“Let me help you.” Sam moves to the head of the bed, helping me get as comfortable as possible. I give Sam the TV remote, telling him to put something on if he’s going to stay while I’m sleeping. Unable to keep my eyes open any longer, I’m almost asleep as Sam fusses over the blankets, soothing them out and making sure I’m warm without getting overheated.
“I love you,” he says, thinking I’m asleep. “I wish you knew just much you mean to me, how much you always will no matter…no matter what happens.”
18
Sam
I spent the entire drive home from my mom’s house mentally preparing for telling Chloe the truth. I rehearsed a speech in my mind, reminding her how much I loved her and how much she means to me, now and forever. I took the long way home, giving myself extra time to think, and coming back to Chloe’s dad’s house and finding Chloe in the state she was in was the last thing I expected, totally derailing any and all thoughts of telling her about Stacey. I could tell right away she was very sick, and felt guilty for taking my sweet time getting back to her.
And I fully assumed she’d spent two or three hours in the ER and then go home with medication and would be feeling much better in the morning. Seeing her have an adverse reaction to pain medication was fucking terrifying. I was worried I’d lose Chloe, but because she didn’t want to be with me after finding out I might have a child on the way…not because I watched her die right before my eyes.
She’s okay now, sleeping right in front of me, and the steady rise and fall of her chest brings me comfort knowing she’s going to be just fine in a day or two. I sit in the uncomfortable armchair next to the bed, flipping through the limited channels this small hospital has to offer, landing on a rerun of Friends. I make it through almost a full episode before my phone rings. The number is unknown, with an area code local to Silver Ridge. I answer, thinking maybe it’s Jacob calling from his clinic’s line.
“Hello?”
“Sam? This is Mike, Chloe’s dad.”
“Oh, hi, Mr. Fisher.”
“Call me Mike. Chloe forwarded me your info, I hope that’s okay. I wanted to hear from you how she’s doing. Ever since Alyssa died, Chloe downplays any sort of illness. Part of it is her not wanting me to worry and the other part is denial that anything could ever be seriously wrong with her.”
“That’s not uncommon after losing a family member to an illness,” I say. “And she really is improving. I might have pulled my doctor-card to look at her chart once she signed to give me access. Her labs are steadily improving, and her heart rate has been good for the last few hours. She got dehydrated rather rapidly from the high fever, and I’m still kicking myself for not getting her in sooner.”
“I’m impressed you got her in when you did. I’m glad you’re there with her. “
“I’ll make sure she’s actually better before she’s discharged, and doesn’t just say she’s better.”
“Hey,” Chloe grumbles sleepily, eyes fluttering open. A small smile plays on her lips. “I’m not that sick.”
“Exactly,” I say, heart swelling in my chest when I look at her. I’d do fucking anything for this woman…and yet I haven’t done the one thing I need to do.
“You’ve been so good to my Chloe,” Mr. Fisher says. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’ve…I’ve cared about Chloe for a long time.”
“I was aware. I think everyone but the two of you were,” Mr. Fisher says. “Wendy and I need to have you two over for dinner once things calm down over here and Chloe is on the mend. How long are you staying in Silver Ridge? You’re welcome at the house as long as you need it.”
“At least through tomorrow. Chloe is here for observation, and if everything is good, she should be discharged by the afternoon.”
“The morning,” Chloe says softly, slitting her eyes open. “I’m leaving in the morning.”
“The paperwork usually takes a while,” I tell her.
“Is she being difficult already?” her dad asks with a laugh.
“Nah, Chloe is never difficult.”
“Good answer,” she replies, and her eyes fall shut again.
“Thank you again, Sam,” Mr. Fisher says. “I know my Chloe is in good hands. I like seeing her happy.”
“I do too,” I say, heart heavy in my chest. All I want is to make Chloe happy. I’d walk through Hell and back for her, and hurting her—again—is the last thing in this whole fucking world I want to do. Yet I have to do it. “I’ll update you later, if you’d like.”
“I would, thanks. I’ll talk to you later, Sam.”
“Bye,” I say and end the call. Standing, I stretch my arms out in front of me. This chair is horribly uncomfortable and is meant for anyone staying the night with a sick family member.
“Was that my dad?” Chloe asks, blinking her eyes open. “He said he was going to call you.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“I told him I was fine. Healthy as a horse.”
“A horse with a high fever, a migraine, who then had a bad reaction to medication.”
“Hey, the reaction has nothing to do with not being healthy.”
“It kind of does,” I counter with a smile. “It’s the reason you’re here.”
“Stupid medicine.”
“How are you feeling?” I ask her. “You said your headache was back not that long ago.”
“It is, but not as bad as before. Closing my eyes for a little bit helped.”
“Sleep is the best thing for you right now.”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “We can go back to your house tomorrow. You have to work on Tuesday, and I need to get back to work too or I won’t make my deadline. I’m trying not to think about it or else I’ll get panicked and—shit—I just remembered I’m supposed to do an Instagram live video tomorrow at eleven. I’ll text my assistant.” She looks at her phone, which I moved to the table against the wall opposite her bed while I was messing with her blankets. “It’s far away.”
“I got it,” I tell her. “And if you want me to text your assistant, I can. You seem sensitive to lights.”
“Thank you, and yeah, it still bothers me.” She blinks her eyes shut for a few seconds. “My password is zero-six-one-four. It’s the same password for my security system and gate to get into my driveway.”
“You’re supposed to have different codes to make it harder for people to get in.”
“I have a hard time remembering numbers. This one has significance.”
“What is it?”
“June fourteen,” she says. “The day my agent called me to tell me Lionsgate was interested in turning Nightfall into a movie.”
“I didn’t know that. How did you end up with it streaming?”
“That’s what I preferred,” she tells me, and I unlock her phone, going to the text messages. “It took nearly a full year after that to get the deal I have now. Worth the wait, though.”
“I’d say. What’s your assistant’s name?”
“Olivia. She should be one of the top text you see.”
“Yeah, found her. What do you want me to say?”
“Um…I’m sick and won’t be able to do the live tomorrow and then take a picture of me to send with it.”
“Easy enough,” I say and quickly type out the message and snap a photo of Chloe.
“Thank you,” she tells me. “You’re such a good guy, Sam.”
Her words hit like a punch to the gut. “I’m not.”
“Funny.”
“I…I mean it, Chloe.” I swallow hard, feeling the ground going out beneath my feet.
"No…I’m not.”
19
Chloe
Sam’s brows furrow and he looks at the floor, slowly shaking his head. “Chloe,” he starts, flicking his eyes up to look at me. I’m taken aback by the pain on his face. Did I hear him correctly? He said he’s not a good guy…what? Sam is the best guy I know. He’s caring and attentive, smart and driven, confident and cocky just enough to
be oh-so-hot without being an overbearing asshole. He’s a hard worker, is family oriented. He makes me laugh. Makes me feel safe.
Makes me feel beautiful and worthy.
He’s the best fucking guy in the whole world.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, tipping my head as I look at him.
He wrings his hands and looks at the floor for a moment. “Being with you has made me happier than I ever knew I could be.”
“You make me happy too.”
He looks up, blinking a few times and looking more emotional now than I’ve ever seen him before. “All I ever wanted in life was to call you mine.”
“I am yours.”
“I don’t deserve you, though.”
My mind is still fuzzy from the drugs. Sam is either going to propose or break up with me, and judging by the look on his face…fuck. My pulse picks up, causing the heart monitor to give out a warning beep.
“Sam,” I say in a panic and sit up too fast, going to swing my legs over the edge of the bed, forgetting I precariously slipped my arm under my pillow to try and get as comfortable as possible. My IV line catches and my vision blurs.
Sam rushes over, gently laying me back down. “I shouldn’t have moved that fast,” I groan. “I feel sick again.”
“Close your eyes, take a minute,” he tells me. The nurse comes in, having been alerted that there was a change in my heart rate.
“She sat up too quickly,” Sam tells her and looks at the monitors.
“I forgot about the wires,” I say, still aware my heart is beating fast. I’m lightheaded again because for a second there, I thought Sam was going to break up with me. It’s crazy, right? Yeah…crazy.
“You said you felt sick,” Sam says, sky-blue eyes piercing into mine and he gently smooths my hair back. “Do you still?”
“No.” The twist of nausea was also from thinking I was going to get dumped right here in the hospital. Though, I’m still weak and moving that fast was a bad idea. “Well, maybe a little.”
“Can she get something for the nausea? Nothing’s been prescribed and she’s felt sick all day,” Sam notes, and the nurse looks a little annoyed, mumbling something about how the anesthesiologist of course wants more drugs. Sam’s here as my boyfriend, not as my doctor, and I know it’s killing him not to intervene, both because it’s in his nature and because he’s protective of me.
And he’s not going to break up with me.
“I’ll phone the doctor on call.”
“Thank you,” he tells her and helps me fix my pillow again. The nurse goes around and presses a button on the monitor, making the beeping alarm stop. She does a quick assessment and goes back to the nurses’ station to call in a request for medicine to help me not feel sick.
“What were you going to say?” I ask Sam, sliding my hand down his arm.
“Nothing,” he says.
“It didn’t seem like nothing. You…you seemed upset.”
He sits on the edge of the bed and takes my hand, lacing our fingers together. “No, it’s not…it’s…I don’t like seeing you sick. I feel bad for leaving you this morning.”
“Sam.” I turn my head, looking at him and feeling a little emotional, which tends to happen when I don’t feel like this. “If you didn’t leave, I’d still get a migraine, you’d still take me to the ER, and I’d still be given the same medication which would mean I’d be right here.”
“You’re sexy when you’re rational.”
“I’m glad you still think so after holding my hair back when I puked.”
“I don’t think there’s anything you could do that would make me not find you attractive.”
“You’re too kind.” I slowly move to the side of the bed. “Will you snuggle with me?”
“Of course, babe.” Sam helps me move and gets in bed next to me, taking off his shoes and sticking his feet under the covers.
“This is much more comfortable.” I close my eyes and rest my head on his shoulder. “Thanks again for taking care of me.”
“Stop thanking me, Chloe. I love you. Of course I’m going to take care of you, and I know you’d do the same thing for me.”
“I would.”
“In a sexy nurse outfit, I’d hope.”
“I wouldn’t dream of taking care of you any other way.”
“Now I kind of want to get sick.”
“You can just fake it.” I turn my head to cough and reach for my water. Sam gets it for me and holds the straw to my lips so I can get a drink.
“Get some sleep,” he tells me, gently running his fingers through my hair.
“Wake me before you leave.”
“I will. I love you, Chloe.”
“Hey, guys!” I say, holding up my phone, recording a quick Instagram story. Once Rebecca, my assistant, posted that I wasn’t able to do my live interview this morning, I’ve gotten an overwhelming amount of messages, emails, and comments on all of my social media channels wishing me well and asking for an update. I don’t have anything to update anyone on, since I’m still waiting on one myself.
It’s ten-thirty, and I’ve been impatiently waiting to hear if I’m going home or not. The doctor came in at seven-fucking-thirty AM, waking me up again after I’d just fallen asleep from the new nurse waking me to do her rounds. I’m tired, a little crabby, and just want to go home, take a nap in bed next to Sam, and then make the two-hour drive to Chicago…where I can go back to sleep. I am doing better, thankfully. My pulse and blood pressure stayed at normal rates throughout the night, and the monitors were able to be disconnected.
“I wanted to jump on really quick to say thank you so much for all your sweet, kind messages. As you can see, I’m still hospitalized. I’m exhausted but feeling better. I’m really hoping I’ll be out of here soon so I can get back to work and give you some Kellie and Marcus teasers.”
My voice is scratchy, and I’m so thankful for the filter I’m using. I post the video and then attempt to read through some of the important emails Rebecca flagged and forwarded to me. I have about half an hour until visiting hours begin and Sam will come back. He insisted he’d be able to come earlier, that most hospitals are pretty lenient as long as the visitors are polite and quiet. As much as I want him crowded in the little bed next to me again, I feel bad that he’ll be stuck here all day. He has to be bored out of his mind. I am, and I can hardly stay awake.
I reply to an email from my editor, telling her I’m going to be a few days behind sending her the next couple chapters since I’m currently out of commission. I skim over an email from Vanessa after that. The email isn’t addressed only to me, but to several of the best-selling author she represents, asking if we’d be interested at speaking at a national romance writers convention in the spring. I’ve sat in on panels and hosted Q&A sessions at book cons before, and they always make me so freaking nervous.
I’m relatively new compared to some authors who are twenty-plus years into their writing careers already. Imposter syndrome is real, and the way it impacts younger women both fascinates and depresses me. I have a hard time fitting in when I’m sitting on the stage next to a romance writing queen, with fifty or more books under her belt, all bestsellers.
Too tired to read the fine print about the convention, I lie back. With only the IV line in my arm, I still can’t twist onto my side like usual, but it’s so much more comfortable without the cuff around my arm and those itchy wires stuck to my chest. I’m close to falling asleep when someone from the lab comes in to take what hopefully is my last blood sample, giving me a clean bill of health—well, kind of—but good enough for me to get the hell out of here.
“I’m sorry I woke you up.” She puts on clean gloves. “People don’t like me enough when I come to poke them, but waking them up and then poking them makes me even less popular.”
I laugh. “I can see that. I’m not a fan of needles, but if I pretend you’re a vampire taking my blood it makes it much more tolerable.”
The phlebotomist give
s me a weird look and goes on to take the blood sample. She closes the door behind her when she leaves to give me some peace and quiet and hopefully sleep. But my phone rings right after that. Grumbling, I force my eyes back open and see Charles’s name on my screen.
“Hey,” I answer.
“You’re in the fucking hospital and didn’t tell me. I had to find out from watching your Instagram stories.”
“I literally just posted it, you stalker.”
“Takes one to know one,” he shoots right back. “What’s the hell is wrong?”
I always feel a little weird talking about what’s physically wrong with me. I’m not dying of cancer—like my mom—and I feel like a baby complaining. I have every right to, and it’s perfectly fine to allow yourself to wallow in misery every once in a while, acknowledging how crappy it feels to just have a cold. “I have the flu,” I start.
“Fuck, it must be bad if you’re in the hospital because of it.”
“I had a pretty high fever, but it was the migraine that brought me in, and an allergic reaction to the medication I was given to treat said migraine that caused me to be admitted overnight.”
“That sounds absolutely terrible. I’m sorry, Chloe. You’re going to be okay, aren’t you?”
“I think so, but if I die, I’ll kill your character off too. It won’t matter who’s mad at me if I’m dead.”
“Hilarious. We both know you could never do that to Marcus,” Charles replies. It sounds like he’s on set somewhere, with an action scene going on in the background, because he’s way too calm to be talking me amidst real gunfire.
“I couldn’t. I love him too much. Though sometimes I do think I should make everyone suffer a lot more. It’s good for them, you know? Builds character, and it’s been a while since I killed anyone.”
Desperate Times (Silver Ridge Series Book 2) Page 18