I’ve been trying not to look directly at him since I came searching for him at the barn. But it’s unavoidable. Richard has asked me to find a country bar where Emmett can take the girls out for a night on the town.
The Ranch is far and away the most popular country bar in town. But I was still keen to get his input on wherehe’dgo.
Two days of artfully skirting Emmett since our secret rendezvous and very unprofessional almost-kiss at Prickle Point down the drain.
Because he’s unloading hay from a flatbed, the veins in his arms throbbing with exertion. I can still smell the fresh scent of soap on his skin along with clean sweat and dried grass. Strangely, it’s appealing.
“Well, then, it should be the perfect spot for you and your harem,” I volley, reminding myself of what this situation really is.
My job is to create dates for him with other women. That’s it.
We can sit in a diner and get to know each other. He can be a gentleman and bring pineapple for my eggs. But he’s still juggling seven women in front of a slew of cameras.
And I am merely a member of the crew.
Which is why it’s perfectly professional for me to watch closely as he drags the back of his gloved hand over his damp forehead.
Perfectly. Professional.
“It’s not where I’d take someone I was actually interested in.”
I swallow and glance at the flatbed loaded with square hay bales. Other staff are picking up the slack while Emmett talks with me, and guilt claws at me for pulling him away from his work. Especially since he’s maintained that his mornings are reserved for farm chores, and he can only film for the show in the afternoons and evenings.
“Okay.” I nod firmly, meeting his gaze again. “Where would you take them?”
“I’ll pick you up at nine and show you.”
“Emmett.”
“Doll.”
I sigh, letting every ounce of tiredness soak into my voice. It’s easier to pretend I’m agitated by his new pet name than admit it sends an unwelcome thrill through me.
I prop my hands on my hips and tilt my head to demonstrate my impatience. “Just tell me where you want it to be so that I can go do my job.”
He slaps his hands together, dust flying from his gloves before he mimics my stance, facing off. “Sorry. Last time I let you do that you went ass over teakettle down Prickle Point and got injured. It’s for your own safety.”
My eyes roll. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“I’ll admit it worked out pretty well for me. But you were a little worse for wear.”
I flush at the memory and tell myself the entire run-in was practical. Very clinical.
“I think—”
“That you’ll be ready at nine tonight? Great. I’ll be done filming by then. Looking forward to it.” He turns on one booted foot and swaggers back toward the mammoth pile of hay, ending the conversation and leaving me staring at his firm ass and broad shoulders.
Mouth open, catching flies.
Brain reminding itself that we don’t do cowboys. We stay away.
As such, I consider marching over and arguing with him, but it seems pointless.
Especially when he turns around and catches me looking like I’m installing important updates. “Quit gawking at my ass, Silva. And wear something cute for me, yeah?”
He winks, and I flip him the finger like a starstruck teenager.
Fucking Emmett Brandt.
