14. Cole
FOURTEEN
Cole
I spot her the moment she walks onto the patio, and the practiced smile I’d lined up goes straight to hell.
She’s in a simple, knee-length deep green tank dress that dips just enough to make it criminal. Sun-kissed legs, flip-flops, that loose, swingy ponytail that somehow looks more deliberate than styled. She’s effortless. And my mouth goes dry.
I stand from our table near the back, just far enough from the speakers to talk without yelling. The band’s tuning up behind us, strumming lazy chords that hum beneath the low din of laughter and clinking glasses.
“Hey,” I say, pulling out the empty chair beside me. “You look like trouble.”
Sam slides in without missing a beat. “You need better lines, Houston.”
"I thought you were getting here first," I tease.
“Hey, I'm early. It's 6:30 on the dot.”
"That's called being on time."
"Easy, tiger. This is early for me. "
"I got here at 6:00. I figured there would be a crowd, and I'm glad I got here early. I knew you wouldn't be able to get here that early. It's been nice people-watching."
She glances around the venue. String lights stretch overhead, worn wrought iron tables and beach chairs are scattered across the lawn. A few servers are weaving through with plastic drink trays.
Her gaze lingers on the stage, then shifts back to me.
“This is perfect. Nice job on the table. Not too far but close enough,” she says, nodding toward the bar.
I lift a brow. “I already ordered. Figured white felt right. They’ve got a decent Vermentino.”
Her lips twitch. “How do you know what I like?”
“You ordered it at Seaside Terrace. Plus, you ladies were drinking white wine last night. I pay attention.”
“Creepy or impressive?” she asks, taking the glass I slide her way.
“You tell me.”
She lifts the wine, takes a slow sip, then lets the glass rest against her bottom lip for a second too long. A smile threatens. “TBD.”
The breeze picks up, carrying a swirl of jasmine from the potted vines at the edge of the patio. The guitarist starts a slow DMB intro, and her foot brushes mine under the table. She doesn’t pull back.
Neither do I.
“Nice night,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m narrating a weather app.
“Mmm.” Sam tips her head slightly. “Nice view.”
Her eyes never leave mine.
The server drops off a bowl of mixed nuts and disappears without fanfare. Sam leans forward, elbows on the table, voice low enough to be swallowed by the music.
“So, how was your day? ”
The question lands somewhere between playful and normal. It catches me off guard. Like a couple catching up after a long day
But I like it.
“It was typical, I guess. Except I did most of it with a view of the ocean. I lean in just enough to make it count. Her face is lit by string lights now, warm gold flickering in her eyes.
A few feet away, someone laughs loudly, obviously tipsy. The band slides into a mellow version of Crash Into Me, and the chords run low and steady through the air.
Salt clings to the breeze, mingling with the buttery scent of someone’s basket of fries.
She doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, she tips her head, watching me like she’s weighing a choice. “You know what I like about surgery? The problem is clear. Diagnose. Cut. Fix. Close.”
I nod once, waiting.
She takes a longer sip. “People aren’t like that. People are messy.”
“And you don’t do messy,” I say.
She arches a brow. “Yeah.”
I'm not sure how to respond to that, so I let it hang between us for now.
Our bottle of wine sits half-empty between us. I refill her glass, then mine. I don't pour too much. Just enough to stay in the space we’ve found tonight. She lets her fingers linger on the stem, nails pale pink and perfect against the glass.
A gust of wind pushes her hair into her face. She tucks it behind her ear without looking away.
“I keep thinking about the other night,” she says, quiet enough that I have to lean in again.
The crowd’s louder now. A couple at the next table is doing a tipsy sway to the music. I don’t care. All I see is her.
“Yeah?” I murmur.
Sam’s gaze flicks to my mouth, then back up. “I pulled away first. But you were right. It was a bad idea.”
I don’t reply. Is that a statement or a question? I can't help but wonder why she's bringing that up now. Is the setting the stage?
Right now, I'm not so sure it was a bad idea because my body’s already reacting to her tone, her eyes, the quiet dare in every inch of her posture.
“We can still walk it back,” she adds, almost absently, playfully.
"Oh, we can?"
“Start from scratch.”
“But I kinda like our start.”
“Yeah, that was pretty fucking awesome.”
“You think we’re going to make it through this night without doing something we’ll regret?” I ask.
She lifts her glass again. Her lips curve, but it's not quite a smile. “Nope.”
I laugh softly, then glance toward the entrance. “I'm starting to think this was all some elaborate setup by your friend.”
She follows my gaze, then smirks. “God, no. Arden’s not that subtle. Or that crafty. She just comes out and says it.”
“She was fun. I enjoyed last night. What came up for her, then? She said she was looking forward to this.”
“She had a client emergency, hence the last-minute exit to Atlanta.”
I lift a brow. “Did she say she worked in PR?”
“Crisis communications. She's essentially a fixer and does high-profile damage control for the rich and famous. She’s like Olivia Pope, but with better hair and a slightly less shady moral compass.”
“That explains a few things.”
Sam chuckles. “Yeah. She’s brilliant. Grew up here, actually. Palm Beach royalty, in a way. But her dad had a pretty public fall from grace when we were in college."
"Sounds intense. Maybe that's why she prefers chaos?"
"Yeah. He was a bigshot attorney and lost everything. Arden saw the mess from the inside and decided she’d spend her life cleaning up everyone else’s.”
“That’s an interesting backstory if I've ever heard one.”
“She thrives in dissarray, which is why we were made for each other. I prefer calm and predictable. She thinks my life is tragically boring.”
I glance at her glass, then her mouth. “Is it?”
Her lips twitch. “Not tonight.”
The band shifts into something upbeat. Laughter carries across the patio. A server drops a metal tray somewhere behind us with a clang and a curse. And still, we don’t move.
Her knee brushes mine again. It's not accidental this time.
I know, and so does she.
But neither of us pushes forward.
Not yet.
The conversation flows more easily now, the space between us charged but comfortable. I share a little about myself. Old habits die hard. But I give her just enough to satisfy her questions.
Her hand slides across the table, landing on mine. Deliberate. Warm. She doesn't pull away .
"You're not what I expected, Cole Houston."
My name in her mouth sounds different tonight. Softer. The breeze lifts her hair slightly, and the candlelight catches in her eyes.
I turn my hand, our palms meeting. Her pulse beats against mine.
"Can't show all my cards at once," I smile, realizing that has more than one meaning between us. I push that thought down, knowing I can't dwell on the hospital stuff anymore. This is about her and me tonight, nothing else.
The lights over the patio glow dimmer now, casting shadows across empty plates and half-drunk wine. The band plays its last few chords, followed by a swell of clapping and a shout from the singer.
“Thanks, Palm Beach! That’s our time!”
Sam leans back, her fingers still loosely laced with mine. “Well. I guess that’s our cue.”
“Unless you’re still thirsty,” I say, catching her eye. “Nightcap on the deck?”
She arches a brow. “Yours or mine?”
The question lands with more weight than it should. We both feel it.
I smile slowly. “I was trying to be a gentleman.”
“Might be your first strike.”
That earns a quiet laugh from me as I signal the server. She starts to protest, but I shake my head and reach for my card.
“You can buy the next one.”
She watches me sign the check. “We’ll see about that.”
We stand, the air outside denser now, the kind that clings to your skin and makes everything feel a little slower. A little bolder.
"Is your car here? "
"No, I walked. Needed some fresh air after being in the hospital all day. It's only a ten-minute walk."
"I walked, too."
"Perfect. You can keep me safe from the crime-ridden streets of Palm Beach."
"Gladly."
Sam kicks off her heels, dangling them from two fingers as we walk along the boulevard. Something about her barefoot on the warm pavement strikes me as beautifully unguarded.
"That Sancerre was perfect," she says, bumping my shoulder with hers. "Though I didn't peg you for such a wine snob."
"Says the woman who sent back her espresso at Seaside because it wasn't 'extracted properly.'"
"That's different. That's scientific precision. Proper extraction requires—" Her laugh echoes against the storefronts.
"Twenty-seven seconds at nine bars of pressure, water between 195 and 205 degrees. You lectured the poor barista for five minutes." I tick off each point on my fingers.
Her mouth drops open in mock outrage. "I did not lecture! I educated."
"You have the business card of your favorite barista in your phone contacts."
"You went through my phone?"
"You left it on the table when you went to the restroom. Your screen lit up with a text from 'Marcus - Perfect Pull Espresso.'"
Sam laughs again, and the sound does something to my chest. Something unfamiliar and warm.
"Fine. I'm an espresso snob. You're a wine snob. Match made in pretentious heaven. "
We reach our houses, and we both pause, trying to gauge where to go from here. I think we've established that we both don’t want to end the night here.
"I've got more high-end wine. My place?"
"Sounds like a plan."
She follows me in and tosses her shoes on the floor beside my kitchen island.
"Cole?"
My name sounds different in her mouth tonight. Like a question. Like permission.