Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
I’m a little surprised he remembered her that easily. “Yeah. Sahil.”
“Are you and Farisha still friends?”
“Best friends,” I say with a nod. There was a time I considered Sam a best friend too… “She’s a professor at Berkeley and has a kid now, so I actually don’t see her very often, but we talk all the time.” I take another sip of my drink. “Are you getting anything to eat?” I ask him, thinking ordering something to-go will be a good idea. Then I can get out of here before I give into temptation.
“Yeah, I’m always hungry after surgery.”
“Has the menu changed much?” The Cantina’s dining section is open from four to eight PM, and then limits customers to twenty-one and up after that. “I haven’t been here in…gosh…probably six years.”
“It’s been a while for me too,” Sam says. “But I’m going to assume no, other than adding some allergy-friendly options.”
I nod and then remember he said he’s always hungry after surgery. “You were in surgery? Here?”
“Kind of,” he chuckles. “We were over at Jacob’s and he had a dog come in after being hit by a car. I helped until the vet techs showed up.”
“Oh, well, that was really nice of you. How’s the dog?”
“Stable and expected to recover.”
“Good.” I risk meeting his eyes again and my stomach flip-flops the moment we lock gazes. “So…other than working what else have you been up to?” I bite my lip, a bad nervous habit Karina yells at me for during interviews. I bite hard enough that the pain temporarily distracts me from whatever is making me nervous, but it looks too sexual, Karina says.
“That’s pretty much it,” he admits. “The trauma center and the gym are more home to me than my actual home.”
Which you share with…I wish I could will the words right out of his head. His phone rings, and he takes it from his pocket. Looking at the name on the screen, he sends the call to voicemail and puts the phone on the bar counter, face down.
“Not important?” I ask.
“No.” He meets my eye again. “What about you? Other than writing and hanging out with celebrities, what do you do?”
“That pretty much sums me up, but with more emphasis on the writing than having a social life.” I still consider myself an introvert, but I have fellow introvert friends and we like to hang out hermit-style together. “I have a horse,” I add, having to remind myself not to be the crazy cat lady of the horse world. “His name is Spartan.”
“You always did like horses.”
“I have. So, I spend a lot of my free time at the barn.”
“Speaking of horses,” Sam starts, lowering his voice. “Here comes a cowboy.”
“What?”
He leans in even more. “You should join us before it’s too late.”
“I just…I don’t know. Wait, too late?” I’m sputtering once again. Having drinks with Sam is a terrible idea. He’s too gorgeous to be real, and if I didn’t see him go through his awkward teenage years—which lasted like ten minutes, by the way—I might think he’s a very well-made robot or something.
“What? You don’t want to have drinks with me?” He flashes that cocky grin again, knowing the exact effect it has on women. I’m able to get my head to move back and forth, but the words aren’t coming out. “It looks like it’s either me or him,” Sam quips. “I’d say you could talk about horses, but I don’t think he’s even stepped foot on a farm.”
“Who?” I pick the cherry out of my drink and pop it in my mouth. Sam motions across the bar to a guy I can best describe and an obnoxiously overdressed cowboy. His blue plaid short-sleeve shirt is tight, trying to show off muscles that he doesn’t actually have, with the top few buttons undone. His tight shirt is tucked into even tighter pants. His shiny belt buckle was bought and not won from a rodeo, I’m sure, and his pointy-toed, snakeskin cowboy boots are so not practical for a day working on the ranch.
The second I flick my attention to him, Cowboy locks eyes with me and smirks. He pushes off against the wall and saunters over.
“It’s not too late to join me at the table. It’s going to clear out any second now, and I can save you from Clint Eastwood there,” Sam says. It’s not too late, but dammit, I know what one drink with Sam could lead to. I came to Silver Ridge for a break from drama and to focus on my work.
And Sam…Sam is most definitely a distraction—one I don’t need. But this overzealous cowboy...he could be distracting enough just for the night. Sam takes a step to the side, moving to an empty space at the bar to order another drink since I’m pretty sure Lauren slobbered all over his beer.