8. Cole
EIGHT
Cole
The juice bar at Citrine is packed this morning, exactly as I expected. Palm Beach's wellness devotees congregate here like it's some kind of health cult initiation.
Sunlight floods through the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning everything golden. The entire place smells like someone juiced a garden. It's earthy, bright, alive, unlike the sterile spaces I spend most of my days in the city.
I’m not here for sentiment. I’m here because it’s clean, quick, and the only place in Palm Beach that gets my order right. The added convenience of it being five minutes from the beach house doesn’t hurt.
I nod at the barista, a woman with intricate line-art tattoos crawling up her forearms, behind the juice counter. “Cold-pressed Immunity. Extra ginger.”
She appears to recognize me, smiles, and then gets to work.
While she juices, I check my phone. I pull up my calendar first. I've got calls stacked until three, a late afternoon Zoom meeting with Dorian, and?—
Her name’s there. Slotted neatly between a virtual walk-through of the Wynnewood project and a thirty-minute email block I’ll end up skipping.
Dinner. Eight o’clock.
My jaw clenches. I refocus and click over to my inbox, skimming a flagged message from the CLS rep about next month’s board vote. More questions about the east wing feasibility. More numbers I’ve already accounted for.
The juice slides across the counter. It's bright orange and flecked with pulp. Condensation beads on the outside of the cup, already slick from the morning humidity.
I take a sip, and it burns going down.
Sam flickers through my mind again. Her voice was steady and sure when she talked about her mom’s work at Good Samaritan.
Dinner tonight is the right thing to do. We slept together. We’re neighbors. Ignoring her would make me an asshole. I’m not in the habit of pissing off people I have to see on their back porch.
And if I’m being honest, I haven’t stopped thinking about her. She’s sharp. Direct. Sexy as hell in running shorts and flushed cheeks.
There’s no doubt she believes in what that place stands for. Believes in promises and purpose, and doing the right thing. It’s admirable.
It’s also na?ve.
Hospitals don’t run on hope. They run on margins.
But tonight isn’t about any of that. It’s not business, it's dinner. One hour, maybe two. A conversation, a drink. Maybe round two, if the timing feels right.
I can keep the two things separate. I have to.
My phone vibrates, and Angela's name fills the screen.
"Houston."
“Good morning, Mr. Houston. FedEx just dropped the packet at your Palm Beach house. Wanted to let you know it arrived. The board summary is on top, like you requested.”
"I'll go grab it now. Thanks for the heads up.”
I end the call and head out, the sun already sharp overhead.
The drive back is quick. The gated property sits just off Ocean Boulevard, quiet, private.
One of the guest rooms on the ocean-facing side is now a temporary office. High-speed internet, dual monitors, and secured access to our company servers. I can work from here as long as I need to.
Twelve days will be a nice change of scenery.
I open the Express box and drop the board packet on the desk. Jacket off, collar unbuttoned, I sink into the leather chair and start flipping pages.
Financials. Projections. Redlines from legal. It's all laid out in crisp, methodical order, just how I like it.
I start flipping through the color-coded and tabbed pages, scanning the statements.
My phone dances on the pile of papers.
I look over and see it's Dorian, so I answer.
“Talk.”
“You got the prospectus?”
“Going through it now.”
“They added a contingency page for the Evelyn Taylor Wing. I know you instructed them to keep that out of the calculations, but it's a big money-suck.”
I turn another page. There it is—Section F, marked in red.
“They’re flagging it for partial closure?”
“Consolidation first. Full rezoning if we can push it through. Without it, our return drops by eighteen percent.”
“Eighteen’s manageable,” I say, eyes still on the page.
“Not if you promised a two-to-three-point return. ”
I lean back in the chair, tapping a finger once against the desktop.
Sam’s voice flickers through my head. The wing is her legacy. That sharp certainty in her tone was unshakable.
But this was never about legacy. I didn’t buy the hospital’s debt to preserve history. I bought it because the math worked. And if the numbers say something needs to go, then it goes.
“Cole?” Dorian prompts.
“I’m listening, just running through the scenarios in my head.”
“If we cut the wing, we hit our return. If we leave it intact, we’ll need concessions somewhere else.”
I close the folder, the sound crisp in the quiet room.
“I’ll run through everything again, now that I have it all laid out,” I say.
Dorian grunts. “I figured that would be your position. Ring me once you have a chance to comb through it. I have a few ideas, but let's nail down some of these details.”
"Sounds good."
The line disconnects.
I push back from the desk and let my gaze settle out the window. White sand. Blue water. Order.
This project has a trajectory and was put into play before I ever met Sam Taylor. We buy debt low, restructure the model, improve margins, and sell high. It's simple.
Whatever happens over dinner tonight doesn’t change that. At the end of the day, we’ll do what the numbers demand.
The Seaside Terrace rooftop stretches over the Atlantic, white tablecloths tugging in the breeze .
I got here early and secured the corner table. It's the best view on the island, according to TripAdvisor.
The server stops by, eyeing my empty glass.
"Would you like another Macallan?"
I consider it, then shake my head. That went down way too fast. "No, thank you. Maybe after my dining partner arrives."
Dining partner? What the fuck?
Across the terrace, I hear the elevator ding.
I look up to see her step out like she owns the place. Her dark hair is down tonight, and she has on a navy dress that doesn’t try too hard but still hits hard.
Sam walks like she doesn’t notice every head turning, including mine. Goddamn, that's hot.
I stand as she crosses toward me.
"Dr. Taylor."
She smiles. It’s real this time. Not polite or professional.
"Sam."
"Sorry, of course. Sam."
"You got my favorite table," she says, settling into the chair I pull out.
I sit back down. "Lucky guess."
She smirks. "You strike me as the type who doesn’t guess."
"Usually not."
The server reappears with menus and a raised eyebrow. He's wordless at first, but clear.
He turns to Sam. "What can I get you to drink, ma’am?"
"Sauvignon blanc," she says confidently without even glancing at the list.
"Go ahead and bring me another Macallan, neat."
"You're punctual," she says, unfolding her napkin after the server leaves .
"We said eight, right?"
"Most people interpret that as eight-fifteen. Maybe."
"Not me. Are you always fashionably late?"
"I try to be on time. But I’ve been told I cram too much into a time slot, so I tend to show up running hot. At 8:05, I call that early."
"I like that overachiever math."
She leans back, studying me for a second too long. "So… is this neighborly small talk, or are we going to talk about the hospital? I have a lot of questions."
Shit. So much for keeping business and pleasure separate.
"Looks like you're skipping the small talk with a lede like that. What exactly do you want to know?"
She laughs. It's soft, but sharp. "Let’s start with wine and see how honest we feel after that."
"Fair enough. Tell me about Palm Beach. This home for you?"
"Yeah. I went to med school in Gainesville, so I got out for a bit. But my mom got sick before I finished, so I came back here for residency to be with my dad."
"It’s not a bad place to end up."
"It has its quirks. But I like being close to home, I guess. It makes me feel close to her."
"So you'll stay, then? Assuming a surgical position opens up at Good Samaritan?"
"I thought we were going for small talk," she says with a laugh, but I can tell I’m getting a little too close.
"Just trying to get to know Dr. Samantha E. Taylor."
She gives me a long look. “Honestly, I don’t know. Leaving would be hard. This place still breathes my mother. But I’ve got two more years to figure it out. I go between staying here, continuing the Taylor name, and branching out, starting from scratch. ”
"I can tell you're a thinker. It will serve you well."
"What about you? Let me get to know Cole Houston. You said you live in New York, right?"
“I do. Manhattan mostly.”
She tips her head. “So what brings you to Palm Beach?"
"Like I said, I have a staff that tracks real estate developments all over the country. This one looked like a good investment opportunity, and it happened to coincide with the board appointment, so I jumped on it."
That isn't entirely untrue, although the order of events might have been a little different than how I'm presenting them.
"Nothing like a multi-million-dollar whim."
"You know it was in foreclosure, right?"
"Shrewd. I’d heard the builder was underwater, but I don’t keep up with how that works. You're here for the board meetings this time?”
“I’ll be here until the end of next week.” I pause, letting my fingers slide along the base of my glass. “I'll be here longer than I usually stay anywhere.”
“A beachfront vacation sounds nice.”
“It’s a working vacation, technically. I don't do vacations. But, I might as well enjoy the house before I flip it.”
Her brows lift. “I guess that's what real estate investors do?”
“That’s part of it.” I offer a half-smile. “I started in building and development. I still do that, but I've also moved into acquisitions. I buy undervalued assets, improve performance, and sell for a profit.”
“Like houses?” she asks.
“Like everything,” I say. “Commercial. Residential. And in some cases, corporate debt. If the right opportunity shows up, of course. ”