Chapter 2 Eric
T he shrill ring of my phone slices through the quiet morning, yanking me from the kind of deep sleep that leaves a man groggy and confused. At five in the morning, I lurch out of bed, my legs tangled in the sheets, and slam into the wall as I grab for my phone.
“Can you make it this morning?” Tristan’s voice is clipped, urgent.
I scrub a hand over my face. “Yeah, sure. I’ll be there.”
Four hours later, I push through the heavy glass doors of Silver Securities. The lobby hums with energy, but I barely acknowledge the chaos as I make my way toward the conference room. I should head straight there. Tristan’s call made it clear this isn’t a social visit, but instead, I take the long way. Past Emma’s office.
I tell myself it’s a coincidence. A total accident that my boots carry me past her door, and that my gaze drifts through the glass. But when I catch sight of her lounging in that oversized chair, legs stretched long, and bare feet propped up on the windowsill, pink toenail polish wiggling in the morning sun, I know that’s no accident.
And just like that, pink officially becomes my favorite color.
A sharp, unwelcome tug hits my chest. She’s not a kid anymore. She’s not the girl who followed me around the ranch, wide-eyed and determined. She’s a grown woman, and seeing her like this—relaxed, and framed against the New York skyline—it damn near knocks the breath out of me.
She catches my reflection in the window, and spins around in slow motion, her dark eyes locking on mine. Recognition flares, then surprise, then something else entirely. Something that makes my dick flex. I tip my hat, her lips part in a smile, and I force myself to keep walking, as her gaze burns into my back all the way to the conference room.
“Morning, Silvers,” I say, striding in like my heart isn’t still hammering in my chest.
“Hey, buddy. Thanks for coming on short notice.” Tristan stands, claps me on the back.
“Coffee?” Julian offers.
“Nah, had breakfast on the train.” I slide into a chair, leaning forward. “Your call sounded urgent.”
The brothers exchange a look, and my stomach knots.
“Our father’s not doing well,” Tristan says. His voice is low and controlled, but there’s an edge to it. “Doctors say he’s got a couple of weeks, maybe less.”
The news hits like a punch. Fred Silver is a legend, and the kind of man you think will live forever. But worse than that—Emma. She worships her father.
“I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it.
Julian nods. “Emma can’t handle it. She’s hovering over him from morning till night. We need her to get away for a while.”
I frown. “And?”
“We want you to take her to Lords Valley,” Tristan says, his gaze pinning me in place. “She could stay with your folks.”
I blink. “You want me to take your sister home with me?”
Tristan’s eyes narrow. “You will not fucking touch her.”
Julian leans forward, voice dangerously calm. “And you’ll keep your whips and hands to yourself.”
My brows lift. “Whoa there, papa bears. Emma’s like a sister to me.” The lie rolls off my tongue so smoothly, even I almost believe it.
Tristan snorts. “Fetishes don’t change.”
I push up from my seat, meeting his glare head-on. “You walked in at the wrong time that night. And you’re the ones asking for a favor, so are we doing this or not?”
The tension stretches, then Julian exhales. “Yeah. We’re doing this. But if you touch her?—”
“I won’t.” Another lie. “I want to help. I promise.”
Because here’s the thing: Emma is my best shot at saving my family’s ranch. And the Silvers? They don’t need to know what they don’t need to know.
Tristan clears his throat. “The problem is, Emma won’t leave. Not unless she has a damn good reason.”
“She won’t go willingly,” Julian adds. “She’s glued to Dad’s side.”
A slow smirk tugs at my lips. “Then sweeten the deal.”
Tristan’s brow furrows. “And tell her what?”
“You’re the investigators. Make something up.”
Julian folds his arms. “It needs to be believable.”
Tristan hesitates, then his gaze sharpens. “Weren’t you and Annabelle kidnapped when you were kids?”
A muscle in my jaw jumps, and the air in the room shifts.
“I’d rather forget that,” I mutter.
But I can’t. Not really. The memories are always there, lurking beneath the surface. The muffled screams. The cold cellar. The night that changed everything. My sister was eleven. I was fifteen. And we barely made it out alive.
Julian watches me closely. “Emma won’t fall for a lie.”
I force my face into something neutral. “Good thing it’s not a lie.”
Silence stretches, heavy with unspoken words.
“Fine,” Tristan finally says. “If it gets her out of here, we’ll tell her John Huntz was spotted in town.”
My jaw tightens; I don’t love the idea of lying to her. I exhale. “Fine, then let’s hope she takes the bait.”
Tristan doesn’t look convinced. "What about Caroline? Her parents mentioned a family crisis," he says, his voice edged with something that makes me want to punch a hole in the wall. "You should talk to her."
What the hell does she have to do with anything? My jaw locks. The mention of her name leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Tristan knows I can’t stand the woman.
"Let’s just stick to Huntz," I say firmly. Better the devil you know than the one that can plunge a knife in your back.
I don’t like the idea of lying to Emma, but I need her help. And, if I’m being honest, she could probably use the distraction. A few years ago, she was just my best friend’s little sister, but that changed in Costa Rica at her best friend’s wedding. The moment I saw her walk into that reception, wearing a dress that should’ve been illegal, everything shifted. She wasn’t just Emma anymore. She was a walking temptation, burned into every late-night thought, and every frustrated moment alone in the shower.
It’s not just her beauty. It’s the way she moves. The way she lights up a room without even trying. But wanting her? That’s dangerous. That’s a fast track to ruining everything: my dignity, my friendship with her brothers, and the fragile balance we’ve managed to maintain over the years.
She may have been a kid once, but at twenty-five, Emma Silver is a goddess men would go to war over. And I sure as hell don’t share that revelation with her brothers.
We finalize the plan, but before we wrap up, we slip into old habits, reminiscing about the past. Our parents were friends once. Mine moved out to the country while the Silvers stayed in the city. It worked out, until I fucked up.
I fill them in on Annabelle’s latest accomplishments, how she’s making a name for herself in San Francisco, and casually mention my neighbor Blake’s recent two-hundred-pig investment. The conversation drifts, but my mind keeps circling back to Emma.
"Is Shadow still giving you trouble?" Julian asks, breaking my thoughts.
I smirk. "From what I hear, not as much as Emma’s giving you. Your mother told mine about the fire she started in the kitchen."
Tristan groans. "She should stick to ordering in, not cooking."
The humor fades fast, though, and the conversation takes a turn I’ve been dreading.
"What happens when Emma finds out she missed those last moments with your dad?" I ask, voice low.
"She won’t find out," Julian says, without hesitation.
Tristan checks his watch like he’s got this all mapped out. "When the time comes, we’ll bring her back."
My stomach sinks. John Silver—Fred to his closest—has been the backbone of Silver Securities for decades. Losing him is going to devastate the family. But Emma? She won’t just be devastated. She’ll be wrecked. And their plan? It’s the dumbest one I’ve ever heard. Emma’s sharp. Keeping her in Lords Valley won’t be easy. While I’m not a fan of lying to her, I need her help.
And if I’m being honest? Spending time with little Emma sounds…enticing.
I rub my hands together. "So, when’s this happening?"
"Can you stay the night and come by in the morning? I have an appointment I can’t reschedule."
"No problem. I’ll be here first thing."
As we say our goodbyes, the brotherly hugs feel heavier than usual. On my way out, I take the same route back—past Emma’s office.
But she’s gone. Her chair sits empty, and disappointment knots in my chest.
I round the corner toward the staff room, and there she is, standing by the counter, utterly oblivious to my presence.
I stop, taking in the view. The curve of her ass in those tight pants, the way her braid falls over her shoulder, exposing the graceful slope of her neck. My fingers itch to touch. My mind whirls with a thousand inappropriate thoughts, but before I can say a word, she turns—and collides straight into me.
Scalding tea spills down her shirt and she yelps, "Hot, hot, hot!"
Instinct takes over and, without thinking, I grab the fabric, pulling it away from her skin, then lift the soaked blouse over her head.
She gasps. "Eric!"
"Does it hurt?" I murmur, blowing a cooling breath against her chest.
Her lips part, but no words come out.
"Emma," I press, my voice dipping into something darker. Something more dangerous.
She blinks up at me, those blue eyes wide, pupils dilated. There’s something between us, something unspoken and electric, and I can feel it crackling in the space between our bodies.
"No, barely felt it," she whispers, her voice breathless.
Liar. The Silvers are so good at their little innocent lies.
But when her cheeks flush pink, and her breathing turns shallow, I know she’s feeling it too.
"Hello, Emma." My voice is rougher than I intend, but my body is barely holding it together.
"Hi," she breathes. "What...what are you doing here?"
Good question. One I should probably think about before one of her brothers finds us like this.
Instead, I yank my shirt over my head and slide it over hers, guiding her arms through the sleeves. The fabric swallows her whole, but damn if she doesn’t look good wearing my clothes. Then again, she’d probably look good in a garbage bag.
Or a Lady Gaga meat dress.
That’s it. I need to think about meat dresses. Anything to keep my brain from imploding under the weight of how badly I want to touch her.
"Thanks," she murmurs.
"You’re welcome. I was hoping you’d be in the meeting."
She crosses her arms. "Meeting?”
“The one your brothers scheduled. You weren’t on the invite list?”
She rolls her eyes, then scoffs. “Why would I be? They barely let me handle cases bigger than lost pets and cheating spouses.”
“That’s a shame, because I need your help with a case.” I throw the bait and wait for her to catch it.."
She straightens, all business. "Tell me more. I’m looking for a challenge."
I smirk. Oh, sweetheart. You’re about to get one.
The space between us crackles, thick with something neither of us is ready to name. Bringing Emma to Lords Valley is going to change everything. Now, I just need to figure out how to get her there.
“Didn’t I see a mountain of case files on your desk?”
Her eyes flick between me and the door, her usual professional demeanor tinged with a spark I can’t quite place, but it fuels my determination all the same.
She waves a hand. “Nothing worth my time. Now, tell me about this case.”
"It’s serious," I say, my voice dipping lower, "and you’re the only one who can help me."
She shifts on her feet, that spark flickering hotter. "I feel like there's a 'but' coming. Is there a but coming?"
"But… It’s not up to me." My jaw tightens, irritation prickling beneath my skin. "It’s up to your brothers."
Her eye roll is so dramatic, I almost laugh. "Don’t you have any say in this?"
I smirk. "Do you even know your overprotective brothers?"
She puffs out an exasperated ‘unfortunately’, and damn, if I don’t want to find a way to channel that frustration into something much more enjoyable.
"Aren’t you too young to handle dangerous cases?" I tease, though the air between us barely eases.
Her eyes flash with something fierce. "I’m twenty-five. And my case record is better than Tristan’s—one hundred percent success rate."
I tip my head, impressed despite myself. "Tristan says ninety-eight percent."
"That’s his. Mine is one hundred. That’s one-zero-zero-point-zero, and zero fails," she says, punctuating each word with the kind of confidence that makes my chest tighten.
I should back off. I should keep this professional, but instead, I lean in. "If you’re really interested, you should ask your brothers about it. Tristan might actually need the help."
Her shoulders relax, just a little. Then, she gives me the smallest, most gratifying smile.
"Okay. I will."
I reach out without thinking, my fingers grazing the soft skin of her cheek. It’s reckless. I should step away. But she’s not a kid anymore, and pretending otherwise is getting harder every second.
"I’m sorry, but I’ve got an errand to run," I say, forcing myself to step back. "And I need a shirt before I go."
Her gaze flicks over my chest before snapping back up to my face, her cheeks blooming with fresh pink.
"I’m sorry about your shirt. I’ll have it washed and returned," she offers, voice soft.
"Nah. Keep it. Metallica looks good on you. Do you even know who Metallica is?"
Her lips part, close, then part again, like she’s running through a whole internal debate I wish I was privy to. "Ems?"
She snaps back to reality, her eyes glinting with challenge. "Yeah, I know Metallica. I also know Luke Bryan, Johnny Cash, Blake Shelton?—"
Cute.
“I get it.”
I check my watch, even though I have nowhere to be. If I stay here another second, my body’s going to betray me in ways I can’t afford. "I should get going.."
Then, she throws a grenade right at my chest.
"So, do you want me?"
I nearly choke. My gaze sweeps over her, from those distracting pink toes, up over the curves I’m desperately trying not to notice, before I finally land back on her eyes.
"For the case," she clarifies, the teasing lilt in her voice nearly killing me.
Right. The case.
I clear my throat. "Like I said, ask your brothers."
She’s fire. Completely intoxicating, and impossible to ignore. I should step away. I really should. But instead, I lean in just enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume. Then, Tristan’s voice echoes down the hall, and reality slams back into place.
I take a step back, forcing a smirk. "Good seeing you again, kid."
Kid.
Shit.
The second the word leaves my mouth, I know I’ve screwed up. She’s not a kid. Not even close. My mind replays every inch of her. The way her curves fill out my shirt, the flush on her cheeks, and the subtle, perfect way her body moves, like a goddess.
Yeah. Definitely not a kid.
I force myself to leave, head straight for the first thrift store I see, and grab the first shirt in reach. Only when I’m at the counter do I bother looking at the garment in my hand.
"JoJo?" The cashier eyes the fabric skeptically.
"Excuse me?" I glance down.
It’s covered in pink and purple unicorns. Christ.
"Yeah, I guess," I mutter, too distracted to care as I slip on the shirt.
"Matches the boots," she muses, clearly amused as she rings it up.
I grunt. "Thanks."
She snips off the tag. "You’re welcome."
I head outside, exhaling hard before pulling out my phone. I call Cash Wagner and we schedule a time to meet up that evening. If anyone can help me figure out the legal mess of my inheritance, it’s him, because the last thing I want do do is get married. Plus, his family owns the Infinity Club chain, which makes them perfect for our meeting spot.
Because nothing says ‘let’s discuss my financial crisis’ like a high-profile law firm that doubles as a strip club and sanctuary for women escaping their pasts.
When I step through the club’s doors, a wave of familiar scents slams into me. Sweet hay mixed with the mustiness of old wood and worn leather. Whiskey lingers in the air, blending with the sharp bite of perfume. The neon lights pulse in time with the bass, casting jagged shadows over the faces of cowboys and city strays alike.
It’s a different kind of wild here—controlled, but barely. The twang of guitars rolls over the room, thick with Western energy, like a bronc bucking in the chute, just waiting for the gate to fly open. A dancer struts across the stage in a vest and a pair of chaps, hips swaying to the rhythm.
I weave through the crowd until I spot Cash at a corner booth, lounging like he owns the place—which, technically, his family does.
"Good to see you. What the hell are you doing in the city?" he greets me, eyes sharp with knowing amusement.
"Helping the Silvers with some family stuff." I slide into the seat across from him.
His smirk deepens. "Still got a thing for Emma?"
I ignore that and nod toward a lasso hanging from a saddle suspended from the ceiling. "Did you plan this?"
He laughs. "No, you just have impeccable timing."
A server drops off my usual, and I take a sip, watching the stage as the next act gets ready.
"Does watching women strip ever get old?" I ask, half-joking.
Cash shrugs. "They’re reclaiming their confidence. It’s therapeutic." And he means it. The Wagner brothers turned Infinity from a Mafia-run sleaze fest into a safe haven for women looking for a fresh start. The men might throw their cash, but here, the women hold all the power. And they make a damn fortune doing it.
I lean in. "Did you go over the papers?"
Cash’s easygoing demeanor tightens slightly. "Yeah. There’s no way around it. Your grandfather’s terms are ironclad. He wants you settled, and he’s not signing over the ranch unless there’s a future great-grandkid in the picture. Engagement is the bare minimum."
My stomach twists.
Fuck.
A familiar guitar riff slides through the speakers, the intro to a song I know too well. My sister played it on repeat growing up. Then, the inevitable words drop:
Let’s go, girls.
The crowd cheers as a new dancer takes the stage. My attention flicks to her legs—long, toned, encased in white cowgirl boots. One hand rests on her hip, the other tipping the brim of a hat just low enough to shadow her face. The fringe along her shorts sways as she moves, dragging my gaze up over her curves, and up to the aquamarine navel ring glinting under the stage lights.
My pulse trips.
I know that navel ring.
I know that body.
She kneels at the edge of the stage, pumps her hips once, twice, then lifts the hat.
Fuck me.
My lungs seize, and the air in the club vanishes.
Emma Silver.
She removes a glove from her hand and throws it out to the audience.
Emma is stripping.
I glance over at Cash, who shrugs as if to say ‘I don’t know; I just work here’, before looking back at Emma.
A slow, wicked smile curls her lips, and I swear, the floor tilts beneath me. Disbelief crashes into something darker, something hotter, something that turns my blood to liquid fire.
The roar in my ears drowns out Shania Twain as I watch Emma own the stage like she was born for it, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
Fuck me, indeed.