“Parks, stop worrying. I’m a big boy.”

“Am I not allowed to wonder how you’re holding up with…” She gazes around, rolling her hand in a way that tells me she’s searching for the right words for what she wants to say. “All of these feelings?”

Feelings. Yeah. Just not the feelings I was expecting. And something tells me Parker knows me well enough to recognize that.

“You know how it is,” I reply, dodging the question while checking to see if there are any cameras lurking to capture a moment I’d rather they not.

“I do.” She nods, shoving her hands into her pockets and rocking on her feet as though expecting me to elaborate.

And she does know. We’ve both experienced firsthand the heartache that comes with loving and losing someone. As the two oldest, we watched our grandparents grieve our parents. We watched our siblings grieve them too.

That shared loss brought us all closer together. Petty spats or long-lasting hard feelings were few and far between growing up—because we all knew with certainty that any time you see someone it could be the last.

I often think our shared tragedy has bonded us in a way we might never have been before. I love my family fiercely. So much that it hurts sometimes. I don’t recall how old I was when I made this decision, but at some point I decided that I already love enough people for this lifetime.

“You know I’m not cut out for a relationship, Parks. You know how it feels to lose someone. No thanks. Hard pass.”

“I know how it feels. But I still want that one day. Maybe more even. I’m willing to take the chance.”

I wince, trying not to worry about my sister’s poor heart. “Happy for you. But I don’t need to set myself up for more of that. It’s how I came to appreciate the beauty of casual relationships.”

She arches a brow at me. “This show is not very… casual.”

“No.” I sigh. “But it’s predictable. And I know my limitations. Which means I know I can make it through this dating show without falling for anyone. Won’t let myself.”

Her second brow lifts, matching the first. I can’t tell if she’s impressed or thinks I’m full of shit. “What if you come close?”

“If I come close, I’ll take care of it by saying or doing something that makes me out to be an unlovable prick. My strategy is basically foolproof.”

“Wow. Lucky ladies,” my sister says dryly.

“Welcome to Romance Ranch.” I wave a hand over the set and chuckle, providing a little levity to an uncomfortable conversation.

Parker leaves and heads back toward the barn office, shaking her head at my antics as she goes. I watch her, feeling a bit lighter for having run into my sister.

But all my humor evaporates when my eyes land on Julia. She’s standing next to Richard, talking animatedly.

All traces of blood are wiped away and there are no cactus pieces stuck in her hair. In fact, it’s slicked back in her signature bun. All traces of her escapade are erased—save for her scuffed knees. But even those are now covered with Band-Aids.

In a pair of icy blue linen shorts with a matching vest, she’s the picture of summertime professionalism. Appearing totally pulled together and far more at ease than I’ve been able to pull off since that exchange in my house.

She’s confusing. Confusing enough that I should push her away. But the problem with Julia is that she seems almost impossible to offend. I’d tried my unlovable prick routine on her yesterday, and she’d thrown her head back and laughed as though I’d said something hilarious.

But the joke is on me because we’re going to be stuck on set together for the next month.

Boner-gate be damned.

I watch the ten women in front of me muck stalls. Or at least try to.

And I try not to look horrified. The cameras are rolling, after all. But it never occurred to me that a pitchfork and wheelbarrow could pose such a problem for an adult.

The ten women chatter and laugh, shooting me furtive glances as though they could make scooping shit sexy. All borderline dolled up, they look bright and colorful in the drab, low-ceilinged barn.

Earlier, I gave them a tour of the stables and arena, and I didn’t miss the way some of them regarded the facility with barely disguised looks of disgust. Which only makes me defensive of this place.

I’m well aware Stal Brandt’s barn is old and outdated. Its tin siding has faded, and the finish has worn off the concrete alleyway, making it difficult to sweep clean. Old tree trunks, still covered in bark, construct the indoor arena. They stand on end, bound together to create a wall sturdy enough to keep the snow out in the winter. It might have been an innovative way to build an arena at one time, but now, with all the equestrian technology out there, it’s just wacky and weird.

But it’s ours. Opa built it by hand. It’s one of a kind. It’s not fancy, but it works—kind of like our family.

Plus, Riley keeps the equestrian facilities safe and in impeccable shape. She works with what she’s got and never complains. When a horse sells, she chooses where to invest the money. A portion always gets budgeted to go back into the facility or into developing the next young horse, not just for travel and competition.

The log walls may let the wind through and make riding in the winter downright frigid, but the footing is world-class, sparing the horses any unnecessary wear and tear on their joints.

Sure, she’s the wild child of the family, but Riley is deeply driven and selfless too. So, watching the odd judgmental side-eye has me noting who needs to go when it comes to the weekly elimination ceremonies.

“Emmett,” Teri, the producer who follows me around almost constantly, gets my attention from where she’s set up at the end of the barn alleyway, stalls lining the concrete strip. “Get in there. Show the girls some of your expertise.”

She’s being encouraging, but I still find myself covering my grimace.

Then I think of Julia. She seems to think that if I’m myself, I can pull this off. The way she’d said it hadn’t been completely complimentary. “The hot bad-boy thing you do” makes my personality sound like some sort of charade.

Maybe it is.

And maybe she’s the first to see past it.

I shake off the invasive thought before shooting the producer a thumbs-up and a grin. As cameras trail behind me and filter into position, I approach one of the women. I think her name is Ashley and based on the way she’s maneuvering the plastic pitchfork in the wood shavings, I would say she’s never mucked a stall in her life. Possibly never even shoveled a sidewalk now that I’m taking a closer look at how she holds the long wooden handle.

I step into the stall and prop a shoulder against the frame of the sliding door. “Want a few pointers?”

She straightens and hits me with a bright smile as she pushes a few strands of mousy blond hair behind her ear. “That would be amazing.”

I smile back as I step into the box stall, its rubber mats covered in dry wood shavings. My boots thump on the ground as I approach her. “May I?” I ask, gripping the handle above her hand as I step in behind her.

“Please,” she murmurs, tilting her head to the side and catching my gaze over her shoulder. It reminds me of Julia looking back at me in my quiet kitchen. I could hardly meet her dark eyes as I’d rolled that fabric up over the smooth expanse of her golden skin. My chest felt like it was vibrating as my heart crashed against my ribs.

I don’t feel that way when I meet Ashley’s blue eyes. The color is all wrong, and part of me wants to shrivel up and die knowing that so many people will be watching us interact.

No, this is nothing like with Julia.

But the cameras are rolling and I need that paycheck, so I toss out a flirtatious grin and bear it as I reach around her narrow shoulders. “Like this. Here. And here,” I murmur, close to her neck, noting her perfume. It’s so strong that it overpowers any hope of that fresh laundry soap smell that has been haunting me since yesterday with Julia.