7. Sam
SEVEN
Sam
I round the corner toward the administrative hallway, my mind busy cataloging the patients I've seen today. I've had three post-ops that are doing well, one with concerning lab values I need to check on before my shift ends.
The rubber of my shoes squeaks against the freshly waxed floor as I mentally review my to-do list.
My steps falter mid-stride.
Through the glass wall of the main boardroom, a familiar profile catches my eye. The world narrows to a single point of focus.
Cole.
Not fantasy-Cole from my late-night thoughts. Real Cole. Right here in my hospital.
My body freezes while my mind races. He's sitting at the conference table, one hand resting casually on its polished surface, the other gesturing as he speaks.
His suit jacket stretches perfectly across those shoulders I'd run my hands over. His hair catches the light. It's that same hair I'd gripped between my fingers .
I can't breathe. My lungs simply refuse to work.
He looks so utterly in control and comfortable, like he belongs here in my territory. Like he owns the room. Yet he is completely out of place.
A memory flashes. I can feel his weight against me, the rough texture of the lounge chair beneath my back, his mouth hot at my neck.
I knew he'd be back, based on his text, but seeing him still catches me off guard.
I take an unconscious step backward, bumping into a passing nurse.
"Sorry," I mumble, not looking away from the boardroom.
Cole turns slightly, directing his attention to someone I can't see from my vantage point. His profile is devastating. Holy shit, that jaw, those lips forming words I can't hear but can almost feel against my skin.
Move, Sam. Move now before he sees you.
My feet finally respond. I duck around the corner, pressing my back against the wall. My heart hammers so loudly I'm sure everyone can hear it. I keep my clipboard clutched against my chest like armor.
My stomach drops through the floor.
I close my eyes, draw in a shaky breath.
I need a second to pull myself together. To not look like I’m hiding in a hallway, having a minor breakdown over the virtual stranger billionaire I had sex with on my patio.
I need to get away from this conference room before he walks out and sees me.
The setting sun paints the ocean in orange-gold streaks, casting long shadows across the sand-packed ground.
My feet hit the familiar route harder than usual. The burn in my lungs feels good. Necessary. Something to keep me focused on the present instead of spiraling into what-ifs or wondering what having him next door tonight will mean.
I haven’t heard from him since I replied to his text.
Does that mean we’re not doing dinner? Probably for the best.
This is just my regular evening run. Nothing unusual.
I’m a terrible liar, even to myself.
My ponytail swings with each stride, damp tendrils sticking to my neck. The salt air clings to my skin, but I barely register the familiar scent. My mind keeps replaying the boardroom sighting like a horror film on an endless loop.
I push faster, my breath growing ragged.
Five more minutes and I'll be past his place. Just a normal part of my route. Not a drive-by. And it’s definitely not reconnaissance.
My inner voice snorts. Who am I kidding?
I rearranged my call schedule to get home before sunset, just in time for this run. Just in time to maybe, possibly, accidentally pass his place.
Not that I’d admit that to anyone. Especially not to myself.
The houses along Mariner's Reach all blend together in my peripheral vision until I'm there. His place, number 128.
Lights glow from within.
My pulse spikes instantly, thundering in my ears louder than my footfalls. I slow imperceptibly, eyes darting to catch details. I’ve run past from the beach side since that night, memorizing details I had no business noticing.
Modern furniture with glass walls facing the ocean, just like mine.
A suit jacket is tossed over a chair visible through the window. That is new, a tell.
He's here.
Heat floods my face that has nothing to do with exertion.
My pace falters as I make a turn and head toward my stairs.
I hover a moment too long to catch my breath, and that's the exact moment the door slides open.
I jolt upright and pick up speed, praying he doesn’t see me before I vanish up my deck.
Cole steps outside onto his patio, silhouetted against the warm interior light. He's not wearing a suit now, dressed more casually and fully showing off those fucking hot forearms I remember all too well.
He doesn't see me. Yet.
Then, his eyes lock on mine, and for a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The ocean breeze stirs between us, carrying the scent of grilled something from somewhere down the beach.
"Sam."
Just my name. That's all. But the way he says it, like he's been waiting to taste it on his tongue. My body reacts before my brain. Skin prickles. Breathing goes shallow.
“Houston.” I aim for casual, like I run past billionaires’ beach houses every night and call them by their last names.
He smiles but doesn't say anything.
“Fancy seeing you here.”
Great line, Taylor. Really smooth.
He walks down the steps, and I notice his sexy bare feet. The golden porch light catches in his hair, turning it honey-amber.
I'm nearly drooling over the fitted gray t-shirt and joggers that hug that tight body ever so perfectly. He stops at a careful distance away.
“Out for a run?”
“No, I’m dressed for a gala.”
The words come out drier than I intend. Sarcasm is my armor, but it's a little prickly at the moment.
His mouth quirks at one corner. It isn't quite a smile, but close. “I deserved that.”
Silence stretches between us. It isn’t unfriendly, just awkward. I shift my weight, suddenly aware of the sweat cooling on my back and the fact that I’m standing in running shoes and spandex, face-to-face with a man whose fitted joggers leave very little to the imagination.
“So,” I say, breath steadying. “Back in town for board meetings?”
God, I'm such a dumbass. Of course he is.
“Yes.”
“And the hospital’s future gets decided over white wine and catered lunches?”
His mouth curves slightly. “I'm sure you know that’s not how it works.”
“Do I?” I meet his gaze, calm but direct.
He smiles, like I'm joking, but I'm serious as a heart attack.
“Because from where I’m standing, rumors are flying and zero transparency. I’d love to hear your insight.”
He studies me. “Are you asking as a curious resident?”
“No. I’m asking as the daughter of the woman whose name is on the wing everyone’s suddenly pretending doesn’t exist. ”
I wait for an excuse or an explanation. I'll take anything to make this less weird.
He gives me nothing. Instead, he watches, his face unreadable, the porch light casting sharp angles across his features.
Instead of letting this get any more awkward, I look for an exit.
“I should finish my run.”
“Mind if I join?” He nods toward the path. “Just to the corner and back.”
“If you can keep up without shoes.”
He chuckles softly, falling into step beside me. His stride is steady. His presence is oddly comforting, offering a solution to the awkwardness between us.
We run in silence for a few beats, then he breaks it.
“The Taylor Wing. That’s your mother, right?”
“Yes.” My chest tightens.
"Samantha Evelyn Taylor?"
“How did you?—”
“Research. It’s what I do.”
We reach the corner and slow to a walk, turning back toward our houses. His arm brushes mine once, then again. Each touch sparks down my spine like it’s personal.
“It’s important to you.” It's another non-question. He's stating facts and watching for my reaction.
“It’s everything.” The words escape before I can filter them. Before the threat of it being eliminated, I didn't realize how true that is.
He nods, sliding his hands into his pockets as he turns his face toward me. “Tell me why.”
Normally, I keep things like this to myself. But with him, in this moment, I want to say more. That’s what unsettles me—the fact that it feels so easy to fall into step beside him. My body remembers his touch even as my brain keeps a running list of reasons to stay guarded.
His fingers brush against mine. I’m not sure if it’s intentional or not, but the contact leaves a trail of heat, like a brand.
The air between us shifts. Sea salt, fresh-cut grass, and the ever-present scent of steaks on a nearby grill drift in on the breeze.
“When I was twelve, my mother started a program at the hospital that was unheard of. It was for outreach, advocacy, and fundraising for low-income families. She wanted to make sure medical care wasn’t just for the wealthy, which is only what people think about when it comes to Palm Beach.
She made sure to emphasize that patients weren’t just numbers or dollar signs. ”
"Wow. Thank you for sharing that."
I swallow. “They named the wing after her when she died.”
Cole’s shoulder brushes mine as we round the corner, our footsteps falling into rhythm without effort.
“She sounds remarkable.”
"She was." My throat tightens. Whenever I talk about my mom in the past tense, it still socks me in the gut, even though it has been almost seven years.
He lets the silence hang until I can swallow down the grief.
"It was cancer. Ironic, right? The oncology pioneer."
His hand brushes mine again, lingering a moment longer this time. The warmth of his skin against my knuckles sends a current up my arm.
"The wing is her legacy. And yours, it sounds like."
I glance at him, searching for the manipulative businessman I should see. Instead, I find something unsettlingly genuine in his expression .
"What do you know about it? Since you do the research, I mean."
"Financials. Patient demographics. Service statistics." His lips quirk up.
"Ah, yes. Of course. The business end."
"But nothing about why it matters to the surgeon who runs through the halls saving lives and calling out veteran doctors on their mistakes."
"Funny. To me, she was my mom. But she did a lot of really great things for this community. Since she's gone, for me, it's not just a building." I take a deep breath.
"Of course."
"It's the promise that healthcare isn't a luxury. That we won't turn away the single mother with three jobs and no insurance."
We're in front of my house now. The porch light hums softly, casting a glow that feels too intimate for everything we haven’t said.
The space between our bodies whirs with tension. My skin tingles, waiting for him to close the gap, to pull me in like before. That night, I was bolder. For some reason, tonight, I feel more vulnerable.
“I’m glad I saw you tonight, Sam. Thanks for letting me join you,” he says quietly.
The restraint in his voice is worse than rejection. It lands like a bruise across my chest, an ache with no outlet.
“I have an early day tomorrow, so I'll probably turn in.” My fingers find the railing leading up my steps. It gives me something to hold onto, something to hide behind.
He nods once. “What’s your schedule look like this week? Are you going to let me take you to dinner while I'm here?”
My heart kicks. He’s not talking about surgery .
“I’m off Thursday night. I have early OR Friday, but I could do dinner Thursday if that works for you.”
Something shifts in his expression. It's only a flicker of heat, but I can feel the shift.
“Thursday, then,” he says, stepping back. He gives me space, but it doesn’t feel like distance. It feels like discipline.
"I'm looking forward to it."
“Goodnight, Dr. Taylor.”
The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine.
I take the first step up. The weight of everything already hanging between us lands on my shoulders.
I don’t want to go inside. I don’t want the moment to end.
A glass of wine, a little more conversation. God, even just sitting beside him in that quiet would be enough.
But that's silly, and I'm being ridiculous.
My legs are overcooked pasta. I'm not sure if it's from the run or Cole. Probably both.
Definitely both.
The motion sensors detect my movement of kicking off my shoes, illuminating the back porch lights to my beachside door. I stand there a moment, savoring the wood still warm from the day's sun beneath my bare feet.
"Salt ruins good leather," my dad's voice echoes in my head.
The ocean breeze carries Cole's scent, still clinging to me from where our arms brushed. I inhale deeply, hating myself a little for wanting more of it.
Inside, I flip on the lights and toss my AirPods in the ceramic bowl by the door. My phone is heavy in my pocket, tugging at my shorts. I reach in and pull it out.
I scroll to Arden’s name, and she answers on the second ring. “You alive? ”
“Barely. I just ran into Cole,” I say, twisting the cap off.
A beat of silence. “Ran into?”
“Literally. I was finishing up my run, and as I came by our houses, he spotted me. He came out to the beach and did the cool-down with me."
“Total coincidence, right?”
“I didn’t plan it,” I add quickly. “I mean, maybe I adjusted my timing a little after I saw him from afar at the hospital today. But still.”
"How long is he here?"
"Until the end of next week."
“Was he shirtless? Tell me he was shirtless.”
“Vuori joggers. Fitted t-shirt. Just the right amount of scruff.” I sigh. “He’s annoyingly hot.”
“Still all mysterious and untouchable?”
I sink onto a stool at the island. “Not tonight. He asked about my mom. About the wing. He seemed sincere and thoughtful.”
“Huh,” she says. “So the billionaire has a soul after all.”
“He says he understands promises. And he listened. I don’t know, Arden. Maybe he could be an ally.”
“Oh, that could be a perfect angle. You get some good sex and gently nudge him to steer things your way? I love multitasking.”
I shrug, even though she can’t see me. “He’s on the board.
He’s smart, and I think he’s starting to see the whole picture.
That’s the ticket to surviving this. If the board knew the story, the why behind Good Samaritan, and what it stands for, it wouldn’t even be a question.
I could sort of use him to be that plug. ”
“As long as you know it’s a means to an end,” she says, quieter now.
“I call it a win-win. ”
“Just be careful, Sam. Hot doesn’t always equal hero.”
“I know.”
Still, the way he looked at me, like my mother’s legacy mattered, makes it hard to believe he could be anything else.
Or maybe I’m already in over my head.
Either way, Thursday’s coming.