She’s not even dressed up. She’s wearing fucking overalls. Light-wash denim overalls with a white tank top and a pair of pearlescent Birkenstocks.
What really gets me is her hair, though. Dark and shiny as always, but today it’s a loose mess of curls that makes me want to run my fingers through it—not her typical poker-straight or slicked-back look.
When she hops into the car and turns to buckle her seat belt, I’m hit with a whiff of her shampoo. It smells floral but something a little smokier—maybe eucalyptus. For some reason, the scent makes perfect sense. Julia doesn’t strike me as the sugary type. Something a little stronger, a little more sensual, suits her just fine.
“Thanks for waiting,” she says breathlessly. “I was as fast as I could be. Didn’t have time to do more than diffuse my hair, though.”
She starts the car and shoulder checks. I swallow as I drink in her profile.
Never do anything else with your hair againis what I want to say. But I clamp that thought down and settle on giving her a casual shrug to go with my “No worries.”
Spending the night hanging on her every word in a throwback fifties diner is bad enough. Bringing her to family breakfast when I know said family is going to get the wrong idea might be even worse. But complimenting her on how good she looks seems like a step down a slippery fucking slope. Especially considering that my job for the next five weeks is to—at the very least—act like I’m falling in love with one of the contestants on the show.
When we pull up to my oma and opa’s house, Julia slips her car into park and turns to eye me warily.
“Are there cameras here too?” She peers beyond me as though she might see a crew member jump out from behind a shrub.
“No,” I assure her. “The cameras start at the bunkhouse and go back toward my cabin. The main house and the stables are only for certain scenes. Kind of figured you’d know that.”
She nods. “Well, I know where we’re shooting from day-to-day, but following the security footage isn’t part of my job description. Threw me for a loop when I walked into the trailer where the cameras had picked Evelyn up.”
The sight of her waltzing toward my house last night like she owned the damn place had set me on edge as well. Evelyn, presumptuous, snarky to the other women, and too eager to do whatever the producers ask. Richard wants me to keep her around, and I want to keep Richard off my ass, but her presence still leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
And based on the small wrinkle that’s popped up across the bridge of Julia’s nose, I suspect she feels the same.
“You’re safe here, Julia. There’s no way I could have asked my grandparents to let me do the show on the farm if it involved cameras in their home. This place is a safe haven. Oma and Opa will be thrilled to have you.”
She shoots me a grateful smile before slapping the tops of her legs with a bright “All right, let’s go then,” opening her car door, and waltzing up to the front of the house.
Me? I take my time getting out of the car. I watch Julia so closely that it slows me down.
I’ve never brought a woman here. In fact, I’ve avoided it at all costs. Have never felt inclined to invite someone else in. Hell, the mere sight of Evelyn walking up to my cottage made me flee.
Which is why I’m stuck grappling with why the sight of Julia walking up to my family home doesn’t set me on edge in the slightest.
“You came… together?” Opa asks, brows plastered high on his forehead as Julia fidgets beside me.
“Yep,” is all I say back.
For a beat, everyone stares like I’m an extinct species come back to life. And part of me can’t blame them.
Luckily, they use their brains and don’t make a show of my unusual behavior beyond that first moment of shock. Within seconds, my family is back to the chaotic hustle and bustle of our typical Sunday breakfast.
I swear I can feel Julia’s relief when the attention shifts away from us. Like she feared there was going to be a special initiation she’d have to endure just to be allowed to stay.
The look she shoots me before moving into the kitchen borders on bashful, laced with giddy disbelief. And I feel the exact same way. We’ve spent almost twelve straight hours together, and I’m just exhausted enough to be borderline punch-drunk.
Conversation picks back up and moves away from me and her. Evan cooks with Oma like he always does, the two of them chattering away at the rest of us as we sip coffee around the island.
He talks about donating his farrier services to the local SPCA due to a recent neglect seizure of several horses.
“They were in awful shape but so sweet. Tough to see, but at least they have perfect feet now. Here—” He turns away from the pan of bacon to show us a selfie he snapped of himself with a bedraggled-looking draft horse. In the photo, Evan is pressing a kiss against its big round cheekbone, and despite the horse’s hardships, his ears are tipped forward and there’s a hopeful glint to his eye.
The entire kitchen—even Opa—goes “aww” because this is so Evan. With tattoos that crawl up his neck and over the tops of his hands, he looks intimidating. But really, he’s a big bleeding heart with a biting sense of humor. It’s probably why there’s always a lineup of women hoping he’ll look their way.
But he never does. Not since his marriage crumbled.
“I should reach out,” Parker says thoughtfully, eyes still fixed on the photo of our brother. “Maybe one of them could be a good companion horse for the weanlings.”
