Fever Dream (Emerald Lake, #1)(23)
Emmett
Which Julia?
My eyes roll. What a douche.
Julia
The one who agreed not to tell her brother about your offseason shenanigans but who still could, at any moment, if the inclination strikes her.
Emmett
Blackmail. Nice. How very un-Silva of you.
I bristle at that. I am very Silva. I am kind. I’m just not… peppy the same way as my mom and brother.
Julia
Pretending you have too many Julias in your phone to keep track of? How very on-brand.
Emmett
Don’t worry. I have your contact card squared away now. And it’s very on-brand.
He sends a screenshot through. And as much as I hate myself for it… I smirk. The contact with my number below it reads: Julia Theo’s Hot Little Sister.
Julia
That’s so funny. I have you in my phone as Emmett the Guy Who Lost to Theo. Now quit dicking around and tell me where Prickle Point is.
Emmett
After a mean text like that? Unlikely.
I groan and glance up at the ceiling. I’m negotiating with a toddler.
Julia
Okay. I’ll just make my way to Stal Brandt. Spend some quality time with Leon and Tina. I bet they can tell me where it is.
Emmett
Well, they love you, so that would probably make their day.
Okay, that backfired. I thought he’d want to keep me as far away as possible from his family. And as much as I don’t hate the idea of inhaling a few more of those freshly baked cookies, time is of the essence.
Julia
Can you please help me be efficient about this? I don’t want Richard on my ass.
Emmett
I really hate the mental imagery that comes with that sentence.
Julia
Enough to help me?
Emmett
If you let me come with you, I could show you where it is.
Julia
No, thanks. Let me do my job, and I’ll let you do yours. You’ve helped me enough already.
Emmett
What’s my job?
Julia
To find a wife. Or girlfriend. Or whatever.
Emmett
That’s exactly what I’m trying to do right now.
My brows furrow as I blink at the screen. Does he mean that? I glance down at myself. Oversize Shania Twain T-shirt. Boy-short underwear. And prickly legs because shaving is just too much fucking work sometimes.
Surely not.
I decide to breeze past that comment. This man would flirt with a rock before he’d flirt with me.
“Hot Little Sister” comment notwithstanding.
Julia
Drop the location.
His next text message is a dropped pin for a place called Mount Bouchard. Clearly, Prickle Point is an unofficial name for the place, but he doesn’t elaborate on that. No words, no innuendo, no jokes.
And strangely, I’m a little disappointed by his silence.
* * *
I prepare myself for the day, already knowing that Richard will want a report the minute I step into his office about my first scouted off-site location. I shower, begrudgingly shave my legs, slather myself in sunscreen, and slick my hair back, too tired to straighten it like I normally do.
With the temperatures rising, I pull on a loose pair of jogging shorts and a sports bra, tossing a T-shirt into my bag for later. There’s no way I’m going into Richard’s office wearing only a bra.
Sneakers tied, I hop in my car and head south, weaving through the streets of Emerald Lake before most businesses have even opened. A few early risers are seated on patios, reading the paper and enjoying a cappuccino before the temperature spikes. Even more people are out walking, running, or biking along the lakeside path, all attempting to beat the heat.
The lake glimmers a shimmering navy blue under a cloudless azure sky. For now, the water is still, but soon, boats, Jet Skis, and loud thumping music will overtake it and turn it from a marvel of nature into a tourist playground. But that’s summer here in Emerald Lake.
I turn at one of the town’s major intersections, away from the lake and toward the rows of vines that cover the slopes nearest the water. Wineries stretch throughout the valley, another draw for visitors. Emerald Lake is one of Canada’s top wine-producing locations, but it’s also home to many other agricultural industries. Fruit, vegetables, dairy farming, ranching—the valley’s diversity is staggering.
I admire the scenery. The farther I get from the lake, the more rugged and rural the landscape becomes. The hot, arid hills that are home to Stal Brandt glow a light brown against the darker shades of the mountain rocks and coniferous trees.
My GPS leads me toward Mount Bouchard, a.k.a. Prickle Point, which practically borders the farm. I’ve decided that parking on set is the easiest solution. According to the digital map, all I have to do is ditch my car at the crew’s designated parking area and take the gravel lane past Emmett’s cottage. Behind it, a gate leads off the property and onto the backcountry road that runs next to the trailhead.