Desperate Times (Boys of Silver Ridge 2)

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he says.

“I haven’t decided if it’s good or bad yet,” I say with a sigh, shaking my head as I talk. “It’ll be life changing, that’s for sure.”

Tension flashes over Sam’s face for a split second. He blinks and his usual charm takes back over. “Well, give yourself some time to think about it. You don’t have to make a decision any time soon, right?”

“Right. And that’s what my agent said. We’re not going to rush into anything and there are still some things we need to see in writing before we even consider moving forward. Which means I’m free now to come back to Chicago. If you want to see me, that is.”

“Seeing you includes fucking you, so yes. I miss your pussy.”

He’s at work, presumably somewhere alone, yet hearing him talk dirty like that sends a rush through me. I’m out in the front of the barn away from everyone, yet the thought of someone hearing him talk to me like this is a little exciting.

“I miss it too,” I shoot back, trying to be coy, and then realize what I said. “I suck at this,” I tell him, rolling my eyes.

“Don’t you write steamy romance for a living?” he laughs.

“Yes, but that’s different. I get to sit and think about it, and more importantly, I can delete anything I write that’s cringe-worthy. Which is often. But I think you know what I mean. I miss you. So much.”

His expression softens for a split second and then the smirk is back on his handsome face. “I miss you too, Chloe. I want you to come back to Chicago.”

“I can get a flight tomorrow.”

“I know you’re busy with your book. But selfishly, I want you here with me now.”

“I want to be there with you too. And I really can get a flight tomorrow. You have to work the rest of the week and I need to hole up and write, so it’ll actually work out perfectly. There are fewer distractions in Chicago. Well, less when you’re not there I should say.”

His smirk turns into a genuine smile. “I quite enjoy distracting you.”

“And you’re rather good at it.” Spartan lifts his head and sniffs at the phone. “He wants to meet you,” I tell Sam. “And maybe we could go for a ride together.”

“It’s been years since I’ve ridden a horse, but I’d like that.” His smile fades and stress takes over his face. “Let me know your flight details. I have something we need to—” He cuts off abruptly. “Fuck. I just got called back. I have to go intubate a patient.”

“Sounds serious.”

He nods. “There was a fire and the patient inhaled a lot of smoke. I gotta go. I love you,” he rushes out and ends the call. I lead Spartan over to a shaded part of the yard, putting my phone back in my pocket, and drape an arm around my horse.

“I’m gonna miss you,” I tell him, and he slowly moves around, looking for grass that isn’t brown and dry. “You’d love it in Silver Ridge, buddy. You have to deal with humidity, but it can’t be any worse than what you dealt with when you were in Kentucky. The grass is so green and lush, and other than a total freak accident, we really wouldn’t have to worry about having to evacuate you in case of a fire.” I run my hand down his back, wet fur sticking to my fingers, and get a flashback to getting a call four years ago when I was on a book tour in Greece, telling me that the fire was on a path to burn the barn.

Real-life heroes put out the blaze before it came close enough to warrant an evacuation, but the thought alone causes my heart to race.

“But overall, the weather here is fabulous.” I wipe more wet fur from his withers, knowing I’m using my fear of fires as an excuse to just pack up and move back home. I want to head back to the Midwest, and I really don’t see what’s wrong with that.

I let Spartan lead me around the yard in search of the best grass. A soft breeze blows across the field, gently rustling the leaves on the trees. If I did move back home, I’d miss this come winter. I record Spartan grazing and upload it onto my Instagram story, and then go to check my emails from there since my phone is in my hand. Rebecca, my assistant, handles my author email account for me, going through the mass emails I get a day, answering what she can and flagging ones she thinks I’d want to look at myself.

My personal email is saved for important cases, and only a handful of people have it, so it throws me for a loop when I see an email from an address I don’t recognize. I open the email and immediately remember giving Mrs. Clemmons, my old English teacher, this email and telling her I’d love to come talk to her class when I’m able.