Desperate Times (Silver Ridge Series Book 2)

by Emily Goodwin

  Of course I agree with Mom, but I know she’s taking a dig at Stacey. Though Stacey never met my family, no one was ever a fan. “Chloe is…” Perfect. Gorgeous. Hot. Sexy. Everything I ever wanted. “…still Chloe. The same, weird, stubborn, amazing girl I was friends with years ago.”

  “Like I said, I always thought you two would be good together. Took you long enough,” she adds with a laugh.

  “Yeah, it did.”

  Too long, and I’d give anything to go back to that night at the party, where Chloe showed up looking like a historically accurate, yet still hot, pirate. I was too drunk, too scared of my own feelings to run after her. I’ve always been confident, but Chloe was on a whole different level.

  “Well, you two better get back into town soon. Now that word is going around about Chloe talking to Silver Ridge High, the movie theater is going to host a Nightfall watch party with a costume contest for people to dress up like the characters. To think all of that is based on something little Chloe Fisher wrote…I’m so proud of her.”

  “Me too,” I say, smile coming to my face. “She really is amazing.”

  “She is.”

  “It’s late,” I start, knowing Mom will talk my ear off if I let her, telling me about any and all drama going on in the town. She doesn’t take on as many clients anymore, but as the only seamstress in the town, Mom hears a lot of gossip when she’s doing alterations, especially on wedding dresses. “And I haven’t had dinner yet.”

  “Did you get takeout again?”

  “I did but—”

  “When Chloe is there, you should cook for her, not get takeout.”

  “Noted,” I say, smiling yet shaking my head.

  “I hope she comes back to see you soon, or you go see her. You know I hate the thought of my boys eating dinner alone.”

  “I don’t think Mason is alone that often,” I say with a snort of laughter. “And Jacob’s house is always full of animals.”

  “That is true. I’ll let you go, then. Love you, Samuel.”

  “Love ya too, Mom.” I end the call and put my phone on the counter. Yawning, I lean back and roll my neck. My shoulders have been tense and stiff since this morning. Letting out a breath, I eat half my dinner and go into my bedroom, stripping out of my clothes to take a shower, mind on Chloe. I want to talk to her. I want to see her and be with her more than anything.

  But, fuck, I feel like I’m lying to her and I hate it. Not telling someone something isn’t the same thing as lying, I know, but in this case, what I’m not telling her is a big fucking deal. I turn on the water, thinking of how the hell I’m going to tell her.

  Hey, by the way, my ex showed up the other day and told me she’s pregnant and I’m the father. But don’t worry, I love you, not Stacey. The sex was meaningless and—fuck. She’s not here now, and I’m not telling her over the phone, so I don’t have to think about it just yet. It’s going to eat away at me, dammit. I like to be prepared, and the uncertainty with everything Stacey said digs into me. I get into the shower only to get back out, walking naked through my apartment to get my phone from the counter.

  With the lights on in here and my living room having two walls that are entirely windows, it’s easy to see in. I’ve never been shy, partly because I know I’m in good shape and partly because I just don’t care. I quickly scroll through my call log, going back to June, seeing the last time I called Stacey. Fuck, I want to take it all back.

  But I can’t and I know I have to deal with this, somehow, someway.

  “June fourth,” I mutter to myself, opening up an internet search. I was a few days off but still close in remembering when she came over, distracting me from a shitty day at work. If she got pregnant that night, then she’ll be due around the end of February.

  It’s early September now, but fall always goes fast, and once the holidays pass us by, it’ll be time for her to have the baby. Letting out a slow breath, I take my phone with me back into the bathroom. Right as I’m about to get in the shower, Chloe calls.

  She’s dated actors in the past…hopefully I can fake it like the best of them and act like everything is as perfect as it was before shit hit the fan this morning.

  4

  Chloe

  “Holy shit.” Eyes wide, I reach for my mimosa. It’s only ten in the morning, but we’re celebrating with drinks at brunch. My agent, Vanessa, raises her own glass and gently clinks it against mine.

  “You can say that again.” She takes a drink and sets her glass down. “Or I will: holy fucking shit.”

  I blink several times and then take a small drink, not wanting to drink too much alcohol until I get some food in my belly. I stayed up until three-thirty in the morning, having gotten to a good part in my book that I couldn’t not get out. It wouldn’t be a big deal if I didn’t have my crack-of-dawn meeting with the network producers. I opted to get fifteen extra minutes of sleep and had to forgo breakfast in the process.

  If I wasn’t in the state of shock I’m in, I’d be dead-ass tired right now from lack of sleep. But the deal I was just presented with was way more than I expected…in more ways than one.

  “What do you think?” Vanessa asks, looking at me with a smile on her face. “It’s a lot to think about.”

  “It is.” I pick up my water and take a big drink. “I need a day to think about it.”

  “Take your time,” she says calmly. “The ball is in our court and now is the time to get exactly what you want out of this.”

  I nod, thinking back to everything that was presented to me. What the producer told Vanessa over dinner several weeks ago was legit, when they just happened to run into each other in LA. But he left out some major details, some good and some…well, I’m not sure yet.

  They offered me a ton of money upfront to sign onto the series, and I’d have a lot of control over the writing for season one and two of the show, which sounds awesome. Epic fantasy is one of my favorite genres to read and watch, but I haven’t written anything set in a complicated, magical-yet-historical setting yet. The world has already been built for me, and I’d get to come in and change the rules of magic, making it work exactly how I’d like it to.

  And since the first book the series is based off of ends on a cliffhanger, I’ll head up the writing for season two, and can even do a cameo role and appear as a side character of my choosing. Of course I want to be a tavern wench, serving ale or mead in the background. I’ll have a team of writers to work with me, ones who know how to turn novels into screenplay, and the network even offered to provide me with an assistant if I need one.

  Sounds great, right? Why would I even question something like this? They’re going to pay me a shit ton of money and I get to do something I never thought I’d get to do…I should be signing the papers now.

  But there is a catch, of course. Two, in my case, which makes this harder.

  Production is set to start in just a few months, and once we get to writing, I’ll be busy writing and meeting with the network—here in LA, which will make traveling to Chicago really hard. I shouldn’t base a life-changing career decision off a brand-new boyfriend, I know, but it’s Sam here. He’s not just some guy I started dating.

  It’s Sam.

  The only man I’ve ever loved. The only one I ever will love. So yes, not being able to go to Chicago and spend time with him influences my decision, along with catch number two. If the show gets renewed for a third season, I won’t be the main writer on it, basically because I’m too expensive and they’re giving me a very generous offer for seasons one and two. I’ll have to sign a nondisclosure agreement, and not tell anyone that the writers have taken over, and I’m not actually writing the show anymore, yet my name will still be credited as the writer.

  I don’t know how to feel about that. Having my name on something I didn’t actually write? I know many super popular authors use ghost writers, but it’s also more or less common knowledge that they do. What if the showrunners write garbage episodes? Make the characters do
something stupid or sexist or say something terrible and I’m blamed for it? That alone makes me hesitate…along with not being able to see Sam.

  The producer promised I’d build up a good working relationship with their writers, and they’d continue the series as if I was still there.

  “Right,” I tell Vanessa. “I shouldn’t even think about a new project until I’m done with my book.”

  “I agree. You already have a good thing going with Nightfall. How is that book coming, by the way? Did going back to Silver Ridge help?”

  “It was very inspiring.” I’m smiling again, mind going back to Sam. “It’s nice to be somewhere quiet.”

  “If it helped, go back,” she says with a laugh. “I’m going to go over the contract from the network with a fine-toothed comb and have another agent sit in on it with me. There are things right away I’m changing before we can even consider moving forward. It’ll take me a week or so to get a new contract drawn up, so don’t let this stress you out,” she says, giving me a pointed look. “I know you.”

  “You do.” The waiter brings us our food, and my mouth waters when I look at my spinach-and-kale-loaded omelet. What I really wanted was a big fluffy pancake with a side of greasy bacon, but this place doesn’t serve meat, and anything made with eggs is dependent on the free-range chickens that live out back. “The NDA thing is what gets me the most.”

  “I figured it would. Let me talk to Michael from the agency and I’ll see what we can do.”

  “Thanks.” I dig into my omelet, glancing at my phone every now and then as Vanessa and I talk and eat. Sam is at work and is going to call when he gets a break. I left for my meeting at seven-thirty, which was nine-thirty for Sam, and he was already at work. He never has a set lunch time, but we’ll talk at some point today.

  I go to the barn after lunch and am happy to see Spartan doing much better. He was cleared by the vet for some light riding, but I don’t want to push our luck.

  “Hey, buddy,” I tell him, smiling when I lean on the pasture gate. The grass is browning and dry, reminding me that a threat of another wildfire is all too realistic. “You’d love the grass in Michigan.” I climb over the gate, grabbing his blue lead rope to clip onto his halter. “I’d have to slowly wean you onto it, so you don’t colic or founder, though,” I go on. The big thoroughbred lifts his head, nickering softly to me. He breaks away from the small herd and lazily walks over, nostrils flaring to see if he can smell a treat in my hand—he does, and I give him the peppermint.

  “Your days of being pasture eye-candy are over.” I run my hand over his smooth fur and clip the lead rope to his halter. He blows mint-scented hot breath in my face as he sniffs me and then lowers his head so he can rub it against my back. I brace myself, laughing as he almost pushes me over as he scratches his head against me.

  I always wanted a horse when I was a kid, but we couldn’t afford one. I didn’t get back then just how expensive horses could be, and how fast the vet bills can rack up, as they have been with Spartan getting injured. I adopted him years ago from an off-the-track racehorse recuse based in Kentucky.

  I take him to the outdoor wash rack; he’s way overdue for a bath and has the green grass stains on his haunches to prove it. It’s relaxing, standing here in the warm sunbathing my horse. The stress of the real world melts away, and I’m feeling like a new person by the time we’re done and I bring Spartan around front to graze on his lead, knowing he’ll just go roll in the dirt if I put him in the pasture.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket and I grin ear to ear when I see Sam FaceTiming me.

  “Hey, babe,” I answer, turning so he can see Spartan in the background. “You look hot in your scrubs.”

  “Want me to wear some the next time I see you?” he asks with a cheeky grin, making warmth flood my veins.

  “I am overdue for a checkup.”

  “Then I will perform a very thorough examination…soon? Did your meeting go well?”

  “Yeah…I have to say it did, but it gave me a lot to think about.”

  “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.

  She was excited to talk to me at the bar, and is still excited now, judging by her overuse of exclamation points, which is not something she’d advise to do in class, I’m sure.

  Hi, Chloe,

  It was so nice running into you at The Cantina! I hope you know just how proud I am of you, and yes, I might have bragged to all my friends that you were in my class! I know you’re a busy woman, but we would so love it if you could come in and talk to our seniors this year. I have quite a few who want to be writers and hearing a success story from someone who went to Silver Ridge High would mean so much to them! I was able to get permission from the school board as well as my students’ guardians to read Nightfall this semester, so we’ll be ready for you whenever you can come in!

  Hope to hear from you soon,

  Mrs. Clemmons

  I smile as I read through her email, finding it almost too coincidental to get this email inviting me back to Silver Ridge right as I’m contemplating moving back there. Is it a sign that things are meant to be? It puts me closer to Sam, so I’m taking this as a yes, it is a sign. A good sign, yet still a little voice nags at me that things are too good to be true.

  5

  Sam

  I drum my fingers against the arm of the chair, anxiously waiting for the next group of passengers to emerge from the escalator. Chloe’s flight got delayed, so instead of landing at seven PM, it’s now after eleven. If I wasn’t so damn excited to see her, I’d be tired, yet the thought of holding her in my arms again sends a jolt of electricity through my veins.