4. Cole
FOUR
Cole
I need a drink.
The heavy oak door swings open, releasing the scent of polished wood and expensive liquor. I nod at the hostess, bypassing the front area for the bar in the back.
This place has been my sanctuary since before I bought a stake in it five years ago. Dark wood paneling, leather seats worn just enough to feel comfortable, and jazz that's never too loud.
"Mr. Houston." The bartender already has a lowball ready.
"Thanks, Kent."
He pours two fingers of Macallan 25. The amber liquid catches the dim light. I loosen my tie and take the first sip, letting it burn away the memory of soft skin and ocean air that's been haunting me all day.
"There he is." Dorian slides onto the stool next to mine. "Was beginning to think you'd gone native in Florida."
I don't look at him. "Been back since midday, prick."
"Working from home today? That's not like you."
I shrug. The truth is, I spent half the day staring at acquisition proposals without absorbing a word, and the other half drafting and deleting text messages.
Dorian signals Kent for his usual. He likes some complicated gin thing with herbs floating in it. I don't know how he drinks that shit.
“I'm guessing the new place is pretty sweet. Didn't know if you decided to become the youngest snowbird in Florida.”
“Tempting,” I say, flashing back to my neighbor.
I pick up the glass. “But no. Still alive. Still disgustingly un-retired. Still prefer my penthouse in the city.”
He nods toward my phone. “You closing that medical deal yet? Or just screwing around with real estate?”
I shrug. “Bit of both. You know I like to multitask.”
He smirks. “Palm Beach is full of sugar daddies and trust fund geriatrics. What’s the draw for you?”
I swirl the bourbon. “I follow the money, brother.
Bought the place because I'll be going down a lot with the board until we get through this reorganization.
It's waterfront and quiet, and I have a full staff taking care of it, so it's better than the Ritz.
Plus, it's down the street from the hospital, which is convenient.”
“For tax write-offs or bikini season?”
I glance sideways. “Funny you should say that. I bought it for the write-off, but you won't believe what happened."
Dorian barks a laugh. “Tell me you didn’t break into a blue-haired’s breakfast nook.”
“Not exactly.” I take a sip. “Turns out my neighbor’s a surgical resident. Loose robe, tight ass. And not a blue hair in sight.”
He raises a brow. “And?”
“Have you ever accidentally walked onto the wrong deck?”
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"I went for a walk on the beach after I got in. Those houses all look remarkably similar, especially at night. I walked onto my neighbor's instead of mine. And let me just tell you, she's one hell of a welcoming committee."
"Shut the fuck up. You didn't."
“She insisted I have a glass of wine with her, and then things went horizontal quickly.”
“You’re serious.”
I shrug. “Caught me off guard, too. One kiss turned into two. You can do the math.”
He whistles low. “Jesus. You’d been in town, what, five minutes?”
“Something like that. I was only there a total of forty-eight hours.”
He chuckles. “You’re the only guy I know who closes real estate and gets laid in the same hour.”
“I'm not going to lie. It makes me want to spend more time in Florida.”
We fall quiet for a beat. I take a long sip of whiskey. He stirs the salad in his cocktail, pushing the lime wedge and mint around like he’s deep in thought.
“And what,” he finally says, “you just said, ‘Thanks for the hospitality’’and peaced out?”
“Pretty much.”
Dorian leans back, grinning as he clinks his glass against mine. “To the unexpected perks of board appointments.”
“Exactly.”
The empty conference table to my left glows under the recessed lighting. Six of my division heads stare back at me from the wall screen. They make up neat little boxes of tension and excuses.
An Excel sheet is open on my laptop. Mirrored on the big screen.
“These numbers were due three days ago.” My voice cuts through the air.
Papers shuffle, but the silence stretches.
“We’re staring down a $300 million acquisition, and this is what you bring me?”
Leonard clears his throat. “We ran into delays with the regional valuations?—”
“Not my concern.” I tap my Montblanc against the desk. “Your job is to anticipate problems before they become mine.”
My mind drifts, just for a second.
Dark hair. That sharp intake of breath when I slid my hand between her legs. The way she arched into me like she didn’t care who was watching. Like she wanted to be ruined.
“Cole?” someone says.
I blink. “What?”
“Do you want the revised breakdown for domestic only, or global?”
“Both. I want a full portfolio assessment. I want clean projections by the end of the day.” I push back from the table.
"On it, sir," some faceless voice replies.
“We’ll sort the garbage tomorrow,” another kiss ass chimes in as their faces disappear one by one. Behind me, my assistant, Angela, silently powers off the screen .
The glass windows reflect the city. There's nothing soft about it, and yet, I find it comforting.
Somewhere south, she's probably peeling off her gloves after a long shift, scrubbing out, saving lives, pretending that night didn’t matter.
That’s fine.
It wasn’t supposed to.
The ocean sound from her deck in my mind is remarkably clear. The way her laugh caught me off guard, how her eyes looked in moonlight, flash in front of my face.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I move to the window and rest a hand against the cool glass. Sixty floors above Manhattan, and my head’s still stuck on a beach in Florida.
Her laugh, the way she moved, the way she didn’t flinch or chase or play dumb. That was fucking hot.
One night, that's all it was. So why the hell am I still thinking about it?
“Should I reschedule Zurich for Thursday?” Angela's voice slices cleanly through the fog. She’s already by the table, tablet in hand, professional as always.
I don't turn around. “Thursday’s fine. Cancel anything after four.”
She taps her screen. “Block it for prep?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just make it unavailable.”
A few seconds pass, and she doesn’t push. I hear walking out, her heels soft against the carpet.
I stay at the window, staring past the skyline.
This isn’t about her. It’s about me. I don’t get distracted. I don’t get thrown off.
And yet, I’ve checked my phone three times since the meeting started, half-hoping she replied to that stupid text I sent yesterday. God, I'm such an idiot. What the fuck was I thinking ?
Nothing, of course.
I tap the screen off and put the phone in the inside pocket of my suit jacket.
One night.
I walk back to my office and drop into my leather chair.
I lean over my desk and wake up my laptop. I open the board portal we use for hospital reports, doctor bios, departmental stats, all part of the oversight package I have access to.
I tell myself it’s nothing. It's just curiosity, due diligence.
“Checking credentials,” I mutter out loud.
My fingers hover. I start typing SAM T, and the system autofills.
Two results: Samana Tangue in billing, and a surgical resident. I click the second.
Dr. Samantha Taylor. Trauma surgery. PGY-3.
I scan the file. Degrees, surgical stats, commendations. It's obvious she has extreme ambition.
I exhale. Smart, sexy, and ambitious are a dangerous combination.
Her professional headshot fills my screen. White coat. Hair pulled back severely. No smile, just the intense focus in those hazel eyes I remember from across the operating room through the glass window. Even serious as hell, she's stunning.
Dr. Samantha E. Taylor. E for what? Elizabeth? Emma?
I scroll down. Education: Yale Medical School. Undergraduate: Duke University. Honors in both. Impressive. Current rotation: General surgery, specializing in critical care trauma.
Her personnel file notes "Family connection to Good Samaritan through Evelyn Taylor Wing (maternal relation)."
Evelyn Taylor.
I pause, frowning. Why does that name...? Something about it tugs at my memory. I've heard it somewhere. In a meeting, maybe? During the acquisition briefing? It's right there at the edges.
I close her file, annoyed with myself. This is absurd. I'm looking up a woman I had a one-night stand with, like some obsessed teenager. I'll be selling that house before the year is up, so the neighbor angle won't even be a thing before too long.
“Jesus, get a grip. This is pathetic," I mutter.
"I'm sorry," Angela says.
I look up to see her standing in my doorway.
"Did you need me?" I ask. How long has she been standing there?
"Yes, I asked what you wanted to do about your meeting at one. You'd said earlier you might want to reschedule."
"Oh, right. Sorry. Yes, please push it back a few hours to my next opening. I've got something I want to take care of."
"Yessir."
She turns and walks away.
Even still, here I sit, sixty floors above Manhattan, master of all I survey, and I can't stop thinking about a lone medical resident in Florida. The way she looked at me. How she didn't seem impressed by anything about me, except how my hands felt on her skin.
I should delete her number, and I definitely shouldn't text her again. That was stupid of me to do that.
I close the file and push back in my chair. I need to let it go .
I grab my phone out of my pocket, open my messages, and click on Dorian's name.
Wondering if I need to push a little harder?
His reply comes quickly.
Push what? Your luck? Your agenda? Your dick?
Need specifics, buddy.
I shake my head, half-smiling.
Let’s call it board engagement. I might lean in more than planned. I might go back to Florida.
There’s a beat of silence before he responds.
Now that’s suspicious. Lean in how?
Still figuring that out.
The night swallows Manhattan. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city stretches wide and bright, glittering like it belongs to me. In many ways, it does.
I loosen my tie and slip it free, tossing it beside the untouched dinner from Eleven Madison Park. Two hours old and still in its packaging. I haven’t had the appetite to bother.
The Macallan lands softly on the marble counter. I pour and let the glass rest in my palm as I stare out across the skyline. The amber liquid catches the light. It's sharp, gold, and deliberate. Just like I’m supposed to be.
I pull out my phone and open her thread. Not because I expect anything, but because I keep ending up here. That last message sits unanswered. "Read."
But I’m still staring at it.
I click into the message bubble and start to type.
I've been thinking about you.
Delete. Too exposed.
Are you free for dinner Friday?
Delete. Too eager.
That night on your deck...
Delete. Pathetic cheese dick.
I take a long sip, letting the burn cut through the noise. She’s not the first woman to leave a mark. But she might be the first I can’t get out of my head this fast, especially with everything I should be devoting my energy to.
But here I am.
I place the phone face down and pace, scotch still in hand.
I think about deleting her number and being done with it. Chalk it up to a good night with someone I’ll never see again.
Instead, I grab the phone and open a new message.
In Palm Beach next week for board meetings. Dinner?