Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Melissa
Today feels different. Not quieter, not easier. Lighter … like the floor itself has loosened its grip on me.
The kiss keeps replaying in my mind when I least expect it. The way his hands framed my face, like he was grounding himself. How he kissed me like it was a decision, not an accident. No promises. No apologies.
Only passion. Desire.
I walk onto the oncology floor with my coffee in hand and a stupid smile I can’t quite shake.
Colton is already there.
He looks up from the nurses’ station as I approach, eyes catching on me for a half second too long. There’s no avoidance today. No clipped nod. No carefully neutral distance.
Instead, the corner of his mouth lifts. It’s small, but I know it’s for me.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning,” I reply, my voice betraying none of the internal chaos he causes.
I move past him toward the counter, reaching for my water bottle. I have to lean forward to grab it, just a little stretch, and I feel it immediately. The heat of his attention.
I straighten slowly, already knowing.
When I turn, he’s watching me openly now. No pretense. No shame. His gaze is unapologetic, warm, unmistakably appreciative as his eyes land on my ass.
I arch a brow. “See something interesting?”
He doesn’t look away.
Instead, he smiles—a slow, dangerous smile—and gives me a wink.
My breath stutters. Heat pools low in my stomach, sharp and unexpected, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Or worse, saying something that would absolutely get us in trouble.
“Careful,” I murmur as I pass him. “You’re going to get yourself caught.”
“Already did,” he replies quietly.
The words send a shiver straight through me.
Trudy looks between us from her spot at the station, eyes narrowing slightly. Then she smiles to herself and goes back to her charting without a word.
Frank is awake when I check on him, eyes bright, observant as ever.
“Well,” he says, glancing toward the door after Colton passes by, “that’s new.”
I laugh softly. “What is?”
“You two,” he says. “You look … lighter.”
I think about the way Colton’s wink felt like a secret. A shared understanding. A secret only for us.
“Maybe it’s Friday,” I say.
Frank hums. “Or maybe someone finally stopped pretending.”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
Later, when Colton passes me in the hall, his hand brushes mine, not accidentally, not lingering long enough to draw attention, but deliberate.
He leans in close enough to murmur, “You okay?”
I nod. “I am.”
His gaze holds mine for a beat longer than necessary.
“So am I,” he says.
And for the first time since I stepped back into this hospital, I believe it.
It’s the end of my shift. I go into the locker room to retrieve my purse, coat, and change shoes.
With my coat over my arm, I walk down the hallway and head for the elevator. I press the button and wait patiently for the doors to open.
Once they do, I step into the elevator and press Lobby. As the doors begin to close, an arm appears between them and pushes them back open.
Colton is standing on the other side, slightly out of breath. My eyes open wide in surprise.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He keeps his hand on the door to keep it open. “Have dinner with me tomorrow.”
He says it more like an order than a request. I should care, correct him in his assumption that I’ll say yes, but I find that I don’t care. I like his bluntness. His control. It’s exciting. It’s opposite of what I thought I could ever be attracted to.
“Umm … okay,” I reply.
He smiles. “Give me your number.”
He pulls his phone out and hands it to me. I type it in his Contacts and hand it back to him.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Mel,” he says, then lets his hand go and slowly disappears behind the closing doors.
My heart is thumping rapidly in my chest.
Saturday arrives too quickly and, at the same time, too slowly. I spend the morning pretending I’m calm, but by noon, my nerves are screaming.
I stand in my bedroom, staring at my closet like it’s personally betrayed me. Dresses hang neatly on one side, jeans and sweaters on the other, and none of them feel right. Everything is either too much or not enough, too date-y or not date-y at all.
This isn’t just a date. It’s my first one.
Since Bryce.
The thought tightens in my chest.
A knock sounds on my door before I can spiral too far.
“Melissa,” Kayla calls, “if you’re naked, announce yourself now so I don’t get traumatized.”
I laugh despite myself and open the door.
She takes one look at my face and softens. “Oh. Okay. Big feelings.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit. “I haven’t done this in years. I don’t even know who I am on a date anymore.”
She drops her bag on the bed and turns to me fully. “You’re a woman going to dinner with a man who chased down an elevator for your number. Start there.”
That helps. A little.
I sit on the edge of the bed while she starts pulling clothes from my closet with purpose.
“So,” she says casually, “what are we working with tonight? Soft and approachable? Hot and dangerous? Emotionally unavailable but devastating?”
“Kayla.”
She grins. “Kidding. Mostly.”
I watch her hold up a dress, then another, then toss both aside. “Okay, here’s the thing: You’re not trying to be someone else. You’re reminding him who you are.”
My throat goes dry. But he doesn’t even know me outside of scrubs. What if he doesn’t like that version of me? I haven’t forgotten that he’s richer than I could even comprehend.
“I’m scared,” I admit quietly. “What if I freeze? What if I feel guilty? What if I go home and cry for reasons I can’t explain? What if I get so horny that I jump him?”
She comes to sit beside me, bumping her shoulder against mine.
“Then you cry. And I hand you wine. And we unpack it like emotionally evolved adults who still gossip like teenagers. Or you jump him and have hot, intense, ravaging sex, in which I still demand you come to me and we gossip like teenagers.”
I smile, eyes stinging.
“And,” she adds gently, “you’re allowed to want something again. That doesn’t erase what you had. It means you survived it.”
That hits deeper than I expected. I did survive it. And it has made me a better person in every possible way. It slowed my life down and gave me direction.
Eventually, we settle on simple. A dress that feels like me. It’s nothing flashy. A black dress that hugs my body, but has some ruching that makes me feel like I can at least eat what I want and possibly hide any bloating. We pair it with simple, comfortable black heels.
Kayla does my hair, fussing more than necessary, then steps back to assess her work.
“Okay,” she says. “You look incredible. Not trying. Not performing. Just … you.”
I check in the mirror. My hair is down in natural, flowing waves.
“One last thing,” she grabs a tube of lipstick off the bathroom counter and holds it up.
“Just a little sass. If you feel comfortable with it. But I’m telling you, he won’t be able to keep his eyes off your lips if you wear this.”
I purse my lips as I contemplate it. Then I think about driving someone like Colton crazy, and the idea sends a bit of electricity through my body. I grab the tube and face the mirror.
She smiles. “Thatta girl.”
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I put the lipstick in my purse and check myself one last time in the mirror, then check my phone.
Colton: I’m outside whenever you’re ready. I tried to come up, but your building has some tough security.
My pulse spikes.
Kayla catches my expression and grins. “That him?”
I nod, and she squeezes my hands once.
“Go. Have dinner. Let yourself feel it. You don’t owe anyone anything beyond that.”
I take a deep breath, and for the first time in a long while, I walk toward the door, not out of duty or routine … but possibility.
I smooth my dress one last time before stepping out into the hallway. My pulse is loud in my ears as I head toward the elevator. By the time I reach the lobby, my nerves are buzzing beneath my skin, like I’m standing too close to something electric.
I spot him immediately.
Colton is leaning casually near the front entrance, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone.
He’s dressed down compared to the hospital, but somehow, that makes him more dangerous.
Dark jeans. A crisp white button-down, the top button undone.
A gray sports coat that fits him like it was tailored with intention.
He looks … effortless.
Not Dr. Fisher. Only Colton.
My body reacts before my brain can catch up.
A slow, unmistakable pull low in my stomach that makes me inhale sharply.
I’ve seen him command rooms, deliver devastating news, shut down entire wings of the hospital with a look.
But this version of him? Relaxed. Waiting.
Watching the door like he’s been counting the seconds.
His gaze lifts and locks on to mine.
His expression shifts. I can feel the look of appreciation as his eyes rake my body. The heat between us is unmistakable.
“There you are,” he says, pushing off the wall as I approach.
His voice is softer than it is at work. Less controlled. And somehow, that makes my knees feel weak.
“Hi,” I manage, suddenly aware of everything. Of the way my dress moves when I walk, the sound of my heels against the floor, the fact that this is really happening.
He opens the door for me, his hand hovering behind my back. Not touching, but close enough that I feel the heat of his hand.
The night air is cool, grounding me for half a second—until I see the car.
It’s sleek and dark. No doubt expensive. The kind of car you don’t accidentally own. The kind that whispers money instead of shouting it.
My steps slow before I can stop myself. Colton notices immediately.
“You okay?” he asks, his tone careful.
“Yes,” I say quickly. “I…” I stop, then force myself to be honest. “It’s … a nice car.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “It’s just a car, Mel.”
I nod, even though it doesn’t feel that simple. Because it’s not just the car. It’s what it represents. The reminder that our lives don’t move through the world the same way. Still, I let him open the door for me.
The interior smells faintly like leather and something clean. I settle into the seat, suddenly hyperaware of my hands, my breathing, and the quiet hum of the city around us.
When he slides in beside me and starts the engine, the space feels charged. Smaller than it should be, like the air itself has thickened.
“You look beautiful,” he says quietly, eyes forward but voice unmistakably sincere.
Heat blooms in my chest.
“Thank you,” I reply. “You look … different.”
His brow lifts slightly. “Good different?”
“Very,” I say, surprising myself with the admission.
His jaw tightens a fraction, like the compliment hits somewhere deeper than he expected.
As he pulls away from the curb, I watch the city blur past the window, trying to calm my racing thoughts. I tell myself this is simply dinner. Two people getting to know each other.
But my body doesn’t believe that. And judging by the way his hand grips the steering wheel, neither does he.