Without looking at the screen, I answer the call—expecting it to be Shipton Stables ringing back about some other detail for my impending arrival. “Hello.” “Am I speaking with Miss Birch?” A clipped voice appears on the other end of the line. My stomach sinks. This isn’t the woman I was speaking to moments before. “Yes, I’m Layla Birch.” As I reply, I angle the phone so I can see the number on the screen. Restricted caller ID. Fucking brilliant. I mentally chide myself for picking up. Calls like this terrify me, and I usually send them straight to my voicemail graveyard.
