Desperate Times (Silver Ridge Series Book 2)

by Emily Goodwin

  Turning away from Sam, I press my face against the pillow to muffle my cough. My chest burns and I begrudgingly get up to get something to drink, hoping to soothe my sore throat. I don’t have time to be sick, and maybe if I ignore feeling crappy it’ll go away. It makes no sense, I know. It’s a little after nine AM and Sam is still sleeping. Since he rarely gets to sleep in, I’m extra careful to sneak out of the room as quietly as possible.

  The headache I was fighting off last night starts to come back, and each step down the stairs makes it pound a little more. It’s going to be bright and sunny today, and the light streaming through the large windows in the living room makes me wince. Okay. Maybe I am sick, but it’s nothing some cold medicine and a nap won’t knock out.

  Sam left his phone on the kitchen counter when we came inside last night, and it’s buzzing when I walk into the kitchen. Thinking it’s an alarm he forgot about, I pick it up to turn the alarm off. I’m a little surprised to see Stacey calling him again. She called repeatedly a few weeks ago and I thought Sam had talked to her, letting her know he’s not available. It’s an awkward conversation to have, I know, and I don’t envy him for having to pick up the phone and break the news to her.

  It’s early for her to be calling, and I’m tempted to answer the phone. It would get the point across that Sam isn’t available anymore, that’s for sure, but I also don’t want to get involved, and frankly, I feel like such shit right now I don’t have the energy to deal. I send the call to voicemail instead and look through the cabinets for Advil and cough medicine.

  “Give it twenty minutes,” I grumble to myself after I take the little cocktail of medicine I dug out of Dad’s stash. I found prescription cough syrup that tasted horrible but should help me stop coughing and knock me back out. Along with Advil and a big spoonful of honey, I should be feeling better once the medicine kicks in and I wake up after a nap.

  Sam is still sound asleep, and I slip into bed next to him. He groans softly and wraps his arm around me. My lips curve into a small smile and I wiggle closer, finding comfort in the warmth of his skin. I start feeling a little loopy from the narcotic in the cough medicine, and my thoughts drift like waves on the shore, some of them calm and gentle and some powerful enough to wash me out to sea, leaving me in dark, cold water.

  Even if I don’t accept the offer to be the main writer for the show, I’ll still travel quite a bit next year with signings and Nightfall promotion. We’re nearing the end of the series, which causes anxiety to rise inside me because without Kellie and Marcus to constantly occupy my mind, I’ll feel a little lost. Having the new show to focus on will help ease the transition of not living in my Nightfall world, and I already have an idea for a mini-series spinoff, featuring some of the readers’ favorite side characters.

  I mentioned it to my editor once, and she’s brought it up every once in a while since then, knowing the publisher would snap up the series for a very decent price. It would be a win for everyone, really. The Nightfall fans would get more of the world they love, the publisher would totally cash in on it, and any books in a similar setting would continue to drive interest to the TV series.

  When I think about the future, that is what I want to do: keep writing stories I love, with characters and settings that are mine and mine alone. I wouldn’t have to work with a team or try and change something someone else already wrote. Plus, writing a novel and writing dialogue for a show are two totally different beasts.

  Yeah, it would be cool to say I headlined a show, and the amount the network is willing to pay me is impressive…but is it me? A little voice in the back of my head tells me, no, it’s not, and signing on to this huge project my heart really isn’t in, taking away from a series I do love with my entire being borders on the line of selling out.

  The network wants my name, not so much my original ideas, which was made apparent when they said they only wanted me to script the first and second seasons of the series. Even if Vanessa can get them to change the wording, my name will still be on something I didn’t write, and it doesn’t sit right with me.

  Sam tightens his hold on me, and my thoughts drift in another direction. We just talked about how long-distance is hard. Being away on set will make it even harder. We can visit each other on weekends, or any other time Sam has a few days off in a row, but it’s not like flying to Europe to hang out with me for an evening is feasible. International flights are exhausting enough their own, and that’s not to mention the time difference, the jet lag, and the fact that Sam would have to come right back and have the lives of very sick patients in his hands.

  I can’t expect him to do that, and I have no idea what my commitment will be to the show yet. I shouldn’t worry about it until I have all the details laid out before me, and I’m finding comfort in remembering all the things I didn’t like about the contract offered, which should be enough of a sign right there: don’t take the deal.

  Rolling over, I have to quickly turn right back so I don’t cough in Sam’s face.

  “Morning,” he grumbles, sliding his hand down my back. “Still not feeling well?”

  “I’ve felt better.”

  “You sound terrible.” He sits up, blinking a few times. “I heard you coughing all night. You’re sick, babe.”

  “Ugh, I know. I wanted to walk in the woods after breakfast.”

  “It’s sunny but chilly,” he tells me, looking out the window. “I don’t think hiking would be a good idea.”

  “Maybe after a nap,” I say, eyes fluttering shut. “I found some cough medicine with codeine in the cabinet downstairs and now I feel all sleepy.”

  Sam makes a face, trying hard not to lecture me about taking prescription meds that aren’t mine. “Please tell me you took the appropriate dose.”

  “I doubled it,” I say with a wink. “Yes, five milliliters along with two Advils and one spoonful of honey.” I wrap the blankets around my shoulders, feeling chilled. “You can go have breakfast with your brothers,” I say, getting sleepier by the second. “I’ll stay here and sleep. I know you don’t get to see them very often.”

  “I’ll stay with you.”

  “I don’t want to get you sick.”

  “You didn’t feel well when you got off the plane, right?” he asks.

  “Right.”

  “Then you were already sick and contagious. We’ve had sex every day that you’ve been here and slept in the same bed. If I was going to get sick, there’s a good chance I’m infected already. But so far, I feel fine.”

  “I hope you…you don’t get sick.”

  “Go back to sleep, babe.” He kisses my forehead. “You feel like you have a fever. Do you know if your dad has a thermometer anywhere?”

  “Yeah. Um. I think it’s in the same cabinet with all the medicine in the kitchen. Oh, and…and…” I force my eyes open. “You left your phone downstairs. Your ex, Stacey, called.”

  Sam tenses. “Did you answer?”

  “No, I just sent the call to voicemail. Does she still want you?” I slit my eyes open. “Do I need to fight a bitch?” I smile because I’m joking, though I do feel slightly possessive of my Sam.

  Sam swallows hard and looks at the wall behind me. “No…no…I’ll, uh, I’ll talk to her.” His eyes close for a couple of seconds and then he meets my eyes and smiles. The gesture seems forced, and if I wasn’t drugged up, I’d think it was much weirder than I do right now. “And I think I will have breakfast with my brothers. Want me to bring you anything to eat?”

  “Yeah, just whatever your mom makes. I’m still hoping for biscuits and gravy.”

  He leans over and gives me a quick kiss. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  16

  Sam

  My nerves are shot. Fucking shot.

  Stacey called, and Chloe saw. Nothing stopped her from answering. It wouldn’t be wrong or weird if she answered my phone, told Stacey to hang on a minute, and came up to get me. This is the second time I’ve cut it this fucking close, and it sh
ould be the second time the universe got up in my face and told me to just fucking tell Chloe the truth.

  She needs to know.

  There’s no way around it. I have to tell her. Come right out with it. Let her know that she’s the only one for me. Always has been, always will be, and I don’t want things to change between us. Things will change, I know that, but Chloe will always have my heart.

  But what the fuck do I say? My ex-girlfriend showed up the other day and told me the strangest thing—fuck, no. I can’t say that. I have something to tell you. Nope. That’s as bad as “we need to talk,” though we do need to talk. I quietly step out of the upstairs bathroom and walk down the hall, pausing at the bedroom door. Chloe is back asleep, snoring softly due to her stuffy nose. She’s sick yet looks peaceful as she lies there sleeping, and I hate myself already for bringing down her happy world.

  “Just fucking tell her,” I order myself. That’s all I can do. Let her know this wasn’t planned—at fucking all—and she’s the one I want to be with, though I know things are going to get messy. But isn’t life messy? Hasn’t our friendship been messy? Yet here we are, finally together despite it all.

  It will work out. It has to.

  Sighing, I go downstairs and add water to the coffee pot. The sun is shining bright above me, shining in through the window and illuminating the little specks of dust that hang in the air. My phone is still on the counter where I left it last night, and I can’t help but think about how different things could have been if Chloe had answered.

  Why is Stacey calling me this early anyway? She knows I’m not in Chicago. Something could be wrong, and I need to call her back as soon as I leave the house. The coffee starts brewing as I look for the thermometer, finding it in the cabinet Chloe said it would be in. I go back upstairs to check on her as the smell of coffee fills the air.

  “Chloe?” I say softly, not wanting to wake her up, but also not wanting to startle her. She hasn’t moved since I left the room only minutes ago. Moving slowly so I don’t wake her, I cross the room and sink down on the edge of the bed and gently push her hair back. Her skin is hot, and I don’t have to check the numbers on the thermometer to know she has a fever.

  “Babe,” I say gently and pull the top blanket off of her shoulders and put the thermometer against her forehead.

  “Sam,” she groans, smiling slightly as her eyes flutter open. “What are you—oh.”

  The thermometer beeps, little digital screen glowing red. “Fuck,” I mutter. “You gotta unwrap from all those blankets.”

  “I’m cold.”

  I set the thermometer down and lay in bed next to her, slipping my arms around her, using my body heat to keep her warm. “You have a really high fever, and I need to see if it goes down if you unwrap.”

  “How high?” Her voice is a little hoarse.

  “Hundred and three point four. For an adult, that’s high. Sometimes being all bundled up can cause a false high reading,” I say, which I’m hoping for.

  “Okay. But I’m cold,” she repeats.

  “You don’t have to totally uncover, but you shouldn’t be this bundled.” I sit up and roll the comforter down, leaving the top sheet and a soft blanket over her. She has the chills and starts shaking right away. “I think you might have the flu, babe.”

  “No, it’s just a cold.”

  “You went from feeling not-so-hot to really sick fast, plus you have a high fever. That sounds like the flu to me, but what do I know, right?”

  Chloe blinks her eyes open. “My five minutes of Google searching my symptoms trumps your years of med school. And I have a cold. Or that fast six-hour flu.”

  “I don’t think that’s an actual thing.”

  “Google says I’m right. So I’m right, you know.”

  “Oh, trust, me. Enough patients have challenged me on it. I know.”

  She smiles and then closes her eyes. “Fine. I’ll admit that I feel pretty bad.”

  “You took something for the fever?”

  “Yeah, a while ago. Advil.”

  “I’m going to get you some cold water and see if there is any Tylenol. You can alternate between the two to try and keep your fever down.”

  “Thanks,” she groans, and I brush her hair back, hating seeing her like this. “The headache is back and it’s killing me.”

  “I’ll get you something.” I kiss her forehead and go back into the kitchen, filling up a glass with ice water before rooting around in the cabinet to look for medicine for Chloe. My phone, which is still on the counter, buzzes again. Anxiety prickles through me, reminding me again, how close I came to Chloe finding out the truth.

  It’s Mom calling, and I’m sure she’s going to ask if Chloe and I are coming over for breakfast. I silence the call with the intent to call her back later. I take the water and medicine up to Chloe, who feebly sits up. She either put up a good front yesterday of feeling well or she really did crash fast, which can happen with the flu. I’ve seen it knock healthy people on their ass for days and even end up hospitalized.

  “I’m sorry I’m sick,” she tells me, taking the pills from my hand.

  “Why in the world would you be sorry for getting sick?”

  “You take care of sick people all day and now you have to take care of me.”

  I sit on the bed next to her. “I like taking care of you, which is a first, actually. I like taking care of my patients, of course, but I’ve never had anyone in my life like you, Chloe.” My eyes fall shut as the words burn on my tongue. But I can’t tell her, not now when she’s falling asleep from both the cough medicine and from feeling ill.

  “Good,” she mumbles. “I’ll say something romantic back when I feel better.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. I love you.”

  “I love you too.” She tips her head up to mine, eyes strained from the pain of her headache, and makes a move to kiss me but stops. “I don’t want to make you sick.”

  “Like I said, I’ve already been exposed. Actually, how long have you felt sick?”

  “When I got on the plane,” she tells me. “I thought if I ignored it, it would go away.”

  “You sound like Mason,” I tease. “And that makes it more than forty-eight hours. There’s nothing on the market yet that’s been proven to help with the flu after an onset of symptoms past two days.”

  “Next time I’ll start complaining sooner.”

  “You’re not complaining,” I assure her. “Taking care of yourself, resting when you need to rest, not working when you’re sick, and not pushing yourself until the point of exhaustion need to be normalized. This hustle all day everyday mentality people have now is causing so many health problems.”

  “You sound like such a doctor.”

  “Is that supposed to be an insult?” I ask with a laugh.

  “No.” She shivers again and pulls her arms in close to her body. “Under any other circumstance, it would be hot.”

  “I’ll make sure to have another medical TED Talk when you’re feeling better.”

  “I’m gonna hold you to it.” Her eyes flutter shut again.

  “Lay down, babe. I’ll check your temperature in twenty minutes to see if it went down.”

  “You’re so good to me.”

  “Sleep,” I tell her and smooth her hair back. “I’m going to make myself some coffee.”

  She grumbles something I can’t quite make out, and I fix the sheet around her slender body before going downstairs. I get the coffee started and pick up my phone to call Mom back, but see I have two more missed calls from Stacey. Slipping out onto the front porch, I call her back, hoping nothing is wrong.

  “Hey, Sam,” she says, sounding cheery, which helps ease some of my worry.

  “Stacey. Hi. Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah, it’s really good, actually. Sorry to call you so early, I’m just excited. I got my ultrasound done!”

  “You did?” I ask, a little taken aback. We’d talked about going together, and I
know I said more than once I wanted to be involved…assuming this is my child. “And everything looks good?”

  “I think so. I went to one of those places that does it for fun, not really for medical reasons, since my OB didn’t order one yet. There’s only one baby, don’t worry,” she laughs.

  “That’s good. We can get the DNA test done now that we know you’re not having twins.”

  “Hmm, sure. Are you coming back to Chicago today? I want to go shopping for baby stuff.”

  “That’s good. We…we should make a list of things to get,” I say.

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea.” She pauses for a second. “I called to tell you things look good and to say my lease is up in a few months.”

  “Oh,” I reply, not knowing what else to say to that.

  “I could sign another lease, but I think we should live together. You know, for the baby. That way you can help with nighttime feedings.”

  “I have a one-bedroom apartment,” I state, only able to list facts right now. It’s a coping mechanism, a weird one, I know, but you can’t go wrong with facts, right?

  “Your bedroom has plenty space for a crib.”

  “Yeah, but where will you—we…we talked about this.” Fuck. The world is spinning and I don’t want to say the wrong thing while trying to do the right thing. I want to be there for my kid, and I should move forward assuming she’s telling the truth, right? When I have a kid, I do want to help with night feedings and changing diapers.

  But not with Stacey in my bed, which, call me crazy, is what I think she’s hinting at.

  “I know,” she says softly. “It’s not an ideal situation, I know…but it takes two, you know?”

  “I do,” I press, swallowing hard. “And I want to be there for the baby, and I want to help you as much as I can too, but Stacey…we’re not together and we’re not going to get together in that sense.”