When Emmett draws away, he grips her biceps and holds her at arm’s length to create space between them. For the briefest moment, his eyes flash to mine. It’s too fast for anyone to clock.
Anyone but me.
“Good fucking god. When did this alleged manwhore turn into such a frigid little bitch?” Dick Wad mumbles.
Thankfully, Richard can’t see me roll my eyes from his position behind me.
He’s just so gross. I’m mostly having fun with this job, but the guy makes me feel like I need to bleach my brain to unknow the shit he spews.
“Don’t scare me like that again,” Evelyn coos, hooking her painted fingernail into the space between the buttons on Emmett’s dress shirt. “We both know I’m not a bottom-three type of girl.”
I cringe, and whispers burst out behind us from the other daters. Every woman within earshot heard it, and if Evelyn keeps talking like that, she will not be well-liked in the bunkhouse.
“Is it possible to die of secondhand embarrassment? Asking for me,” I hear Akira whisper not so quietly. Jada, lifts a hand to cover her smile while Catherine snorts a shocked laugh before the three of them share a conspiratorial grin.
One quick glance over my shoulder at the grin on Dick Wad’s face tells me Evelyn’s got at least one person eating out of the palm of her hand though.
Emmett offers her a tight smile and a squeeze, still gripping her arms. I watch his fingers press in, then soften as he steps away.
A harsh sob draws my attention. Madeline, just eliminated, bursts into tears. For a moment, Emmett looks downright stunned as he stares at the woman. The other women rush to console her, but Evelyn only rolls her eyes dramatically.
And as much as I pride myself on being a girls’ girl… I find my distaste for her growing.
Even girls’ girls have their limits.
Cameras follow Emmett, cutting in close as he approaches the eliminated women and… shakes each of their hands. Like this was some sort of business transaction.
Cynthia’s lips purse like she’s been sucking on a lemon, and Madeline only cries harder, like she’s in love with the guy after spending a total of two hours around him.
It’s all fucking weird.
I glance away and see Evelyn addressing the camera and one of the producers as they take B-roll footage.
“Yeah, I think it’s important for Emmett and me to be on the same page. We have so much physical chemistry. I know I’m the right choice for the solo date next week, but I might have to loop him in on that. You know how thick boys can be.”
Her implication about Emmett’s intelligence rankles me as she twists her hair around one finger and lets out a ladylike giggle. She leans forward and continues with a sultry gleam in her eye, “In fact, I’m going to take matters into my own hands. I’m going to head to his cottage right now and wait for him. Get him alone.”
I freeze and then fully turn back to face the scene.
Did I hear that right?She’s going to march up to his home and demand he spend time with her?
I scan the set and crew for Emmett’s frame, even a peek at his mussed waves a head above the rest, but he must have slipped away—and who could blame him.
Evelyn turns, eyes narrowing toward Emmett’s place. Then, with a sure nod, she marches toward the long gravel driveway on sky-high heels without a single shred of doubt to show for herself.
Everyone on set bursts into action. Cameras follow at a distance in the fading light, and someone quietly signals for a drone to launch. Through the open door of the nearest utility trailer, I see editors pulling up security camera footage for Emmett’s cottage and the driveway leading to it.
My stomach drops as I realize how closely they watcheverything.
Would they have seen me go into his house? Me leaving? Is there audio? Would they have heard our exchanges outside?
Surely there aren’t cameras inside. But he’d better have gotten rid of that fucking boner before he left his house. I replay how our interactions might have been perceived. I’ve had meetings with producers since, and no one has said a thing to me about it. I suppose, as staff, there is nothing inherently wrong about my going into his place.
I was injured. He did the polite thing and helped. Nothing even happened.
But none of those placations stop my heart from racing like I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.
OFFICIAL MEMO
