Page 35 of Sexting the Cowboy

“I’m old enough to know what I want.”

I fall silent, pulse thrumming in my ears. “And what’s that?”

“You.”

The word hangs between us, a live wire. I don’t know whether to laugh or hang up. Instead, I whisper, “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because they make me forget every reason this is a bad idea.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “Forget for a minute. Tell me what you want.”

I close my eyes. The sound of his voice wraps around me, rough and careful all at once. “You really think you can just…say things like that and get away with it?”

“I don’t want to get away with anything. I want you to believe me.”

“Brick…”

“Yeah, Doc?”

“You’re trouble.”

“I’ve been called a lot worse.” He laughs again, low and genuine, and it pulls a matching sound out of me before I can stop it.

“You drive me insane.”

His voice goes warm. “Likewise. Tell me about when you decided to be a doctor.”

“Really?”

“I want to get to know you.” There’s nothing coy or flirty in his tone this time. It’s just a simple statement of fact. No jokes, no bullshit.

I’m not sure I’ve ever had that. Definitely not at this stage. So I tell him, and he listens like it matters. Nobody’s done that in a long time. By the end of it, he muffles a yawn, but he’s still asking questions and dragging this out.

“You should get some sleep,” I tell him. “That’s a pretty bad laceration you’re trying to heal.”

“Only if you do.”

“I’m lying down right now.”

“Then I’ll imagine you that way.”

“Don’t push it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll just dream of you,” he says, and I can hear the smile again. “You’re something else, Annie.”

“I hope that’s good.”

“It’s real,” he says. “And that’s better.”

The words sit warm in my chest. “Goodnight, Brick.”

“Night, Doc.”

I end the call and stare at the ceiling. The room hums with quiet, but inside my head it’s loud—his laugh, his voice, every reckless thing we just said. I know it’s wrong. I know where this road leads. But for once, I don’t care. I feel alive, and that’s worth something.

I close my eyes, and the last thing I hear is the echo of his voice—low, rough, full of promise—telling me my name like it’s the first time anyone ever said it right.