“These expired seven years ago.” He holds up the bottle. “If you’re that desperate, let me prescribe something for you.”

I let out a breath and bring my hand to my shoulder, pressing my fingers into my stiff muscle. It’s really not that bad; nothing a trip to a good massage therapist wouldn’t cure. Yet there’s nowhere to get a decent massage in Silver Ridge, evidence perhaps that I’ve grown too used to my cushy and very extra LA lifestyle.

“Or,” Sam goes on, deep voice like gravel as he sets the pills down on the counter, “I could do this.” He takes a step back and brings his hands to my shoulders, gently massaging them. His large hands are warm against my skin. Deft fingers work right into the knot above my shoulders blade, and some of the pain immediately leaves me, only to be replaced by a different kind of pain. It’s not physical, and it’s rooted in a deep longing for something I’ll never have.

One that will only get worse the more he touches me. My eyes flutter closed and a beat passes before I can even suck in the air to speak.

“Mhhh,” I breathe. “That feels good.”

“You have a knot.” Sam presses a little harder, moving his fingers in a circle. “Right here.” He presses two fingers deeper into my muscle, and I let my head fall forward.

“You slouch when you write?” he asks, sweeping his fingers across the base of my neck, moving my hair over my shoulder.

“Yeah,” I say, fighting to find my voice. “I try not to but then find myself practically leaning over my desk an hour or so into working. I got a posture brace but never wear it.”

“Maybe you should start.” He pushes two fingers into my muscle and slowly works out the knot. “Your back is very tight.”

That’s not the only thing that’s tight. Sam lets his other hand drop down to my lower back, gently running his fingers over my skin. Sam flattens his hands over my back and slowly drags his fingers down, and a soft moan escapes my lips. He leans in, moves my hair to the other side of my neck, and slips his fingers under the strap of my bra, going back to working out the knot. The tension leaves my shoulders almost immediately, but the room is filled with a different kind of tension.

Tension I have to break before it breaks me.

“Thanks,” I blurt and move away, ripping his hands off me like a band-aid. “I’ll, um…um…take some Advil.” I squeeze my eyes closed for a second and dread turning around. But then Sam’s phone rings again.

“You should go see if it’s your mom again,” I rush out, turning. We stare at each other for another second, and then he nods, going into the foyer to get his phone. Needing to get up and do something to shake the sexual frustration that’s now plaguing me, I follow him. “Is it her?”

“No, it’s the trauma center,” he tells me. “I have to take it.”

“Of course,” I say and hear him answer the phone as “Doctor Harris” which does bad things to me all over again. I go into the kitchen for a glass of cold water. I should just dump it all over myself or at the very least down my pants.

Grabbing two glasses, I fill them both with ice water and set them on the counter, listening to Sam talk about medications to whoever he’s talking to. A minute later, he’s back in the kitchen. I motion to the water.

“Thanks,” he says and picks up the glass.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He takes a long drink. “I asked to be updated on a patient while I was away.”

“I hope it was good news.”

He takes another drink and shakes his head. “It was expected news. One of our patients is being brought out of a medically induced coma, and he’s not showing much brain activity.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks.” Sam looks out the window, visibly bothered by the prognosis of his patient.

“It has to be really hard to see your patients like that,” I say gently, running my finger down my water glass, following a drop of water that’s rolling down.

“It can be. I knew what I signed up for when I took the job at the trauma center. Some patients stick with you more than others. Kids are the worst to see in those situations, especially when the trauma is the result of abuse.”

“I can’t even imagine.” I shudder. “But you’re saving people.”

“That’s the goal.” He takes another drink and looks out at the lake. I can see the stress of his job weighing down on him in that moment, and I want to take it away. He has grown up and changed, yet I still can’t throw caution to the wind because I haven’t changed.

At least not when it comes to my feelings toward Sam.

“I, um, have a lot of writing to do before dinner.”

Sam looks…I’m not sure—hurt? Disappointed? “Right. That’s the whole reason you came here. Want me to pick you up later?”

“I can drive. I don’t want to make you go out of your way.”

“I’ll gladly go out of my way for you.” That cocky grin comes back to his face. “And get out of the house for a while. I forgot how chaotic it is with everyone there.”

“I miss that chaos.”

“It’s back with a vengeance with my nephew there.”

“He’s a cute baby.”

“Of course he is. He’s related to me.” And that’s the Sam I know. We laugh, locking eyes once again. “So…I’ll be back at five?”

“Yeah. I’ll be ready.” Without looking away from Sam, I bring my glass back to my lips and end up clinking it against my teeth. There’s a reason taking a drink on national TV gives me anxiety. I set the glass down and walk Sam to the door. “Thanks for, um, not letting me fall into the lake.”

“I’ll always catch you, Chloe.” He tucks my hair behind my ear and pulls his keys from his pocket. Please stop being so perfect. My heart—and libido—can’t take it. He grins and then turns, going outside and right to his car. He looks back at me before he gets in, and I close the door once he slips into the driver’s seat.

“Holy fuck,” I pant, leaning against the door. I grab my phone and call Farisha.

“Hey, lady,” she says when she answers. “You okay? You never call.”

“I haven’t figured out if I’m okay or not. Sam just left. I also haven’t listened to your messages yet.”

“Sam left your house?”

“Yeah,” I say and go into the living room. I don’t talk on the phone often, but when I do, I tend to walk around the entire time. “I need you to be honest with me.”

“I always am.”

“Should I have no-strings sex?”

“With Sam?” she asks incredulously. “You’re joking, right?”

“I thought you were all for sexual freedom.” I open the French doors that lead to the screened-in porch. It’s hotter than balls out here today. I switch on the fan and pace around the room.

“I am, but having so-called ‘no-strings’ sex only works when there are no strings. You’ve been in love with Sam since you met him. Where is this coming from?”

“We ran into each other again and he’s giving me major fuck-me vibes, plus he brought up that stupid pact we made when we were kids. But instead of getting hitched, he wants to fuck. I think. I’m still pretty confused.”