32. Cole
THIRTY-TWO
Cole
The deck chair creaks under my weight as I lean back, phone pressed to my ear. The inky black night is cloudless.
I've got a fresh Corona in my hand. I decided to do something different tonight.
My sunglasses sit forgotten in my shirt breast pocket.
"Monday morning at nine works perfectly. I'll sign in person," I tell Janet, the realtor.
Her voice carries that professional surprise I've gotten used to. "Oh, you're flying in for the closing?"
"I arrived about an hour ago. I'm in Palm Beach and will be until we close on Monday."
"I have to admit, Mr. Houston, I expected you'd overnight the original closing documents from New York. Most of our out-of-state sellers handle it that way."
"The trust documents make an in-person signature easier than coordinating with legal. Since everything happened so fast, I made it work for my schedule to come. Also, I wanted to pick up a few things I left behind."
That's the excuse, anyway.
The real reason sits in my chest like a stone. I wanted one last weekend in this house. One last time to sit on this deck and stare out at the water we enjoyed together.
"Of course. We'll have everything ready. The furniture conveys with the sale, correct? The inventory we discussed?"
"Everything stays except a few personal items."
Like the Harvard sweatshirt she wore to bed that one morning. The one hanging in my closet that still carries the faintest trace of her perfume. That's what I really came for.
"Perfect. The buyers are thrilled about the furnishings. They're from Boston and won't be moving down until next year, so having everything staged makes the transition seamless."
I walk down the steps to the beach and sit on the bottom step to watch the ghost crabs scurry on the beach. "Glad it worked out for everyone."
"Any last questions about the closing process?"
"None. You've been thorough."
Too thorough. She probably knows more about this sale than I do at this point.
"Wonderful. I'll see you Monday at nine. And Mr. Houston, enjoy your time in Palm Beach. I hope your brief ownership has been everything you hoped."
The irony hits like a punch. Everything I hoped for and nothing like I expected.
"This was always an investment. But I did enjoy it more than I expected."
I end the call and set the phone on the step next to my warming beer. The house is different now. It's hollow, like it's already not mine anymore. I'm not sure if that's because she's not here to share it with, or if I've already moved on from this place mentally.
The ocean stretches out endlessly, same as always. I can't help but wonder what Sam is doing right now in Atlanta. She loved this beach so much. No doubt it is a big adjustment for her.
I wish I could pick up the phone and catch up. If only things hadn't ended like they did. If only my entire reputation and innuendo weren't printed in the Palm Beach Post for her to see without me being able to explain.
I dig my toes deeper and watch the waves roll in. The sand is still warm from the day's heat. The rhythm is hypnotic, constant. It's the same sand I felt under my feet the night I found her on her deck in that silk robe.
The night that changed everything and put both of us on a trajectory neither of us saw coming.
The bottle of Corona is essentially empty. I can finally understand the allure of a beer on the beach.
The foam from the last wave dissolves into the sand twenty feet away, leaving dark wet patches that catch what's left of the light. A small creak interrupts the silence. It's familiar, like the sound of Sam's sliding glass door.
I look up toward her house and freeze.
Sam.
She leans against the railing, hair damp and twisted up in a messy knot.
That champagne silk robe, the same one from that first night when I stumbled onto her deck like an idiot tourist, catches the last rays of light.
The fabric moves with the ocean breeze, and she's completely unaware that I'm here.
My chest tightens, and my stomach drops. Heat shoots straight through me.
Fuck .
I haven't seen her in almost two months. Two months of forcing myself not to think about her, not to imagine what she's doing in Atlanta, not to wonder if she ever thinks about what we had here .
And now she's twenty feet away wearing that goddamn robe.
I stand slowly, beer bottle forgotten at my side.
"Sam?"
She startles, spinning toward my voice. Her eyes search the darkness before locking on mine.
"Cole? What are you doing here?"
The breath catches in her voice. That tiny hitch that used to drive me crazy when I'd kiss her neck just below her ear.
"I didn't know you were still in town. I thought you'd moved."
She nods slowly, her knuckles white where she grips the railing. "I'm just here for a few days. Came to check on my dad and meet with a realtor."
Her voice tightens, more guarded now. The way it used to get when she'd catch herself being too honest, too open. She's selling the house.
"I should go inside," she says, breaking the silence.
The words hang between us like a challenge neither of us wants to accept. She doesn't move. Neither do I.
I watch her, taking in every detail I'd forced myself to forget. The way her robe gaps slightly at the chest when she leans forward. How her damp hair catches the porch light. The flush creeping up her neck means she's feeling everything I am.
I wasn't ready for this.
She turns back toward her house, and I catch the profile that haunted my dreams for weeks after I left. The curve of her jaw, the way she bites her bottom lip when she's fighting with herself about something.
"Sam. Wait."
She stops but doesn't look back. I stand and wipe the sand off my ass .
"It's good to see you."
She nods once and disappears behind the balcony door. But the light stays on.
I sink back onto the step, my empty, warm beer forgotten beside me. The waves keep rolling in, same as they have, but everything feels different now.
She's here.
I stare at that lit window, knowing she's just inside, only a few feet away.
There's so much pain between us, so much I need to say. Maybe the two of us being here at the same time means I have to say something. Anything. All of the things I've said and re-said in my head, to apologize for the shit with the Post, our last day, her father.
Everything.
My phone lights up with a text, but I don't check it. Whatever crisis needs my attention in New York can wait. I came here to say goodbye to this place, to close this chapter cleanly.
That task just got a hell of a lot bigger.
I walk back up my stairs without thinking, my legs heavy. The deck lounger welcomes my weight as I sink down, looking to my right at her empty deck.
My phone sits within reach on the side table. I could text her. Something simple to see if she would be willing to let me try to explain. I haven't reached out since all of the drama with the Post started.
Fucking Laural Harrelson.
But what's the point? She disappeared inside faster than she appeared once she knew I was there. The message couldn't be clearer.
The last real conversation we had ended with her walking away from me . I let her go. But I've regretted it since. I rub both hands over my face, frustration bubbling under my skin. I close my eyes and exhale slowly. The ocean keeps its steady rhythm, indifferent to the chaos in my chest.
Just leave it alone, Houston.
She made her choice. She's moved on from all of this, isn't even living here, and probably hasn't thought about me in weeks. I should respect that.
I should do the same. Chasing her down would be crossing a line she's already drawn in thick red ink.
For the first time in weeks, I have no idea what the right move is. In business, every decision has data to back it up. Risk assessment. Projected outcomes. Clear paths forward. More than that, I have a gut instinct.
When it comes to Sam, I don't have a fucking clue. We are two people who hurt each other, standing on opposite sides of twenty feet of sand and pride.
Suddenly, the clear night has clouds. They drift across what little moon we have, darkening the sky further. The temperature hasn't dropped, but the air is thicker now. Humid. Heavy with the promise of rain that might not come.
I lie back on the lounger, letting my eyes find the stars still visible through the thin cloud cover. Just five minutes to think. To feel her presence next door, to let myself imagine what might happen if I knocked on her door.
The night air wraps around me like a blanket. Warm. Still. The sound of waves mixes with my breathing.
Before I realize it, my eyes drift closed.
A soft thud jolts me awake. My neck screams in protest as I lift my head from where it's been twisted against the lounger's slats.
The sky overhead is pale gray, caught between night and dawn, and for a split second, I don't know where the hell I am .
My shirt is wrinkled, clinging to my chest with dampness from the humid air. The tide has crept closer while I slept, waves lapping at sand that was dry when I dozed off.
Movement catches my eye through the early light. Sam steps onto her deck, and my pulse kicks like a racehorse out of the gate.
She's dressed for a run. Tight black shorts that hit mid-thigh and a gray sports bra that leaves her midriff bare. Her hair is pulled back in a high ponytail, and she's got headphones in, completely unaware I'm watching.
Don't look. Give her privacy.
But I can't stop myself. She lifts her arms overhead in a slow stretch, back arching, and blood rushes somewhere it has no business going at dawn after sleeping on a deck chair. Every line of her body is familiar territory I've memorized and tried to forget.
She rolls her shoulders, touches her toes, then jogs down her steps toward the beach. I watch her figure grow smaller as she heads south, carefully avoiding passing in front of my house.
I push myself off the lounger, muscles protesting from the night on the deck. Inside, I strip off my wrinkled shirt and joggers and step into the shower, letting hot water beat against my shoulders. The mirror shows me what lack of sleep and too much thinking look like. It's not pretty.
Twenty minutes later, I'm back outside in athletic shorts and a t-shirt, towel around my neck like I might actually work out instead of just torturing myself by watching for her return.
And there she is, headed back from her run, sweat glistening at her hairline. Her breathing is steady and controlled, but I can see the flush of exertion on her chest and neck. She slows as she hits the sand in front of my place .
This is my moment. Maybe my only one.
I jog down my steps, catching up to her just as she transitions from running to walking. My heart slams against my ribs.
"Mind if I join you for your cooldown?"
She startles, head whipping toward me. Her expression is unreadable behind those clear hazel eyes that used to soften when she looked at me. Now they're guarded, careful.
But she doesn't stop walking. Doesn't tell me to fuck off.
That tiny sliver of grace feels monumental.
We fall into step beside each other, our feet finding the same rhythm in the sand. The silence between us stretches taut, brimming with everything we haven't said. Every step beside her feels like walking on a knife's edge.
She hasn't forgiven me. She hasn't even said my name. But she's letting me walk with her.
The breeze picks up, carrying the scent of salt and something tropical from the dunes. Her ponytail swings with each step, and I remember how that hair felt between my fingers.
Finally, she glances at me. Just once, quick as a hummingbird.
"This doesn't mean anything."
Her voice is steady, matter-of-fact. Like she's stating the weather.
I nod, keeping my voice level.
"Of course."