16. Cole
SIXTEEN
Cole
The silence hangs between us after her last comment, the kind that leaves a mark.
Sam’s fingers tighten slightly around her glass. She looks out at the horizon, where the last of the sun has disappeared and only the faint glow of the coastline remains.
Finally, she exhales. “I know you’re trying to be gentle. But you’re not saying anything that actually helps.”
“I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“Maybe not. But you’re not trying to help me, either.”
That one lands. She stands, wrapping the blanket tighter around her shoulders like armor, and steps toward the door.
I follow her inside, not touching her, not pushing. She doesn’t stop me, but she doesn’t look back either.
In the kitchen, she sets her glass in the sink and turns like she might say goodnight. But then her eyes flick to the counter.
She blinks once.
“I should go. ”
My hand closes around the back of the barstool before I think better of it. “You can. But you don’t have to.”
“What exactly are we doing, Cole?”
I don’t answer. I could lie. Say something about enjoying the moment or not needing to define it. But she deserves more than that.
She shakes her head when I stay quiet. “Exactly.”
I take a step closer. “We’re doing whatever this is. Whatever you want it to be tonight.”
Her brow lifts. “That doesn’t sound like a man who wants to fight for anything.”
I take another step. I'm close enough to smell the wine on her breath and see the conflict behind her eyes.
“I want to fight for this moment. I want you here. But I don’t want to lie to you to do it.”
That softens something, barely. It shows in the drop of her shoulders, in the split-second she doesn’t move.
“I hate that I like you.”
“I know.”
“I hate that you’re part of something I should be fighting against.”
“You are fighting. And I respect that. What we're doing, here, tonight, last night, none of that has to do with what's going on with the hospital. Please don't make the two part of the same thing.”
She exhales sharply, like the pressure’s too much. And still, she doesn’t walk away. I reach for her then. Slowly. Give her time to stop me.
She doesn’t.
My hands land on her waist. She closes her eyes for half a second, then opens them again and steps into me. I pull her body tight against mine.
Her voice drops. “This doesn’t mean I trust you. I just happen to think you're good in bed. ”
“I'll take the win where I can get it.”
“I’m still going to try to stop what’s happening.”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
That earns a tiny scoff. “You’re so damn confusing.”
She’s not wrong. I've confused myself. I want this restructure to happen, it's my business. But I also hate the thought of hurting her in the process. I want her like I’ve never wanted anyone, so badly it scrambles my logic. But I’m also still the one driving the very thing she’s fighting to stop.
Every time I touch her, I’m lying. Not by omission, by intent.
I’m the architect of the deal that could gut her legacy, and I haven’t just kept that from her. I’ve worked to keep it quiet.
For my gain.
But it’s not personal, it’s business. It was in play long before I ever knew Samantha Taylor, or even bought the house that would make us neighbors and land me on her patio.
She kisses me then, fiercely, angrily. It's like she’s mad at herself for wanting it, and mad at me for letting her.
We hit the bedroom a minute later.
And when she pulls me down with her, I don’t pretend this fixes anything.
But I also don’t stop it.
I watch the curve of Sam’s spine as it rises and falls beneath my sheets.
She’s curled on her side, facing away from me, one arm tucked under the pillow, her breathing deep and steady. I’ve been lying here awake for nearly an hour, doing nothing but watching her.
I should be working. The laptop on the dresser is still open. Three board emails are waiting, and at least one document needs final review. Tomorrow’s meeting isn’t going to wait, and I know that.
But I can’t make myself move.
The light is changing outside the windows, soft and gold. It slips through the blinds and spills across Sam’s bare shoulder, catching the tips of her hair where it fans over my pillow.
I’ve never stayed like this. Not after sex. Not after talking until the middle of the night.
I don’t watch women sleep. I don’t memorize the shape of someone’s back or trace constellations in their freckles just to feel closer.
But I’m doing it now.
I hover my fingers above her skin, close enough to feel her warmth without making contact. My body wants to close the gap. My brain is trying to remember how I got here.
This was supposed to be clean. Efficient. The way I handle everything else in my life.
She wasn’t supposed to matter this much.
Sam Taylor is the daughter of the husband and wife who essentially built this hospital. She’s emotionally tied to the exact legacy I’m here to dismantle. She is, in every measurable way, a complication.
But I can’t bring myself to stop her, or to stop this. Even though I know I should.
I drop my hand back to the mattress and let out a slow breath. Her scent still lingers on my skin, and her breath is soft beside me. She’s here, in my bed, in my head, and somehow, making me question everything .
Only a few hours ago, she looked me in the eye and asked if I knew anything that could help her shift the vote. She was hopeful.
And I told her no.
That's not exactly a lie. I don't think there is anything she or anyone can do at this point to shift the vote. I don't even think I could stop it if I tried.
I meant what I said about the train already moving. I just didn’t tell her I was the one shoveling coal into the engine.
Sam shifts, arching slightly in her sleep. Then her phone vibrates on the nightstand, breaking the morning silence. She stirs immediately, her body reacting before her mind catches up. Eyes flutter, then focus and land on me.
"Hey," she says, her voice thick with sleep.
"Morning." I run a hand over my face, willing myself not to stare at the way the silk sheets barely cover her. I can see her hard nipples pressing through the thin fabric.
"Was that yours or mine?"
"Yours," I say.
She grabs it and scans the screen. "Oh, it's only Arden. She's probably just getting to the airport."
She tosses the phone back onto the nightstand. I run my finger along her arm.
"Oh, shoot. I forgot to check the time."
"It's almost seven."
She stretches, long and slow, sheets slipping a little lower. My brain short-circuits.
"I should go. I’ve got a surgery later this morning and can’t exactly walk into the OR smelling like sex."
"I can brew some kickass coffee quickly before you go, if you have a little time. We can watch the waves roll in together before you leave."
The words are out before I even think .
Sam glances over, amused. "Look at you, trying to be all romantic."
"I'm not ready to let you go."
Her grin spreads lazily. "I do have a few hours, I might be able to swing it. For good coffee, only, though."
A devilish smile spreads across my face, and I jump out of bed, grabbing my joggers from the floor.
I bend down and kiss her, surprising myself and probably her. I've never been so domestic in my life.
By the time I reach the kitchen, I've decided eggs are happening too. I'm cracking the third one into a bowl when Sam pads in, wearing nothing but my white T-shirt. It hangs to mid-thigh, accentuating her tanned legs. My company logo sits just above her left breast.
Something primitive stirs in my chest at the sight of her in my clothes.
"Making breakfast, too? That is presumptuous."
She slides onto a barstool at the kitchen island, crossing her legs. My T-shirt rides up her thighs.
I force myself to focus on the eggs. "You need protein before surgery ."
"So it's sex and breakfast now?" Her voice carries a teasing lilt, but underneath I hear the real question she keeps hinting at. What exactly are we doing?
I turn from the stove, spatula in hand, and meet her eyes with a deliberate smirk. "Depends on how good you are."
For a heartbeat, I wonder if I've misstepped. Then she laughs. It's a genuine, throaty sound that fills my kitchen and does something uncomfortable to my chest.
"I think we both know the answer to that." She reaches for the coffee I've poured her, wrapping both hands around the mug.
I turn back to the stove, grateful for the moment to compose myself. This banter, this easy morning-after chemistry, is unfamiliar territory. A woman in my kitchen, wearing my clothes, making jokes about our sex life like we have a shared history.
Like we might have a shared future.
The toast pops. I slide eggs onto plates, arrange bacon alongside them. When I turn, Sam is right behind me. She rises on tiptoes and presses a kiss to my shoulder before snagging a piece of toast from my plate.
"Hey. Thief." I grab her waist, pulling her against me.
Her eyes meet mine, warm and amused. "Residency rule number one. Always take food when offered. You never know when you'll eat again."
I should be knee-deep in projections, but all I’ve done for the last hour is stare at a single sentence in a board memo like it's written in another language.
Sam’s words from last night keep circling.
"If there's something I can do to shift this vote, please tell me."
And the worst part? She meant it. Fully and fiercely, like the woman she is, built from steel and grief and the legacy she’s trying to protect.
But there’s nothing she can do. Not really. Not with the way this deal was structured from day one.
Unless I change the structure.
My jaw tightens as I lean forward, fingers hovering over the keyboard. It’s a stupid idea. Naive, even. But I open a new document and start typing:
Regional nonprofit acquisition models – 2025
Estimated break-even scenarios under system integration
Coastal Baptist buyout path – Pros/Cons
It’s thin, but it’s something. A blueprint, or at least a breadcrumb trail.
Then I pick up the phone.
Not to call Angela, or to loop in my board.
I call Elliott Bancroft. COO of Coastal Baptist System. We haven’t spoken in a year, but he’s the only one I trust to give me a real answer without flagging it to my investors.
He answers on the third ring.
“Cole Houston,” he says, amused. “Either you’re selling something or about to ask for a favor.”
“Maybe both,” I say, leaning back. “Hypothetical question.”
“I’m listening.”
I keep it high-level. Coastal hospital, a long-standing name, financially underwater. I explain it has good bones but is bleeding money. Debt held by private equity, but no upgrades made yet, no branding shifts.
I leave out the part where I’m the private equity.
“Sounds like it’s primed for a concierge model,” Elliott says. “That area’s got the wealth for it.”
“It does,” I admit. “But what if that’s not the best outcome? What would it take for someone like Coastal Baptist to absorb the debt and keep it operating as a traditional nonprofit?”
He pauses. “You’re not just fishing, are you?”
“I’m testing feasibility. Let’s say the goal is to preserve public care access, legacy programs, trauma center, all of it.”
He exhales. “Then you’re talking full acquisition.
We’d take over the debt, maybe buy out the property, and fold it into our system.
If it worked, we'd keep it public-facing, keep the ER running, but cut or streamline the lower- performing departments. There would be no luxe amenities, no paywall medicine. It’d be functional, not flashy. ”
“And the return?”
“For you? Modest at best. Break-even if you’re lucky. Probably five to ten percent below what you paid, since no improvements have been made. We’d be buying the liability , not the vision.”
So there it is. A way to keep Sam’s hospital from being gutted and keep her mother’s name from being stapled to a premium membership plan. But it comes at a cost.
No upside. No investor excitement. No three-X windfall.
Just peace of mind. I'd do it in a heartbeat, but unfortunately, it isn't just me. I have a board and investors. There's no way in hell any of them would agree to that.
“You trying to protect someone?” he asks quietly.
“I’m considering my options.”
“That’s a first.”
I ignore that.
“I’ll run numbers. But if you want a system like ours to bite, you’ll need to make your move before the board finalizes the vote. Once the concierge is public, it’s radioactive for us.”
“Understood.”
I end the call and stare at the laptop again. My inbox is full of projections that assume I’ll stick to the plan. But for the first time, I’m starting to wonder what it would mean if I didn’t.
When I leave Palm Beach in four days, it is unlikely I'll ever see Sam Taylor again. Normally, that would be enough for me to know that in business, someone usually gets hurt, and I'm not responsible for anyone but myself.
But even still, there is something about this one that is nagging at me.