. You are the riffraff and as such you don’t get to scold me. Considering you hid in my car, let me drive around cluelessly, and then scared the shit out of me by popping up out of nowhere like a desperate jack-in-the-box. You could have said something right away.”

“I know, I know.” He lays one hand over his chest, clearly trying to look genuine and apologetic. “I just saw your car there, and I thought it looked like a hell of a getaway car. I get it. You’re mad at me right now. But I knew I could trust you to get me the fuck out of there and treat me like a person and not a boy-toy showboat for them to drag around and make a dime off of.”

My lips curve down as it hits me how he’s feeling about this whole venture. Mere days ago, I told him to go along with it, to sell it, to make the money. Guilt prickles at my scalp because I hate to think I’ve been a part of dehumanizing him in some way.

“I get it,” I say, the defeat clear in my tone. “Because I’ve gotten off pretty easy where Richard is concerned. But if I were you, I’d want to run from that set screaming. And it’s only been one week.”

“Right? It’s only been one week of this hell, and I have to do it for five more.”

I try to look reassuring when I tell him, “We have to do this for five more weeks.”

He groans, dropping back onto the seat, his body language defeated.

“So what’s your plan here?” I say, gesturing around us. “You’re going to skip town?”

He throws an arm over his face. “I don’t fucking know. My plan wasn’t fully fleshed out, really. I need a little distance. I’ll make my way back to the property at some point.”

I scoff. “Not with me you won’t. They’ve got cameras all over the place. I have no doubt they’ve already seen me going in and out of your house. I don’t know if there’s audio. Or a camera inside—”

He shakes his head. “None inside, and there’s no audio.”

“But you knew there were cameras at the cottage?” I say incredulously.

“I mean, yeah. But you were all bloody and limping and had thorns in your ass. I don’t think me being gentlemanly enough to help you out while you were injured counts as breaking a rule.”

I quirk a knowing brow at him, wondering if we can classify every moment of that interaction as simply gentlemanly.

He pushes off the back seat, inclining his torso toward me, filling the space between us with his bulk. All I can smell is him now, and I wonder how I never picked up on it before. “How are your injuries anyway?”

The right corner of his mouth tips up as he looks me over slyly. Proof that we both know not every bit of that interaction was aboveboard.

His smirk, his physical presence, the shared memory of that moment in the kitchen—it’s all making me a bit squirrely. Which is why I jump into motion and shoot out of my vehicle.

“They’re fine,” I say simply before slamming the door in his face. Desperate for fresh air and a new topic of conversation.

Actually, an entirely different partner for conversation.

Come to think of it, maybe no conversation at all would be best.

But he follows. The car door slams and his feet crunch against the grit on the parking lot. I can feel the weight of his presence pressing in behind me.

“I’m starving,” I announce. “I can’t think…” I trail off before I can say something stupid, but my inner dialogue finishes the sentence anyway.

When you’re sitting that close to me.

I shake the thought away. It’s not true.

“Yeah, I could hear that much,” he quips, still following me. His palm lands on the small of my back when we stop at the diner’s door, and he reaches over my shoulder to open it for me. His chest brushes against my back as he does.

I draw in a sharp breath and scoot through the entryway, trying to create a little distance. Part of me hopes that he’s just making sure I get in the door before heading home on his own.

But when we walk in, Martha’s head pops up, her salt-and-pepper bob swaying with the motion as she greets me from behind the cash register, “Hey, doll, table for… two?”

I’m ready to say No, he’s leaving, but Emmett beats me to the punch with another touch to my waist and a surprising, “Yes, please.”

Martha looks far too happy. Her eyes crinkle at the sides, showing at least fifty years of smiling. “A cowboy businessman, huh,” she murmurs appreciatively while looking Emmett over with an amused tilt to her lips. Like I chose to bring him here with me. Dressed like this.

Then, without another word, she holds up two menus with a quick grin before turning and waving them over her shoulder as a signal for us to follow along.

Emmett’s strong hand on my back urges me forward as he leans down and jokingly whispers, “Let’s go, doll.”

His breath fans across my neck, chasing a shiver down my spine as we proceed into the quiet diner.

Martha tosses the menus on the table of a booth next to the window and walks away. But not before tossing me a saucy wink accompanied by, “Two coffees coming right up.”

With a heavy sigh, I slide onto the red pleather bench across from Emmett.

“Coffee? At this time of night? Are we pulling an all-nighter, Baby Silva?”

“The Baby Silva thing has got to go,” I mutter, staring out the window into the night as cars flash past, barreling away from the diner. I’m almost jealous. It would be nice to escape this late-night rendezvous.

Especially when Emmett smirks at me the way he is right now. “You’re right. I’ve seen your ass now, so that nickname has probably run its course.”

Okay. Funny. But I don’t want to egg him on, so I don’t react. Instead, I glare at him.

That’s how Martha finds us when she returns with two cups of piping hot black coffee. “Here we go.” She plunks them on the table. “The usual for you, Jules?”

“Yep,” I say, not looking away from Emmett.

“And for you?” she asks Emmett.

“He’s not staying,” I provide for him, but he chuckles.

“Of course I am. I’ll have whatever she’s having.” He turns and blinds Martha with his most charming smile. And even she isn’t immune—she walks away fanning herself with exaggerated flair.

Abandoning me with Emmett like a total traitor.

“What if you don’t like what I’m having?”

He shrugs. “I will.”

“And if you don’t?”

“I’ll acquire a taste.”

“Why?”

“Just to impress you.”

My eyes narrow. “Why?”

“Just to piss your brother off.”

I snort at that. “Yeah. That would do it.”

Emmett looks pleased, his eyes scouring me carefully. He doesn’t respond, though. He watches me, gaze pausing on my mouth for longer than is truly appropriate.

“Why do you hate my brother so much?” I blurt out the question that has plagued me for the past several weeks. Now that I have a better feel for Emmett, I can’t reconcile these two different versions of him.

His palms envelop the coffee mug as he spins it a couple of times before he shrugs. “I don’t hate your brother.”

When he peeks up at me, I lift a disbelieving brow.

“What? I don’t. Hate is a strong word. I just can’t relate.”

My head tips, his explanation piquing my interest. “How so?”

“He’s… he’s so happy. All the fucking time.”

I bark out a sharp laugh. “He’s always been like that.”

Emmett’s lips twitch as he glances out the window. “And he’s got your dad. This amazing legacy on the circuit. Like sport royalty. And I’ve got… Carl.”

“I mean, our dad is dead, so there’s that.”

Emmett’s dry chuckle rumbles through the air between us. “Sometimes that’s not the worst type of parent you can have.”

My lips press together as I realize what I’ve just said. It’s not as though Emmett hasn’t endured his fair share of loss, too.

“Maybe I’m jealous of him,” he finally admits as he spins his mug, staring at the steam wafting up from the hot black liquid.

I blink at the beautiful man sitting across from me. He’s gone from talking about my ass to being incredibly introspective in a matter of minutes. And all it does is draw me in. That complexity, that inconsistency… it only makes me want to dig deeper. To uncover all his secrets—wounds and wins.

I can’t help but want to know Emmett better.

“And what about Rhett?” I inquire about my brother’s mentor and closest friend, who I adore. I know he loathes Emmett with an unmatched passion.

“Eaton?”

“Yeah.”

Emmett’s tongue pops into his cheek as his head joggles. “You ever look at someone and immediately hate their stupid face for no good reason?”

Yeah. Evelyn. I brush the invasive thought away and settle on a nod. Because yes, I have.

“You sure it’s not because Theo’s girlfriend decided she wanted to wear Rhett’s hat and not yours?”

Emmett scoffs, a raspy laugh rumbling in his chest. “Only did that to piss him off. And guess what? It worked.”

“It also got him a wife.” I wink.

“See? I’m the matchmaker he owes everything to, and that asshole didn’t even invite me to his wedding.”

I laugh. I can’t help myself. The guy is fucking unflappable. He oozes a self-assured confidence that most men could only hope to embody.

“Anyway, just can’t stand the guy even though there isn’t anything objectively wrong with him.” Emmett shakes his head as he gazes off into space. “Other than that hair, like fucking cowboy Fabio.”

I can’t help but laugh. Rhett’s signature has always been his long hair. “At least you’re honest.”

“Always,” he replies, gaze slicing back to meet mine. “That’s why I have you in my phone as Theo’s Hot Little Sister.”

And we’re back to this. Whiplash.

My cheeks flush unbidden, and I try to cover them by lifting my mug up and taking an overly long drink.

“Does that not ruin your sleep?” He nods toward the plain white mug I’ve wrapped both hands around.

“Nah. Not anymore. I think I’m immune. I’ve spent almost every night here for the past couple of years studying with a steady stream of the stuff.”

“Almost every night?”

“Not since I took this job. But to wrap up my master’s program? Yeah. Seven nights a week, basically. After working at the ice cream shop in the afternoons and evenings. Unless I was sick.”

“That’s an exaggeration.” He sounds amused.

I press my lips together and raise one shoulder. “Not really.”

“So you bring all your dates here?” he quips with a flirtatious wink.

Dates. “No. I avoid that like the plague.” Now it’s my turn to look out the window with a rough laugh.

Confusion graces his features. “Dating?”

“Yeah. Too busy. You know how it is. Don’t need the distraction.” I flash him a quick smile. “Wait. No, you don’t.”

Emmett doesn’t laugh at my joke. Instead, he looks at me with a little too much keen interest.

Luckily, I’m rescued from his scrutiny by Martha swinging past with our food. “Okay, kids. Two Julia specials.”

She plunks the oversize omelets down in front of us. Emmett’s eyebrows shoot up on his forehead as he takes in the portion sizes.

“More coffee coming up,” she announces before taking off.

“Julia special?” Emmett asks.

I lift a shoulder in response as I spear my fork into the perfectly cooked eggs.

“What’s inside?” He eyes it suspiciously, like maybe Martha and I have conspired to poison him.

“Ham. Cheddar. Bell pepper. Green onion—”

“Hell yeah. Sounds great.” Emmett lifts his utensils to dig in.

“And pineapple.”

He stops midcut.

“You put pineapple in your omelet?”

The horror in his baby blues is somehow… satisfying. After all, he’s basically invited himself every step of the way tonight.

“Yeah, why?” I ask innocently.

“I…” He eyes the dish with something that borders on disgust.

“Will acquire the taste?”

His responding laugh is rich and warm. It wraps around me like a favorite blanket as his gaze meets mine and he points his fork in my direction. “Exactly.”

With that, he digs in. And I find myself watching him more than I’m eating my own meal.

“You know what?” he announces after several minutes of silence. “This is pretty good. I can see the appeal.”

I chuckle and meet his gaze. “You’re a man of your word, Emmett Brandt.”

“That I am, doll,” he says, humor lacing his words. “Now, be honest. Do you think Catherine is actually here plotting my murder? Or am I overthinking her obsession with death and crime? She seems sweet enough, but it’s weird, right?”

I snort a laugh and some of the tension from the day drains from my limbs as I relax back into my seat.

And from there we settle in. Emmett ends up eating his entire omelet—pineapple chunks and all. He even starts in on the coffee with me.

Coffee that Martha never lets drop to empty.

And with a full belly, endless caffeine coursing through our systems, and a tentative friendship blossoming between us, we talk.

And we sip our coffee.

And we laugh.

And we talk.

We cover sports, school, work, animals, plants, family, food. Hell, we even cover embarrassing childhood memories. We talk about everything and nothing. The conversation flows effortlessly.

We lose all sense of time and place. And by the time we pry our eyes away from each other, I realize the sun is rising.

“Holy shit. It’s… morning?”

“You know what? I don’t believe you’re immune to pounding coffee all night,” he jokes.

A shrill giggle lurches from my throat. Because I’ve spent another night with Emmett Brandt—and much to my surprise, I very much enjoyed his company. A confession that would make my brother keel over and die on the spot.

But when Emmett looks me in the eye and says, “Now it’s my turn to take you for my favorite breakfast,” I surprise myself again by saying yes.

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