“Well, if it doesn’t mess with my reputation too much, I’m going to offer one last time to accompany you up to Prickle Point. I’m assuming that’s where you’re going and that you didn’t just walk this way to shit-talk me to my face. I can even put some pants on for you—unless you prefer I don’t.”
He winks.
I roll my eyes and forge ahead.
“Yes, yes, you do have a bad habit of behaving rather gentlemanly when I’m around, but you don’t need to do that. I’m on the job. I’m twenty-five. Don’t need a chaperone. And who knows, someone who actually wants to see you in your underwear might swing by. I’d hate to spoil that opportunity for you. So…” I hike a thumb over my shoulder and back away. “I’ll see myself out.”
I expect him to toss back a witty jab—deep down, I’m even hoping for one. A little more of this back-and-forth with him would, at the very least, be entertaining. But all he offers me is a dip of his chin as he raises his coffee cup in my direction. Then he leans back, eyes drifting over the fields while rocking gently in his chair, dismissing me.
I swallow and drop my gaze, smiling down at my feet awkwardly as I hustle out of sight. I pass his house and head toward the wide metal gate that leads off the Brandt property. Desperate for an escape.
Once I hit the trailhead, thoughts of Emmett fade away, replaced by a single-minded focus on my job. I snap photos of the area with my phone—the small parking lot and several angles heading up the trail to the mountain’s summit—so production can see where the cameras will need to go. As I explore, I jot a note to contact the local parks board to get a permit for filming. I take video footage, illustrating the difficulty of the main path and noting a halfway point with a bench that could work for shooting B-roll interviews.
Then, I make my way to the top. This mountain is more like a steep hill, but the view from the crest would still be worth it if it were a harder trail.
I prop my hands on my hips, take a deep breath, and allow myself a moment to soak in the views. The lake, the trees, the perfectly spaced rows of vines from all the different wineries in the valley below. This part of British Columbia feels almost desertlike, the scorching sun undulating in waves over the dry loamy soil and glinting off the shimmering lake. Native prickly pear cactuses bloom along the slope before me, giving the entire setting a dreamlike quality.
Once I’ve caught my breath and looked my fill, I lift my phone and start snapping away to give production a road map of the location. It’s as I’m taking a video and explaining the approximate size of the summit that my foot catches on a piece of dry, ropy root.
And with only a few stumbled steps, my center of gravity is shot. Suddenly, I’m falling backward down the slope of the hill. I don’t fall fast or hard, it’s more of an embarrassing, clumsy, childlike roll down a hill.
A hill that is quickly revealing why Emmett refers to it as “Prickle Point.”
CHAPTER 11
Emmett
ISHUT THE DOORbehind me and tip my head down. I’m ready to go face the music that isRomance Ranch.
My boots hit the round paving stones as I try to muster an internal pep talk.
Sure, I’m in it for the money, but the women seemed nice enough last night. It might even be fun. Plus, the first payment showed up in my bank account this morning, and it was a lot of zeroes. That part wasdefinitelyfun.
Dick Wad called, and he wants me to take the girls around the farm over the course of the week. Have them pitch in with somechores as a way of weeding out the ones who don’t suit farm life. He sounded downright gleeful at the prospect of “watching these prissy city girls play in some shit.”
His words, not mine.
Personally, I’m dreading the entire thing. Partially because I know our presence will rightfully irritate my opa while simultaneously thrilling Riley to no end, and because this experience is rapidly becoming a lot less exciting than I thought it was going to be.
I also find myself kind of wishing I were hiking Prickle Point instead.
It’s as I clear the front gate that the crunch of gravel beneath shoes draws me out of my pity party. And instead of staring at my toes, I find myself staring at Julia Silva. Limping down the lane with blood streaming down her knees and a piece of cactus lodged in her dark hair.
For a beat, I stare, making sense of what I see in front of me, my heart accelerating with every second that passes. I jog forward to reach her.
“Julia?” I ask stupidly, because clearly this is Julia. But compared to when I saw her earlier, she’s looking a little worse for wear.
“Who?” Her brow furrows and her head tilts as she takes a few final stiff steps toward me.
Her confusion makes my chest constrict.
“Julia? Julia Silva?”
She shakes her head. “Sorry, I don’t know her.”
My hand slips out to cup her elbow. She’s covered in dirt. A thin layer dusts her cheeks, and even more coats her arms and legs. I turn to lead her toward my place, a sense of alarm making everything I’m supposed to be doing right now fade into irrelevance. “Let’s get you cleaned—”
“Do I look so rough that I can’t beJulia Theo’s Hot Little Sisteranymore?”
