8. Cole #2
Something flickers in her expression. It could be curiosity, or maybe it's suspicion. “That seems like a wide range.”
She doesn’t ask the follow-up, doesn’t press. Which is good. Because the house wasn’t just an investment. It was leverage. A calculated move to get me closer to the board before anyone traced the debt purchase back to Kings Holdings.
As far as Sam knows, I’m just a neighbor with a decent Scotch collection and bad work-life balance. That’s exactly how I need it to stay.
Her wineglass finds her lips again. “So when you're not flipping houses or fixing corporations, what do you do for fun?”
I laugh because that question always stumps me. “I work and travel. I don't do hobbies, but I enjoy nice restaurants where I go, drinking good liquor, and meeting people along the way. Work is my fun.”
“Sounds interesting, I guess.”
“It’s productive,” I counter.
She leans forward, tracing the rim of her glass with one fingertip. “So what exactly is the board voting on next week? I’ve heard rumors, but nothing concrete.”
There it is.
I keep my tone even. “A revised budget proposal. Some operational changes. Consolidations in a few departments. The usual cost-cutting bullshit that keeps hospitals from bleeding out.”
Her smile holds, but the shift in her posture is subtle. Almost a little too still. “So it’s that bad?”
“Bad enough to force decisions. No one wants to cut for the sake of cutting, but keeping the lights on takes more than good intentions.”
She looks out toward the water, quiet for a beat. The breeze sweeps a strand of hair across her cheek, and she tucks it behind her ear.
“I know what the numbers say, but that place isn’t just numbers to everyone. It’s people. It’s history.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t have to, thankfully. The server reappears with fresh drinks, dropping them between us like punctuation. Then he picks up her empty wine glass, a burgundy crescent on the rim where her lips have been. My drink sits barely touched.
"I'm glad my mom isn't here to see all of this."
Something tightens in my chest. "Tell me more about her. I know you mentioned her vision, but was she also a doctor?"
Sam traces a line through the condensation on her wine glass. “She started as an oncology nurse. Worked her way up to hospital admin. She believed everyone deserved dignity in their worst moments, no matter what was in their bank account.”
I nod, watching her more than the words.
“She saw families lose everything trying to save someone they loved. I think that’s what drove her. It was a mission to make sure Good Samaritan stayed a place that said yes, not one that asked for a credit card first.”
I wait a beat. “I admire that.”
“Yeah. She grew up with nothing. Got turned away once when her sister was sick. She never forgot.”
Her voice thins out on that last part. She looks up, eyes catching the soft candlelight.
I could tell her I know what that’s like. That I grew up the same way, scraping by, always a step behind. But I don’t. Because unlike her mother, I didn’t set out to fix the system. I learned to beat it.
“She got sick out of nowhere. It was stage four at diagnosis. Five months from then to the funeral. ”
My hand tightens around my glass. Still, I say nothing.
She exhales, light but not casual. “Heavy dinner topic. Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize. She sounds like she gave a damn when it mattered most. I can tell she meant a lot to you.”
Sam gives me a quiet smile. “What about you? What shaped you?”
I glance at the ocean, then back at her. “My family wasn’t like yours.”
“How so?”
“No legacy or soft landings. My dad bailed when I was a kid. My mom worked every shift she could. You've heard the story before.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just listens.
“I figured out early that nothing’s guaranteed. So I made my own safety net. That’s all.”
Her gaze holds mine. “That explains a lot.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Does it?”
“You like control. You get in, get out, keep your distance. It tracks. I don’t know you well, but I can see that about you.”
There’s a flicker of something behind her words. I think it’s understanding, not judgment.
We make it through a few small plates after that. There’s lighter conversation, some shared jokes, and an entire bottle of wine between us once I switched from my scotch.
Her laugh comes easily. It’s disarming.
Eventually, the server drops the check. I pay it without looking, and we slide out of the booth.
Sam tucks her hair behind one ear as we step into the elevator. The air between us shifts. Not awkward. Not quite charged. But something .
Outside, the night air brushes my skin, and city lights stretch down the avenue as cars pass in soft blurs. A neon sign casts a pale blue glow across Sam’s face, catching in her hair.
“Tonight was unexpected.”
“In a good way, I hope.”
“I’m still deciding. Kidding. I enjoyed it. Oh, there's my Uber. Thanks, again.”
She waves as she heads toward the car. I would have offered her a ride if I'd known she didn't drive. Damn.
The urge to grab her and pull her in nearly overrides common sense. I want her close, I want her mouth.
But the weight settles in my chest again. The board documents. Her mother’s name on those pages. The collision she doesn’t see coming.
“Goodnight, Cole,” she says as she climbs into the backseat.
Her voice is low and intimate. Her gaze lingers. It could be an invitation, or hesitation, or maybe even a warning. Hard to say for sure, but either way, it's not something I should follow.
I don’t move. “Goodnight, Sam.”
The taillights blur into traffic. I stand there, watching until I can’t tell her Toyota Camry from the rest.