Fever Dream (Emerald Lake, #1)(28)

She’s passing this off as a joke, but there’s an edge to her tone. I grimace as I reach over her body and swipe the tweezers off the counter, wondering how the hell I’m going to make this less uncomfortable for her.

“Brandt. My last name is Brandt,” I mutter again as I place my hand on one hip to steady her.

She scoffs, giving her head a subtle shake. “Too personal, remember?”

One corner of my mouth tugs up as I echo her earlier sentiment back to her. “I’m about to pull prickles out of your ass, so I think we might really be past the point of worrying about what’s personal.”

I pull out the first spine before she can respond. She hisses out a breath, and all I can think is that I’d like to take a blowtorch to Prickle Point and nuke all those cactuses for doing this to her.

I peek up and watch her drop her head lower. I’m not sure if it’s pain or shame that has her hanging her head. All I know is that her distress unsettles me.

My brain turns over conversation starters as I pluck at the prickles in the back of her thighs, but nothing seems quite right.

The weather? Weekend plans? Her brother?

All stupid.

And so, in a moment of desperate confusion, my mouth moves before my brain has a chance to intervene.

“Legally, my name is Emmett Brandt. Not Emmett Bush.”

Her head lifts a couple of inches, and she goes still. “I’ve only ever heard you called Emmett Bush.”

I continue working on the prickles, internally berating myself for bringing this up just to make this moment easier. She’s silent for long enough that hope surges behind my ribs.

Maybe she’ll gloss over this altogether. Maybe she’ll bring up the weather next.

But no. That’s wishful fucking thinking.

“You compete as Emmett Bush. Hell, this show is all based around a bachelor named Emmett Bush.”

I flatten my hand against her lower back, working on pulling the spines as gently and quickly as I can, diverting my own attention as I speak. Telling myself that I’m only divulging this to her because it seems to be providing her some distraction from her mortification.

“My mom and biological dad were never together. He was the kid from the wrong side of the tracks. Lived on a ranch nearby.” I play the conversation off like it’s no big deal. Even though the ten-year-old boy inside of me is almost always upset by reminiscing about this part of my life.

Her head lifts farther as she turns to peek at me from over her shoulder. I don’t hold her gaze.

“It was a one-night mistake that ended up being a lifelong connection.” I shrug as though that explains anything at all.

Then, I take another peek.

But Julia doesn’t say anything. She blinks at me, a curious, innocent expression touching that pretty fucking face. Normally, I’d end it there and walk away. But there’s something about her expectant gaze that makes me feel like I should dig a little deeper.

“My biological father was in and out of the picture constantly. Unreliable and verbally abusive. So, my mom gave me her last name and kept me away from him. She raised me on her own, but not for long because she met our stepdad when I was still little. He basically became the only dad I ever knew.”

“Wait,” she says. “So you and your siblings all have your mom’s last name? I’m pretty sure that’s how they introduced themselves.”

“Yeah, they do. And I think it became a thing for her. Maybe it was something about the farm name and wanting to carry on that tradition. Or maybe it was that my sperm donor fucked her up. Hell, maybe my trust issues are hereditary.”

A humorless laugh spills from my lips as I stare off for a moment. Because it’s never occurred to me in such simple terms that I got my blue eyes and my guardedness from my mom.

With a shake of my head, I continue. “All I know is she never married my stepdad. Not legally anyway. But he stuck around and never pushed her about it. I don’t think he cared if it was on paper. He was just happy to build a life with her in any way she’d allow him to.”

A glance up and I can see Julia swallow as she nods. She’s digesting my overshare with such tact that I’m not nearly as embarrassed about my history as I thought I’d be.

Shit, I might even feel better for having said it out loud.

I study her. Blood on her knees, a piece of cactus in her hair. She looks ridiculous. And yet, I find myself unable to look away.

She wears her feelings right out in the open in every facial expression, in every bit of body language. I can read her so easily, and I wonder what it’s like to not live locked down like I do.

“Okay, so you grew up a Brandt, and now you’re a Bush, at least publicly. Your biological dad is a piece of shit though, right? So how’d you end up with that name?” she asks, blasting through any boundaries that I would normally hide behind during a conversation like this. Especially with someone I barely know.

“Okay, I’m moving to the other side,” I announce in an awkward bid to divert this conversation.

But then I pull out a big one, and she makes this sad little whimper noise that hits me like a bullet to chest.

So I keep talking and working.

Only to distract her.

“My parents, my mom and stepdad, died in a head-on collision on Christmas Day. You know, there one day, gone the next.” I laugh, but it’s out of pure discomfort, not because there’s anything funny about what I’ve just said. Admitting that they’re gone out loud still pains me as much as the day it happened. People told me it would get easier. But it hasn’t.