Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Melissa
The hospital feels quieter today. Not in the way it does after a bad night or a loss. It simply feels lighter, like the air has shifted a degree warmer, and I’m the only one who notices. I keep fanning my face like that’s going to help. It doesn’t.
I’m checking Frank’s vitals when he watches me over the rim of his glasses, a knowing little smile tugging at his mouth.
“You’re humming,” he says.
I glance up. “Am I?”
“You are,” he insists. “Been doing it for ten minutes.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks. “I didn’t realize.”
“Mmm,” he hums. “That’s usually how it goes.”
I finish adjusting his IV and step back, clipboard hugged to my chest. “How are you feeling this morning?”
“Like I survived another day,” he says easily. Then his eyes flick toward the doorway. “And like you’re not the only one walking around different.”
My heart stutters. “Different how?”
He smiles, slow and fond. “You’re softer. He’s quieter, which I didn’t think was possible.”
That makes my pulse spike.
Frank leans back against his pillows. “Whatever’s going on between you two, don’t panic. You’re not imagining it.”
I swallow. “We’re just … working.”
He chuckles. “Sure you are.”
I shake my head, but I can’t stop smiling. “You read too much into things.”
“No,” he says gently. “I read people.”
The door opens behind me, and I don’t have to turn around to know who it is. My body reacts before my brain does—awareness sharpening, breath hitching slightly.
Colton steps into the room, calm and composed as ever, but his eyes find mine immediately. They linger. Just a second too long.
Frank notices. Of course he does.
“Well,” Frank says, clapping his hands once, “look at that. The room got tenser.”
Colton clears his throat. “Good morning, Frank.”
“Morning, Doc.” His gaze flicks between us. “You two look like you’re trying very hard not to smile.”
I busy myself with Frank’s chart. “You’re feeling better today,” I say quickly.
“I am,” he agrees. “Probably because whatever the hell is going on with you two is finally easing up.”
Colton shoots him a look. “Frank.”
Frank only grins. “Relax. I’m not asking for details. Only making an observation.” His eyes soften. “It’s good to see you both like this.”
Something about the way he says it makes my chest ache … in a good way.
Later, when I’m walking back to the nurses’ station, I catch Colton’s reflection in the glass. He’s watching me, not hungrily, not impatiently. Just … curiously.
When our eyes meet, he doesn’t look away.
Neither do I.
That night, after a shower and a glass of wine, my phone buzzes on the counter.
Colton: You survived today.
I smile as I type back.
Me: Barely. Frank tried to psychoanalyze us.
Colton: He’s not subtle.
Me: No. But he’s kind.
There’s a pause. Then—
Colton: He is. I’m glad you were there with him today.
Something about that—about us being there together—makes my stomach flutter.
Me: Me too.
Another pause. Longer this time.
Colton: I keep thinking about what you said the other night.
I lean against the counter, heart thudding.
Me: What is that?
Colton: That you wanted honesty.
I swallow.
Me: Still do.
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.
Colton: Then here’s mine. I don’t want to rush this, but I don’t want to stop what’s happening either.
My chest feels full. Steady.
Me: I agree.
A few seconds pass. It sounds like he might be just as worked up as I am. Slow sounds good in theory, but when I’m near him, it’s the last thing I want.
Colton: Friday night. After work. Let me cook for you.
I stare at the screen, warmth spreading through me—not nerves this time. Anticipation.
Me: You cook?
Colton: I try. You can decide if I’m allowed to do it again.
I laugh softly, already imagining him outside the hospital without the walls and rules between us.
Me: Okay. Friday.
His reply comes almost instantly.
Colton: Good. I’ll pick you up. Anything I need to be aware of … allergies? Foods you absolutely cannot tolerate?
Me: Nope. I’m pretty easy.
Colton: Is that so?
Me: Save it for Friday, Colton.
Colton: Now I’m really excited for Friday.
Me: Good night, Colton.
Colton: Good night, Mel.
I set my phone down, heart steady and hopeful. I turn to my side and pull the covers up to my chin as a small smile hits me. I feel like a teenager. I didn’t know I could still be affected by a man like this.
And with all the money this man has, the fact that he’s cooking for us? It’s sweet. The effort he is putting into this is not going unnoticed.
But I need to have clear eyes about what we are doing. He already told me he doesn’t do relationships. This is about stepping back into the dating world. Not about falling in love.
Friday night arrives with a different kind of anticipation than our first date. It’s less frantic, more deliberate.
I don’t rush getting ready. Jeans that fit just right. A soft cream sweater that makes me feel comfortable instead of exposed. I want to feel like myself tonight. Not a version trying too hard. Not a woman trying to prove she still knows how to be wanted.
But I do put on a matching red lace panty and bra set.
My phone buzzes.
Colton: I’m downstairs.
My pulse jumps anyway.
I grab my coat and head out, the cool night air grounding me as I step onto the sidewalk. He’s already there, leaning casually against his car, posture relaxed, confidence effortless.
Jeans. Dark henley. The fabric stretches across his chest in a way that makes my breath catch before I can stop it.
This is Colton without hospital walls. Without authority. Without distance.
His eyes lift the moment he sees me, and his expression shifts, warm and unmistakably appreciative.
“You look …” He pauses, like he’s choosing the right word. “Really good.”
The way he says it, low and sincere, it makes my stomach flutter. He doesn’t use cliché words merely to make an impact. And I appreciate that.
“So do you,” I reply, unable to keep the smile from my voice.
He opens my door, his hand briefly brushing my lower back as I slide into the seat. The touch is fleeting, but my body reacts instantly, awareness sparking where his palm was.
The drive is easy this time. No tension thick enough to choke on. We laugh—really laugh—about something Trudy said earlier that day.
“She announced she’s done emotionally supporting grown men,” I tell him, shaking my head.
He snorts. “She says that at least once a week.”
“She means it this time.”
“Trudy always means it. That’s what makes it terrifying.”
By the time he pulls into the parking garage beneath his building, my shoulders have loosened completely. I feel lighter. Safer.
Then he parks. And instead of getting out, he turns toward me. The air shifts. He studies my face for a moment, eyes dark and intent, like he’s committing this version of me to memory.
“I need to get this out of the way,” he murmurs.
Then he leans in and kisses me.
It’s not rushed. Not hesitant. His mouth is warm and firm, familiar already, like my body recognizes it before my mind does. My fingers curl instinctively into his jacket sleeve.
When he pulls back, my lips tingle, and my breath feels shallow.
“Now,” he adds quietly, “we can go upstairs.”
His penthouse is stunning. It has sleek lines, expansive space, floor-to-ceiling windows, revealing Manhattan stretched out in glittering lights. It should feel intimidating, but it doesn’t.
He pours me a glass of wine and moves into the kitchen with easy confidence, already rolling up his sleeves, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. I sit at the island and watch.
His hands move with purpose as he chops vegetables, the expensive watch at his wrist catching the light with every motion. Strong forearms. Controlled movements. The kind of competence that makes my stomach tighten in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.
I tell myself to stop staring, but I don’t.
Dinner is warm and unpretentious. We talk about work, about music, about nothing at all. The conversation flows easily, punctuated by smiles and shared looks that linger a beat too long.
Eventually, curiosity wins.
“So,” I say, swirling my wine, “how does someone like you end up … like this?”
He smiles faintly. “Luck. Timing. And one very smart investment.”
“What kind of investment?”
“Two of my buddies from college—Sawyer and Dean—they had this brilliant idea for real-time routes for traffic, shipping, emergency vehicles. All of it. I had money from my grandpa passing away and put it all into their idea.”
“Wow. They’re lucky to have a friend like you.”
He laughs. “It’s the other way around. They’re very generous with the wealth. They haven’t asked to buy me out. They like that we have all benefited from their company.”
“All?” I ask curiously.
“A couple of our other college buddies invested as well.”
I’m impressed. Someone who is still close with his college friends. It says a lot about him.
“And your family?” I ask gently. “Parents? Siblings?”
His expression tightens, just enough that I notice.
“I’m not close with my parents,” he says after a brief pause. “I have two sisters.”
He stops there. I sense that he doesn’t want to talk about it any further, so I don’t push.
We finish dinner, talking about lighter subjects, like favorite books and movies. He tells me all about the traveling he’s done while I listen, completely envious of all the places he’s been.
Later, we move to a quiet seating area near the windows, city lights extending endlessly beneath us. Wine glasses in hand. Knees angled toward each other. The space between us feels charged, alive.
“Thank you for dinner,” I tell him. “It was surprisingly delicious.”
He chuckles. “You’re welcome. You doubted my skills?”
I tuck my hair behind my ear and smile. “I have to admit, with all the time you spend at the hospital and this”—I wave my arms in the air at his penthouse— “I figured cooking wasn’t something you needed to worry about.”