A customer is waiting. Enter chat?
I watch the timer.
It ticks down from sixty seconds, the maximum time our supervisors give us, but anything over thirty gets flagged for review, and we’re asked why it took so long to answer.
When it hits 29, I click accept.
When the name flashes on the screen, I almost throw my laptop in the air with shock. A reverberation runs through me, making my heart hammer and my head pulse simultaneously.
Rubbing my eyes, I lean closer to make sure I’m reading it correctly.
Ryland Ross has entered the chat.
A fine coat of sweat covers my entire body like it does when I wake from a steamy dream about Ryland. It’s like he’s just stepped into the room instead of the chat, standing tall with his broad shoulders squared, those intense eyes aimed down at me, his fingers twitching as he eyes all the parts of me that drive him wild.
I glance at the message box, where he would have left his issue… but he’s left it blank.
Hello? he writes. Rachel?
I lick my dry lips, suddenly feeling way too freaking dehydrated. I want to scream to let out some of this tension.
Hello, Ryland. How can I help you today?
I force myself to click the send button. I can’t say or do anything that will let him know how badly he’s got me under his spell… not that he knows he’s even casting a spell.
But why has he left the message box clear?
I’m not sure, he writes. Did you disconnect the chat last time?
I swallow as he hits one of my most sensitive parts.
That’s the thing that’s stopped me from fully fantasizing about him – or trying to fight it, at least, when I can’t stop it.
He ended the chat. He left me. He didn’t want to speak to me anymore.
No, I reply. Did you?
No. His message comes quickly. I’m not sure what happened. I think it was a tech issue. I’m glad you remember me.
I giggle, quickly getting caught up in the back and forth like I was last time. There’s something so compelling about him, making it easier to talk and sink into a good exchange.
I’ve never had that with a man.
Shaking my head, I remind myself I don’t have it with him. The only reason this feels easier is that we’re talking through a computer.
If we were face to face, I know it would be different. I know I wouldn’t be able to smile and laugh so freely.
I’d be too busy blushing or melting into a ball of nerves.
Do you remember me? I type.
This is risky. If my boss reviews this conversation, I’ve got a high chance of getting fired. We’re supposed to keep our messages strictly professional and never waver for any reason.
Yes, he writes, and suddenly it’s all worth it. I remember you well.
Oh.
I don’t know what else to type. There’s nothing in his message to indicate how he feels about me if he feels anything at all.
I wait as those three dots appear, telling me he’s going to send a message, then vanish.
He eventually sends a message. I have a question.
It may seem rude. But I have to ask. Is everything okay with your internet?
My training forces me to type out the question, my fingers quickly fluttering across the keys. But the second I hit send, I wished I could take it back. Maybe he was about to say something non-work-related, in which case I might’ve spooked him or given him the idea I’m not interested.
It came on a few days ago. It’s fine.
Did you manage to give the live stream up?
I did. The kids loved it.
Awesome, Ryland. That’s awesome.
A pause, getting longer, lasting far too long takes over.
I quickly send back a message. So what did you want to ask?
The three message dots appear and disappear far too many times, blinking, teasing me.
I move my hands over my belly, trying to still the butterflies. But calling them butterflies isn’t right. They’re bigger, with sharp wings, tearing me up inside.
My fingers move to the keyboard. He keeps typing and deleting his message. Or maybe the system is glitching again.
A harsh thrum runs through me.
What if we disconnect a second time?
Finally, his message comes through. I blink, rub my eyes, and lean in closer, all in an effort to convince myself it’s real.
Do you want to come for dinner with me?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ryland
My hands are shaking as I lean over my laptop, the afternoon sun blazing down on me.
The balcony is warm. Rusty’s spread out with his belly in the air, his head back, and his tongue lolling. I envy that dog’s ability to relax sometimes.
I typed out so many messages to Rachel. My fingers were moving with lightning speed across the keys.
I told her how badly I needed her. She belonged to me, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her.