36. Cole
THIRTY-SIX
Cole
The doctor looks at me like I'm an idiot. Can't say I blame her.
"Nothing's broken. Just a deep soft-tissue contusion. You're lucky."
She clips her pen to the clipboard, already moving toward the door. No bedside manner, but I respect the efficiency.
"Sling for a few days. Try not to get in the way of any more sliding glass doors."
I huff a laugh despite the throbbing in my shoulder. "Yeah, I'll stay out of door wars."
Door wars. Christ. I sound like a moron.
Twenty minutes later, I'm standing in some boutique wine shop off Worth Avenue, scanning the refrigerated cases. The clerk hovers, eager to push whatever costs the most.
"We have an excellent Chablis from?—"
"Vermentino. Coastal. Whatever you've got chilled."
His eyebrows lift. "Ah. Excellent choice. We have a lovely bottle from?— "
"I'll take three bottles of your best one. Whatever's coldest."
He bags them in ice sleeves without another word, probably thinking I'm stocking up for a party. If only he knew this was my Hail Mary.
Back at the house, I stick the bottles in the refrigerator and kick off my shoes. The sling cuts across my chest, navy fabric against my rumpled button-down. I look like I've been through a blender.
The deck's bathed in late golden light when I step outside. The ocean stretches endlessly. This is a pretty sweet view.
Unable to help myself, I look to my right to see if Sam is in her normal seat on her deck. She waves when she sees me, and I lift my left hand back.
Her mouth tightens when she sees the sling and walks over to the edge closest to mine. "Is it broken?"
I walk toward her to answer without yelling. "Nah. Just badly bruised. Doc said I'd live. I bought wine on the way home to nurse it."
She stares at me, wary as a cat sizing up a stranger. "What kind?"
"Vermentino. Your favorite, of course. Shameless bribery tactic. Care to join me?"
Her lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but not the door-slamming fury from this morning either.
"I'm not coming to your house, but you're welcome to join me. But only if you're bringing the wine."
My pulse jumps. She's inviting me over. It's not forgiveness, but it's something.
"Deal."
I slip back inside, grab the wine, and cross the sand between our houses. Each step is loaded, like walking a tightrope over everything we haven't said .
Don't fuck this up, Houston. Last chance.
The bag crinkles in my good hand as I climb her deck steps. Sam's already got plastic stemless wine glasses on the coffee table. She's wearing baggy jeans and a tank top, hair loose around her shoulders.
"I got it."
The corkscrew motion sends fire down my right shoulder, but I grit through it. Sam watches me struggle with the simple twist-top for exactly three seconds before her face softens.
"Here, let me?—"
"I got it."
The cap finally gives with a satisfying twist. I pour with my left hand, managing not to spill more than a few drops on the glass table.
We settle into the cushioned chairs, the silence stretching between us. Waves crash in steady rhythm below, and the sky bleeds from gold into soft lavender. Sam takes the first sip, then glances over.
"Sorry about the bum arm."
"Your door won. Decisively."
That earns me almost a smile. She leans back, facing the ocean. "So. You wanted to talk. Talk."
My chest tightens. This is it. The moment where I either fix this or destroy whatever microscopic chance I might have left.
"Alright. Where to begin… Ask me anything."
She tilts her head. "Anything?"
"I'm an open book now. Whatever you want to know."
"Were you lying the whole time? About everything?"
The question hits like a punch. "About liking you? No. About wanting to be with you? Never. With the board stuff, transparency, yeah. I held back."
"Why? I mean, I get it at first. But once things progressed, once you knew how much this vote would've wrecked me, why weren't you up front?"
"To be honest, things were already in motion before I even got here. I didn't know you when all of this started. It got tricky fast once we met. I didn't know how to handle it. I tried to fix it. But plain and simple, I fucked up."
Her jaw tightens. "Tricky."
"I liked you. Even if this was temporary, I started to have conflicting feelings about what we were doing very early on. But I had responsibilities, contracts already signed. I couldn't just?—"
"Just what? Tell the truth?"
"I should have. You're right." The admission burns, but it's true.
She studies my face like she's looking for tells. "At what point did you realize you should have been upfront?"
"After you gave me the tour of your mom's wing." I set down my glass.
"I started reeling about everything, I scrambled to try to find another way to do this."
"You still didn't tell me your part in this."
"I knew that wouldn't change anything. And I admit, I didn't want to risk losing you. I thought if anything could be done to fix it, I had to do it quietly. At that point, though, telling you my part wouldn't have done anything except solidify the plan already in motion."
"I guess that makes sense, but I still can't make sense of feeling like everything between us was a lie."
"Our time together was the most authentic I've ever been."
She shakes her head. I'm not sure what she's thinking, but it feels so good to get this off my chest, for her to know why I made the choices I did. It doesn't make them right .
"You said you resigned. What does that mean? It's your own company. You are Houston Enterprises."
"I resigned from King's Holdings. That is the shell company that Houston Enterprises owns, essentially.
It is the acquisitions arm. I resigned from King's Holdings.
I will no longer be a part of that, even though my company owns it.
It's confusing, but I will no longer do any acquisitions.
And I left before this deal closed, meaning I'm not involved anymore. "
"You said that was to protect me."
"It was. Through this, I also realized that I don't want to do that type of business anymore. Absorbing companies, or hospitals, and reorganizing for profit don't take into account the people behind them. I never saw it that way before you." I lean forward as much as the sling allows.
She's quiet for a long moment, watching the horizon. "What do you want, Cole? Is this a long-winded apology?"
"I'm saying I want another shot, to do it right. I want to show you I'm different than who I was three months ago. Maybe a clean slate."
"You live in New York. I live in Atlanta. This was never going to be anything other than temporary." Her voice is matter-of-fact.
"So?"
She actually laughs. "You're crazy."
"Undoubtedly. But I can't stop thinking about you. About us. About what we could be if we actually gave it a real chance. I want to date you without an expiration date."
"A real chance," she repeats.
"Yeah. No lies, no holding back, no half-truths. Just?—"
The sliding glass door opens behind us with a sharp whoosh. Sam's father steps onto the deck, still handsome in his seventies, silver hair catching the fading light .
My entire body goes rigid. Shit.
"Dad." Sam's voice is carefully neutral.
"Dr. Taylor," I nod at him. He doesn't acknowledge me.
"I didn't know you were stopping by."
Samuel Taylor's eyes lock on mine with laser precision. The last time we spoke, he'd asked point-blank if I was sleeping with his daughter. The conversation that followed had been a nightmare for everyone involved.
"Cole." His voice could freeze ocean water.
I stand to shake his hand awkwardly with my left hand. He puts his hands in his pockets.
He looks between us, taking in the wine glasses, the intimate seating arrangement, and my presence on his daughter's deck. His mouth forms a thin line.
"I came to check on you before lunch tomorrow. I didn't realize you had company. I'll let you get back to it."
The tension could be cut with a knife. Sam shifts in her chair, and I can see her calculating how to handle this.
Sam stands slowly, wine glass still in hand, but her posture is straight. She's measured, not fidgeting or shrinking. She stands beside me, and we make quite the trio standing here.
“Dad, you don’t have to go. You’re welcome to join us.”
His brow lifts, but he doesn’t step forward. “I'm meeting Hattie for dinner. I was just stopping in to see you."
He flicks his gaze to me again, and I brace myself for the verbal blow I’m certain is coming. The sling, the soft lighting, the fact that I’m on her deck and not the other way around—it all looks bad. Or worse, intimate.
I clear my throat. “I was just heading out anyway. Good to see you. ”
I set my plastic cup on the railing.
“No,” Sam says firmly. Her voice cuts clean and quiet, but it lands. “You’re staying.”
I freeze. So does her father.
She turns toward him, not confrontational, but resolute. “Dad, I appreciate you checking in. And I’m looking forward to lunch tomorrow. But I’m not sixteen, and this isn’t a high school rebellion. If I want to spend time with someone, I’ll evaluate what that means for myself.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak.
She doesn’t let the silence drag. “I’d love for you to join us and enjoy a glass of a really nice Vermentino. But if you’re uncomfortable, I get it. We can catch up tomorrow.”
His eyes move between us again. I'm still standing awkwardly with my arm strapped to my chest, and Sam is calm and collected with her chin lifted just enough to say I’m not backing down.
“I don't want to keep Hattie waiting,” he says finally, a note of something, resignation, maybe, underneath the formality.
He steps forward just enough to kiss Sam’s cheek. “I’ll see you at lunch.”
She nods. “Looking forward to it.”
He turns to me. “Good night, Cole.”
“Sir,” I say, my voice low.
Then he’s gone, retreating through the house, leaving behind an unmistakable sense of judgment.
Sam lets out a breath, long and quiet, once he's gone.
“Sorry,” I say, voice rough.
“Don’t be. That was mine to handle.”
She picks up the bottle, refills both cups, then gestures toward the lounge chair next to hers.
I settle back into the chair beside her, my shoulder still throbbing, not entirely sure if I should make a graceful exit. The silence stretches between us, but it's different now. Less charged, more thoughtful.
Sam's shoulders carry tension like armor. She stares at her wine glass, rotating it slowly between her palms. The confrontation with her father rattled her more than she's letting on.
"We don't have to keep talking, if you're tired of being emotionally wrung out. We could go for a walk or something easy. Or... do nothing."
She lets out a slow breath and finally meets my eyes. “Honestly? I was planning on catching up on the new season of You tonight. Ever seen it?”
I shake my head. “Are we talking romcom or period piece drama?”
Her lips twitch into the first real smile I’ve seen all day. “It’s about a sexy serial killer. Oddly cathartic, believe it or not.”
I give her a dry look. “Sexy serial killer. Okay. So I’m either walking into a psychological test or the most unsettling revenge plan ever. Still better than eating takeout alone next door, watching Food Network reruns. I’m in.”
She hesitates for half a second, then nods. “I’m not in the mood to go deep tonight. But if you want to stay and watch, you can.”
Relief washes through me. “That sounds perfect. Can I at least order pizza?”
She arches a brow. “Only if you’ll order Hawaiian.”
“You’re one of those ,” I mutter, already pulling out my phone.
“Yep. And I put Nutella on my green apples. Just in case you want to know my food crimes up front.”
“Noted,” I say, looking up as I finish the order. One Hawaiian, and one pepperoni .
Sam opens the sliding door to her living room. “Come on. Don’t expect anything but couch time, though. No repeats of this morning.”
“Understood. My expectations are tragically low.”
Which is a lie. Just being here feels like winning the goddamn lottery.