“He couldn’t even congratulate me. Brushed past me with a playful shoulder punch that landed a little harder than necessary. Mom saw it and everything.”

“No one likes a sore loser,” I reply with a laugh, because while I don’t know Emmett that well, I can envision this moment vividly based on the times I have seen him and Theo interact.

But then I also know my brother. His enthusiasm is infectious. Unless of course he’s running around like an excited golden retriever, drooling and leaping and annoying everyone. So I wait a few beats before adding, “Or a sore winner, Theo.”

He groans, and I can envision him tipping his head back in frustration. “Jesus, Jules. Just let me be a petty bitch for a day. I won a second WBRF championship! That’s Hall of Fame type shit. Plus, Emmett left later with two girls. One under each arm, so I’m sure he found a way to deal with the embarrassment. And this is the thing I’ve been working toward all these years, through all the ups and downs. Everything since Dad.”

I blink a few times, willing away the dampness in my eyes as I stare at the palm trees flashing by through the window. Because it’s true. No one in the world deserves this more than my brother. He’s been through it these last couple of years. He faced injury, and his personal life was turned upside down. I know he’s worked his ass off to get back to where he is, so this moment is more than deserved.

Suddenly, I desperately wish that I’d been there to cheer him on. To see his dreams come true. Missing my brother hits me with a sharp pang. I’d pay good money to hug him right now. But instead, I settle on telling him something mushier than I normally would.

“I’m so proud of you, Thee. And Dad would be too.”

Butterflies riot in my chest. I’m seated at a large conference room table across from people who carry themselves with a level of importance that I could only wish to impersonate.

My hands are clammy, but I bet theirs aren’t.

In front of me, there’s a water bottle and a folded card that reads Julia Silva, Location Consultant, while other people’s titles include the terms Manager, Executive, and Senior.

I’m the newbie. The backup. The last-minute hire for someone who apparently found a better job and vacated this position. I literally went from production assistant at the studio to this gig, and only because I am somewhat qualified thanks to my master’s in film studies and an entire life spent in Emerald Lake, which is where they plan to film.

I am underqualified for this job—but that only adds to my motivation.

Some of them speak to each other, familiar as old friends. Others tap on their phone screens, and I’m confident they’re sending angry emails based on how hard the pads of their fingers slap their screens.

I feel like a kid at school who doesn’t want to get into trouble, so I wouldn’t dare pull out my phone. Instead, I sit nervously, offering weird flat smiles to anyone who makes eye contact with me.

Luckily, I’m put out of my misery when a man strides into the room like he owns the place. He looks to be in his early fifties, with tan—bordering on orange—skin and russet hair. I’m pretty sure he has professionally applied highlights in there too.

“All right, people.” He claps his hands as he rounds the table to stand at the head. “Let’s—” He stops, disgust twisting his features, and holds up a hand, silently requesting we wait.

I work overtime to school my features into a mask of boredom when inside I am screaming as he grimaces, reaches up to his teeth, and peels off a pair of whitening strips.

He strides away and tosses the slimy material into the garbage can in the corner of the conference room before returning to the table where he cracks open a water bottle, sips, and swishes thoroughly.

And then swallows.

When he smiles, his teeth almost blind me. “Right, where were we? This is Romance Ranch! My name is Richard Wadsworth. You’ve already heard of me, I’m sure. But for those of you who live under a rock or are new here, I am your executive producer, your showrunner, your visionary—hell, you can call me Daddy if you want to.”

He winks and then guffaws at his own joke, and I try not to wince. There’s a smattering of chuckles from around the room, but no one seems all that amused. Something that doesn’t deter him at all.

I silence the little voice inside my head that is drifting down a path in my brain where I wonder how much I’m going to hate this guy by the end of this project. It’s not the foot I want to start off on, so I take my opinions and shove them deep down inside where I can ignore them. This job is a huge win for a recent grad. And I will not fuck this up by rolling my eyes at the boss on day one.

No, siree, I am all business. All work and no play makes Julia a successful girl.

So I hunker down in my seat, leaning forward and crossing my arms on the table in order to appear as eager as I feel inside. I’m a good student, a hard worker, and endlessly professional. And that’s exactly how I want to appear as the newbie on this crew.

Richard launches into the premise of the show. One guy, ten women, twenty-four-hour footage over six weeks, and “all the drama you can dream up.”

His words, not mine.

“So let’s meet our suitor, shall we?” He swipes a remote off the table and clicks a button toward the projector. The machine whirs to life as the first image appears on the white screen behind him.

A man with broad shoulders fills the display. Above the bulk of his body is a rugged face. Square jaw, heavy brows, and an arrogantly tipped chin. Dusty blond hair. The type that was likely that bright, white blond when he was a child but has darkened with age. Brighter sun-bleached strands blend through the loose curls.

Loose curls that are artfully twisted over a set of piercing baby-blue eyes.

And unfortunately for me, I’d know that face anywhere.

OceanofPDF.com

OceanofPDF.com

CHAPTER 3

Emmett

THE DOORBELL RINGS, and my opa glances over his shoulder toward the front of the farmhouse.

My stomach drops. I’m suddenly nervous.

And nervousness is not my typical MO. Hell, I ride angry bulls who want to throw me across an arena like a lawn dart and then gore me. For a living.

I’ve been relatively fearless throughout my entire life. Unflappable. Not terribly emotive. I’m not an overthinker—I just do what needs to be done and try to have fun doing it.

My opa, though? He is an overthinker. I know he thinks the dating show is silly at best, but I also know he wants to feed his horses.

Quite frankly, I feel the same.

What I’m doing is stupid. And what I’m doing is a game changer for the family farm.

“Emmett, honey, are you going to grab that?” Oma calls into the dining room from where she’s baking cookies in the kitchen. Because Tina Brandt would never invite a person over without having something ready to serve them.

And today that something is coffee and cookies for the location consultant who is coming over to explain to us what the scope of this gig is going to look like for them.

“Well?” Opa quirks a brow at me from over the top of his newspaper.

I shoot him a grim smile as I stand and wipe my clammy palms off on my jeans. My heart thuds heavily in my chest, and I chuckle at myself as I stride toward the door.

It would seem that I have finally found something to do in my life that makes me uncomfortable.

My fingers wrap around the door handle, and my thumb presses on the top lever to pull the door open to whatever this experience might bring me.