37. Sam
THIRTY-SEVEN
Sam
Warm sheets stick to my skin, and something heavier than cotton wraps around my waist. Cole's arm is solid and becoming frighteningly familiar.
My bare legs tangle with his under the covers, and the air holds that unmistakable mix of sex and his cedar shampoo.
I blink at the ceiling, morning light slipping through the blinds in thin gold lines.
I absolutely did not mean to sleep with him again.
But there it is. My body aches in that specific, delicious way that makes me want to stretch like a satisfied cat. We started with Netflix and pizza on the couch, then his hand found my thigh during episode two, and somehow we ended up here.
I smirk slightly, remembering Arden's crack about "accidentally tripping and falling on his dick." I might've leaped.
Cole shifts beside me, his breath warm against my shoulder. "You're smiling."
Damn. He's awake .
I keep my eyes on the ceiling. "Just thinking about serial killers."
His laugh rumbles against my back. This feels good. This is different than what it was before. I don't know how or why, but it is different.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound hits my front door like a sledgehammer, and my body instantly reacts. My heart is pounding so hard it rattles my ribs.
"Shit. Shit!"
"What?" He asks, sitting bolt upright.
"The realtor.” I grab the sheet and yank it around me like a toga as I stumble out of bed.
Cole groans, still half-asleep. “Who?”
“Janet Reeves. Nine-thirty.” I yank my shorts off the dresser and shimmy into them without bothering to find underwear.
"Why?
“She's here for the listing appointment.”
He blinks up at me, frowning. “You’re listing your house today ?”
“I forgot!” I dig through a pile for my tank top.
Cole props himself on one elbow, his hair wild, the sheet dangerously low on his hip. “Want me to go?”
"Just stay in here!" I hiss as I try to straighten my hair. I rub my shirt over my teeth.
Cole throws an arm over his eyes, his voice muffled. "Seriously?"
"Do not come out unless the house is on fire."
He sits up slowly, running his good hand through his hair. The sling lies on my nightstand, forgotten. "What if I get thirsty?"
"Drink from the tap." I point toward my en-suite bathroom .
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Coming!" I call toward the front door, then lower my voice.
He stands, completely unbothered by his nakedness, and strolls toward the bathroom like he has all the time in the world. I catch myself staring at his back, the way his shoulders flex.
I smooth my hair again with both hands, checking my reflection in the dresser mirror. There's a small mark on my collarbone that I cover with the tank top's fabric.
Breathe. Professional smile. You can do this.
The knocking comes again, more insistent.
"One second!"
I hurry through the living room, stepping over Cole's discarded jeans and kicking his shoes under the couch. The pizza boxes from last night sit on the coffee table next to two empty wine glasses.
I tug open the front door and paste on my brightest professional smile. "Janet! I overslept."
She stands on my porch in a crisp navy blazer, tablet in hand, looking like she stepped out of a real estate magazine. Her eyes scan past me into the living room.
"Good morning, Dr. Taylor. I hope I didn't disturb you."
Heat crawls up my neck. "Not at all. I'm a little out of sorts catching up on downtime, please pardon the mess."
Janet glances at her watch. "I'm a few minutes early. I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd take a chance."
"No, it's perfect timing." I step aside to let her in, praying she doesn't notice the wine glasses or the suspicious lack of couch cushions. "I had planned to tidy up this morning, but I guess I needed more sleep than I realized."
She sets her tablet on the counter and pulls out a thick folder. "Would you prefer to reschedule the walk-through? We could always come back when you've had time to prepare the space."
"That might be better. I'm so sorry, I hope that works."
"Though since I'm here, we could at least handle the paperwork and discuss pricing strategy." She gestures toward the kitchen bar.
"That works."
"The walk-through is really just for my notes anyway. And I can always have my photographer come back once you leave. You said Monday, right?"
I force another smile. "That would be perfect. I'll make sure to have it spotless for you."
The faster we do this, the faster she leaves.
We settle at the kitchen bar, and she spreads documents across the cold surface. The listing agreement, market analysis, and staging recommendations.
We talk about price and showing arrangements. She already knows this neighborhood doesn't allow signs. There is very little information she needs from me.
My signature line waits at the bottom of each page like a finish line. This is it. No going back.
The hardwood creaks somewhere down the hallway, and I freeze mid-signature. Janet doesn't seem to notice, pointing to a clause about commission splits.
"Standard six percent, split between buyer and seller agents. Given the market right now, I expect multiple offers within the first week."
Another creak, softer this time. Cole, please just stay put.
I sign my name with a flourish, trying to look confident instead of terrified. "How quickly could we close?"
"Cash offers can close quickly. These houses tend to get those types of buyers. Financed buyers typically need thirty to forty-five days." She flips to the next page .
"Great."
"You mentioned you're relocating to Atlanta permanently?"
"Yes. New job, fresh start." I glance toward the hallway as she talks about comparable sales and staging tips.
"The view is spectacular." She gestures toward the sliding door where Cole and I stood arguing yesterday. "Ocean-facing properties always move faster than bay-side."
She stacks the signed documents into her folder. "We put the listing date for the end of next week, as requested. I'll have my photographer come Monday afternoon."
"That's perfect."
We shake hands, and I walk her to the door. The moment it clicks shut behind her, I slump against the wood and exhale.
"Coffee?"
I spin around to find Cole emerging from the hallway, shirtless and holding two steaming mugs like he's been brewing them all morning. His hair is damp from my shower, and he's got that satisfied, sleepy look that makes my stomach flip.
"Did you just make yourself at home in my kitchen while I was showing her out?"
He shrugs, offering me a mug. "You said not to come out unless the house was on fire. You didn't say anything about coffee."
"You're wearing pants."
"Seemed like the smart move after yesterday's door incident. Thank goodness Janet isn't a backdoor friend just yet."
He flexes his shoulders, testing the range of motion.
"Plus, your coffee maker is intimidating when I'm completely nude. "
"It's just a Keurig." I accept the mug and breathe in the steam. "How'd you even know which pods I like?"
"I picked the one you had the most of, figured that was a favorite. I like how you have seventeen different flavors and they're all organized by roast level," he teases.
"I like order."
"I noticed." His mouth quirks up at one corner. "So, twice in two days. That's got to be some kind of record for getting caught naked together."
Heat crawls up my neck. "All I'm going to say is luckily her photographer didn't bust in there before we were up."
He sips his coffee, eyes dancing with mischief. "I bet it would have put your listing above the rest."
"That is a thought. Maybe I'll pitch it to 'ol Janet."
He gestures toward the sliding door. "Want to take this outside? It looks like a nice morning."
I follow him onto the deck. The ocean stretches out endlessly. It's surprisingly calm this morning. There's hardly any wind.
Cole settles into the lounge chair where this all started. I choose the one beside it, close enough to feel his presence but far enough to think clearly.
"So, you're really selling?" He says it gently, no judgment.
"Yeah, it looks like it. It's so crazy."
"You love your runs out here."
"I do." I tuck one leg under me, cradling the warm mug. "But it’s the right move. I found this mobile clinic in Atlanta—it serves under-resourced neighborhoods, and they’re trying to relaunch. They need funding, and this house has been my safety net for too long."
I know the words are true as I say them. Mom's inheritance continues to cradle me through each stage. Now I can use it for something she would've championed .
His face shifts, something careful and regretful crossing his features. "Sam, about the wing?—"
"We don't need to go there, Cole." I cut him off, but without heat.
"Sorry."
"Don't get me wrong. Everything happens in its time. This mobile clinic I'm planning to resurrect honors her, too. Her charity gets to live through something new."
He nods slowly, understanding. "That's nice, Sam."
"I know I said we don't need to go there, but you gave me some good advice one night when we were talking about the changes that were coming. You said something like, 'maybe saving what your mother built means letting it evolve.' That's gotten me through this."
"Wow. I said that? So poetic."
"Maybe not those exact words, but yes, you did."
"Hmm. Not bad. So is the plan for you to run all of this program? Isn't that a full-time job, on top of your already full-time job?"
"I'd call it part-time. It only runs one day a week. I would probably get volunteers to coordinate most things, and I would just make sure we are staying on top of things. Working one day in the mobile clinic will count toward my hospital hours, so that isn't any different."
"Would you do everything a clinic would do?"
"Pretty much. We could do basic care, screenings, and follow-ups. Nothing fancy, but consistent."
Cole asks three more questions about logistics, funding streams, and patient tracking. Smart questions. Thoughtful ones. The kind that shows he's actually listening instead of just waiting for his turn to talk.
Something warm unfurls in my chest that has nothing to do with coffee .
"You're doing this." He says it with something like admiration.
"Scared as hell, but yeah." I glance at my phone and sigh. "Speaking of doing things that scare me, I have lunch with Dad in an hour."
"Mind if I tag along?"
"Actually, no. Come on." I stand, brushing hair out of my face.
“Kidding. No, I'll pass. I've got some work to do, anyway.
The Coastal Grill perches right on the water with white umbrellas shading small tables scattered across weathered wood decking. Salt air mixes with grilled fish and lemon.
Dad waves from a corner table, his silver hair catching the filtered sunlight. He stands as I approach, that formal gesture that never changes.
"You look rested."
Flashes of the acrobatics I did late into the night roll across my mind. I did not get enough sleep, but I guess something did me right.
"Thanks. Sorry I'm a few minutes late."
The server appears before I'm fully seated. We order matching Caesar salads and iced tea. Safe choices. Nothing that requires much attention.
Dad straightens his napkin. "How's Atlanta treating you?"
"Good. Challenging, but good." I fidget with my water glass. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something."
His eyebrows lift slightly.
"I'm launching a mobile medical unit," I say, keeping it simple. "It’ll serve underserved communities around Atlanta."
My voice stays steady. Just facts. No pitch, no sell.
Dad nods slowly. "You know, your mother talked about doing something like that here. Back in the late eighties, before anyone was doing it."
I blink. "No, I didn’t know that."
"Yeah. She had it all mapped out. Even planned a fundraiser." He shakes his head a little. "Can’t remember now why it didn’t pan out."
The air shifts. A chill moves down my spine, like something bigger is at work. Like I didn’t just choose this, I was meant for it.
Dad stays quiet, his focus razor-sharp like always. The server sets down our salads. He picks up his fork, takes a measured bite, then asks, "Is that why you're selling the house?"
I’d been bracing for this. I told him when we spoke before I flew in. But now the nerves are gone. I hope he’s supportive. But if he’s not, that's okay, too.
I nod. "I needed to stop holding onto something just because I was afraid to let go. This is a way for me to bring Mom with me, and for me to do something meaningful with my inheritance."
His fork pauses halfway to his mouth. Something shifts in his expression. He's still cautious, but different, like he's seeing me instead of just looking at me.
Dad sets down his fork and looks at me. "You sound like your mother."
My chest tightens, but not with that familiar ache of falling short. This feels different, like recognition instead of comparison.
"You've always had her spine. I don't say that enough."
Her spine. Not her shadow .
"Thank you, Dad. That means a lot."
"She would've loved this." His voice softens.
We finish eating in comfortable quiet, watching boats drift past the marina. For once, I’m not trying to win his approval or prove I measure up. I'm just sharing my plan with my father.
“Keep me posted.” He signals for the check. “I’m proud of you, Sammy.”
The words hit differently this time. Like he means them instead of feeling obligated to say them.
I hug him goodbye in the parking lot, breathing in his familiar cologne. “I’ll probably see you again before I leave.”
As I slide into the driver’s seat, my phone buzzes with a text from Monique Whitaker.
Call me ASAP.
I stare at the screen, and my mouth goes dry. Today's been too good. I don't want any bad news to ruin it.