2. Pope
TWO
Pope
I choose a corner table at Seaside Terrace, far enough from the bar to avoid the late-afternoon noise, but with a clean line of sight to both the door and the ocean.
It’s my first week in Palm Beach, and I’m still figuring out which places let you disappear in plain sight. Luckily, my hotel has the best view in town, that I can tell.
I don’t drink, and I don’t do random. Even my downtime has an agenda.
The server stops beside me with his pen poised.
"Good evening. My name is Terrence and I'll be serving you tonight. Can I start you off with something to drink?"
I give him a polite nod but don't go too deep into the pleasantries.
“Sparkling water with lime. And I'll take an order of the seared ahi, please.” I looked at the menu on my phone on my way up. He nods once and moves on without the kind of small talk that makes me avoid most restaurants.
By the time my plate’s half empty, I’m watching the crowd more than the ocean. It’s an interesting mix of business and wealth, young and old.
My phone vibrates against the teak tabletop, and Caleb’s name flashes on the screen. I answer on the first ring.
"Are we good to move forward?"
Caleb’s been my COO since I started building CHG twelve years ago at age twenty-seven. He’s still the one I want on the other end when a deal’s moving.
“The board signed off on the remaining conversion funds. HR is finalizing the first round of staff cuts.”
“Timeline?”
“Friday for wave one. Wave two in two weeks, after the press release of the purchase. PR wants a ‘preserving the legacy’ angle.”
“Outcomes first. You and HR own the rollout. Anything blocking?”
“Physician comp grid and concierge credentialing. Legal is drafting. Also, there is some low but constant chatter about community and nursing dissent. We’re keeping an ear on things. Nothing to worry about now.”
“Shit. That’s the last thing we need.”
“Agree. But I don’t think anything will come of it. I’ll be in Palm Beach Sunday to sit in on the meeting early Monday morning.”
“Good. Meet me at Good Samaritan on Monday at eight. Bring the deck. I want numbers, not a sales pitch.”
A warm gust curls off the ocean and through the terrace. I pinch the bridge of my nose, already calculating the Monday agenda
“Copy. Do you want me to bring anything else?”
"I want to understand the membership tiers we plan to implement. Has the board finalized that?" I ask.
"Three levels as you suggested. Platinum at seventy-five thousand annually, Gold at forty, Silver at twenty-five. Projections show we'll hit capacity on Platinum within eight months."
I trace a finger along the condensation on my glass. "Physician compensation?"
"Contract revisions ready for your signature. Performance bonuses will be tied to patient retention and satisfaction scores. The cardiologists are pushing back. And like I said, this nursing thing.”
"Let the cardiologists push back. Where else are they going to get those numbers? The concierge market here is underserved and over-funded. As for the nurses, they will complain. They always do. And then they’ll fall in line.”
Terrence passes, and I slide my card into his path. He takes it without breaking stride, the polished edge of the black folder tucked under his arm. His eyebrow ticks up in a silent question. I give a small shake of my head.
“ How’s the hotel?” Caleb asks in my ear.
“It works,” I say, watching a couple drift toward the railing with champagne flutes. “I’m meeting with the realtor this weekend to find a condo or something furnished. I’ve been too busy this week to worry about it.”
“Denver office is asking when you’re back.”
The truth is, there’s nothing pulling me back there except the office. There hasn’t been for a long time. I lean back, stretching one leg out under the table, the salt air threading through the heat.
“I’ll be in town at some point, but you can let everyone know I plan to be here a minimum of eighteen months.”
“Enjoy the beach while we freeze our asses off out here.”
A smile ghosts across my mouth. “I’m not sure how much enjoyment will be going down, but I’ll try.”
“I’ll reach out on Sunday if we don’t talk before. Good luck with the house search.”
I end the call and slide the phone into my pocket. The terrace is filling, and everything is louder now. Conversations stack over the live music. I take my glass, the cold sweating against my palm, and move to an open stool at the bar.
The bartender slides a coaster across the polished wood. “New in town?”
I finish the last sip of my drink as the ice clinks against the crystal. “Relocated temporarily for business. I'll be here at least a year, possibly two.”
“From?”
“Denver.”
He polishes a glass with practiced efficiency. "Most people come here to escape work. Can I get you another?”
"I'm not most people. Yes. Perrier with a lime.”
Movement to my right catches my eye. A flash of golden-brown hair across the terrace pulls me in. Distractions are the reason I keep my life clean and contained. This one won't let me look away, though.
It's the woman from Citrine this morning.
She's half-turned away, shoulders tense as she scans the horizon. Same freckles across her nose, same curve to her hips, but dressed differently now. She's got on dark, fitted jeans and a simple black top. Her hair is down now, flowing over her shoulder.
Interesting. Twice in one day.
My pulse quickens, a quick surge before I reel it in.
The bartender slides me a fresh glass. I take a sip, the fizz sharp against my tongue, cleaner than the cocktails swirling around us. Cleaner is the point.
I keep my gaze steady, cataloguing details the way I would any potential deal. I note her posture, expression, her tells. She hasn’t seen me yet, which means I can take my time analyzing her.
She’s gripping her phone like she might crush it. All wrong for someone who’s supposed to be here to relax.
I tell myself I came here to think, not to get involved. But she’s the kind of variable I can't ignore. I could use a diversion tonight.
I wonder what her voice sounds like and whether those freckles continue across her shoulders.
I watch her for a few more moments. She drums her fingers against the bar top, shoulders tense despite the easy atmosphere around her.
The bartender catches my eye as he passes. I tilt my chin toward the woman.
"What's she drinking?"
He glances over. "That's our signature cocktail. It's basically an elderflower and basil gin & tonic. Want one?"
"Send her another on me."
He nods once and moves away, tossing a towel over his shoulder.
I turn my glass slowly, causing the ice to shift against the crystal.
I watch the bartender pour and then shake the silver shaker, finishing it off with a fresh sprig of basil.
He sets the drink in front of her, murmurs something, then tips his head in my direction.
She turns, her hazel eyes finding mine across the dim space. Her expression shifts. At first, it's cautious, then curious, as recognition dawns.
A small, warm smile curves her mouth. It's not forced or performative. Just genuine enough to count as an unspoken welcome.
I haven't planned this, but I'm not one to ignore an opportunity when it presents itself. I pick up my glass and cross to the other end of the bar, taking my time. Her eyes track my approach, neither inviting nor discouraging.
I pause at the empty stool beside her, letting her meet my gaze before I slide onto it.
"Mind if I join you?"
God, I sound like every bad pickup line ever. Definitely not my usual MO.
"Sure." She glances at the stool, then at me. "Looks like the seat’s open. Thanks for the drink."
"Did I see you at Citrine earlier? I'm Pope, by the way."
She tilts her head, a hint of amusement in her voice. "I was wondering if I imagined that. Should I be concerned or flattered?"
She reaches out her hand. "Sloane. Nice to meet you."
“Concerned,” I say finally, meeting her eyes. “Pretty sure I saw you here the other night, too. Am I imagining that?”
"Now I’m concerned. I didn’t see you then. But yes, I was here the other night. Do you come here often?"
"Second time, actually. I’m guessing this is your go-to?"
"I just moved here three days ago. Been here exactly three times. Besides unpacking and Citrine, this is all I’ve seen of Palm Beach." She relaxes as she talks, her shoulders easing.
"Recent transplant from…?"
"Georgia. Augusta, specifically." Her accent brushes the edges of her words. It's light, but noticeable.
"Southern girl, then."
"Correction. I'm from Augusta, but I just moved here from upstate South Carolina. Finished grad school, took a job here. So, yes—Southern girl through and through."
Her smile tugs a little to the left, a crooked lilt that’s unexpectedly disarming.
"You’re not local, either, then,” she says, sipping from the stir stick like it’s a real straw.
"Denver."
"In town for business?"
"Yes. My company just acquired a hospital. I’m here to make sure the transition’s smooth."
"Oh, nice. I’m in healthcare, too. Sort of. Pediatric therapist."
"Interesting. So you moved here for that?"
"Yep. Never been to Palm Beach before. Got the job and took the leap."
I can’t help the small smile that pulls at my mouth.
The conversation finds its rhythm. She’s quick with her responses, sharp enough to keep pace. The bartender drops fresh drinks, and I notice her fingers have stopped tapping against her glass.
“You’re the calculating businessman who doesn’t drink at the bar," she teases, glancing at my sparkling water.
"I like keeping a clear head." I lean in just enough to close the space. "Especially when something catches my attention."
A flush blooms across her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away. "And what exactly caught your attention today?"
Her eyes hold mine, steady and unhurried. I let the question hang, not in a rush to hand her the obvious answer.
"Sparkling water and small talk. You might be the most unexpected thing I’ve run into all week."
Her voice is lighter now, but there’s something underneath, like she’s carrying the weight of a day that didn’t go her way.
"I think I'll take that as a compliment. I'm not usually one for small talk."
"You should. I meant it as one. Thanks for taking the time to speak. You're the first person I've talked to in person here that isn't working in my condo's rental office or a barista taking my order."
I shift toward her, resting my forearm on the bar so I’m angled in her direction. She doesn’t back away. "Now that you mention it, you're my first conversation outside of work and hotel staff. And Citrine, of course."
"Cheers," she says, lifting her glass to mine.
Her mouth curves, not in a practiced, picture-perfect way, but just enough to pull my focus. My eyes catch there a beat longer than they should before I look back up.
"So what does a Southern girl do in Palm Beach when she’s not unpacking or working?"
She exhales through her nose, almost a laugh, but not quite.
"I wouldn’t know yet. Like I said, only been here a few days, and I've spent most of my time looking at boxes and feeling overwhelmed, trying to figure out where to start. Hence, the solo trips to the bar at night for three nights in a row. Pathetic, right?”
I let that sit for a second, turning her words over. The way she said it, matter-of-fact with no embellishment, tells me more than she probably intended.
“Not at all. I can identify with that."
She takes a slow sip from her glass, gaze steady on mine over the rim. When she sets it down, her fingers linger on the stem like she’s deciding whether she’s done.
"And you?" she asks. "When you’re not smoothing hospital transitions in states across the country?"
"Apparently, I buy drinks for women who make me forget I had other plans."
Jesus. I'm such a cheese dick.
"That a line?"
"If it is, I’ve never used it before."
She leans in, resting her arm on the bar so our knees almost touch. "So you say. You seem pretty smooth, buying me a drink from down the bar, Mr. Hospital Man Pope."
"I swear, this is a new one for me." My glass is half-melted ice now, and I’m thinking less about finishing it and more about what she tastes like.
The lull in conversation isn’t awkward. It’s charged. Her eyes stay on mine a beat too long, and I know in an instant we are both thinking the same thing.
I nod toward the door. "You want a better view? I have the penthouse room here, and my terrace has one hell of a sunset."
"Sun’s down," she says, but there’s a flicker of a smile. "But that sounds nice anyway. My curiosity is piqued."
"I can't promise the signature cocktail, but I can make a mean gin and tonic."
Her gaze holds mine for another moment before she pushes her empty glass toward the bartender.
"I've never turned down a good gin and tonic."
I settle, leaving cash on the bar, not breaking eye contact. "Then it’s settled."
She slides off her stool, close enough that her arm brushes mine. It’s not an accident.
Neither is the way I’m already picturing exactly what I’ll do once that door shuts behind us.