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.”
