Chapter 8 Cole
EIGHT
Cole
It had been a few weeks since New Year’s—Chicago winter was brutal, all ice-bitten wind and streets packed with dirty slush, but the city had been washed white for a few days after the snowstorm, crisp and bright in a way that almost made the cold worth it—and somehow, instead of staying in my warm office, or in my even warmer house, I’d turned into the guy who kept finding reasons to brave the snow and drop by Guardian Hall.
Not that anyone had called me out on it…
yet. Alex and Marcus just… accepted it. Believed every bullshit excuse I came up with every damn time.
Which said something about their faith in me, or maybe about how good I’d gotten at lying to myself.
Take this morning, for example.
Alex emailed me a budget add-on for a swing set in the garden—something sturdy, safe, weatherproof, ready for spring—not just for Gabbi, who may not be there then, but for visiting family. I decided this needed my expert eye. I could’ve approved it by email in thirty seconds.
Instead, I wrote back that I very definitely needed to see the site in person. Vital. Urgent. Absolutely couldn’t decide without standing on the actual patch of grass.
Which was bullshit.
I just wanted to see Morgan. And Gabbi. But mostly Morgan—tired, wary, trying-so-hard Morgan—who kept pretending he didn’t notice the way I leaned in close or hovered or checked him and his daughter were okay.
I wasn’t ready to admit I wanted to be his person as much as he needed me.
So, I danced around it, found all kinds of bullshit excuses just randomly to visit.
And the thing was? No one questioned my excuses. Marcus even thanked me for being thorough, clapped me on the shoulder as if I was some responsible grown-up instead of a man rearranging his entire day for a thirty-second glimpse of a guy holding a baby.
So here I was. Again.
Driving over to Guardian Hall under the heroic banner of “swing set inspection,” fully aware I was coming for something else entirely.
Someone else.
My phone buzzed just as I reached the steps.
Mother.
I considered ignoring it. Didn’t.
“Cole,” she said without greeting. “You missed the Preston dinner.”
“I had work.”
“You always have work.”
I didn’t answer that.
A pause. Controlled. Measured. “Evelyn asked after you,” she continued. “Amelia will be in Chicago next month. I told them you would make time.”
“That was optimistic.”
“Cole.” Her tone sharpened. “You’ve been absent. Distracted. You can’t afford rumors about instability at the top.”
“Dating someone doesn’t create instability.”
Silence.
Then, carefully: “Are you seeing someone?”
I thought about Morgan. “I am.”
“Is she or he appropriate?” And there it was. My parents had never had a problem with my bisexuality, but I never failed to notice it was mostly women they wanted me to meet. All the better for creating the next generation without too much fuss, I guessed.
I watched snow slide off the roof of Guardian Hall. “He’s real,” I said finally.
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I know.”
Another pause. Then softer, and somehow worse, “Just be careful, Cole. People will assume motives.”
“I won’t let them.”
“I know you won’t, sweetheart, and remember, your father and I just want you to be happy.”
Happily married to someone suitable, I corrected but didn’t say that out loud.
I’d arrived just before lunch, crunching down the shoveled path to the front door. Marcus answered, the blast of warm air from inside hitting me like a wall. “Cole,” he said, letting me in with that calm tone that always made me feel like I was being assessed.
“Swing set,” I announced, way too loudly. He blinked at me. “Alex said you want to purchase a swing set.” A beat. “For the garden.”
“Oh yeah, we thought with the visiting kids it was a good idea, but you didn’t need to come here to talk about it if you—”
“I absolutely did,” I said, already flustered, which only made it worse. “I need to um… look at the site. Approve the—uh—structural suitability.”
Marcus nodded thoughtfully, but I saw his lips twitch as if he were holding back a grin. “Morgan is in group right now.”
“I’m not here to see Morgan,” I lied. Badly. “I’m here to examine the site of the swing set.”
“Sure,” Marcus said, absolutely unconvinced, and gestured down the hall. “This way.”
He led me through the family area and keyed in the code to the kitchen door. The lock clicked, and we stepped inside.
“There,” he said, pointing straight ahead.
I followed his finger to the patio doors… and the six-foot snow drift pressed against them like a frozen tidal wave.
“You want to go out and look?” Marcus asked, tone perfectly neutral.
I blustered. “Well, I mean—obviously—yes, but the, uh, snow… the—depth—of—look, it’s a safety concern right now.”
Marcus crossed his arms, a hint of amusement flickering on his face. "Sure it is.”
I hated him a little. And by hated, I meant I was already calculating how fast I could get through the next excuse and go “accidentally” find Morgan. “We won’t be able to build it now,” I said, as if I’d come to that decision myself.
“You’re right,” Marcus murmured. “It would mean a lot of shoveling.”
I threw him a snappy glance. He was teasing me; fully aware he’d caught me out and enjoying every second of it.
“Yeah, well,” I muttered, tugging my gloves off as if that somehow gave me authority, “shoveling isn’t in my job description. Or in any sane person’s winter plans.”
Marcus’s mouth twitched again. “Of course. And yet… here you are.”
I ignored that. Or tried to. “Look, the important thing is I’ve assessed the, uh, environmental limitations, and I’ll… circle back with Alex about next steps.”
“Next steps,” he echoed, deadpan. “For the swing set.”
“Yes, Marcus. The swing set.”
He raised an eyebrow as if he wanted to laugh but was being extremely kind not to. “You know,” he said casually, “group finishes in about ten minutes.”
My heart did something humiliating. “Okay? And?”
“And the kitchen gets busy after that. Guests want coffee. Staff grabbing lunch. People wandering through. If someone happened to be waiting around right now, they’d probably get a quiet moment with whoever they were hoping to see.”
He wasn’t subtle. Not even close.
“I don’t—” I started, ready to deny everything.
Marcus held up a hand, still amused, still annoyingly gentle about it. “Cole. It’s fine. You’re allowed to care about people. We’re not judging you.”
That landed somewhere deep in my chest, uncomfortable and warm all at once. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I defaulted to bluster.
“I’m literally here for the swing set,” I insisted, knowing I sounded ridiculous.
“Of course you are,” Marcus said, guiding me back out of the family area and locking the door. “Coffee? While you… stay exactly where Morgan will walk in after he picks up Gabbi from Jazz’s kitten creche when the group ends?”
“Very funny,” I said as Marcus smiled, then picked up on what he said. “Jazz’s kitten creche?”
“It’s what he’s calling it, him, Gabbi, and Rascal, over in the music room.”
“Oh… I might do a… music room investment check… or something, is that okay?”
Marcus gestured widely, and I left before he could give me any more shit.
I found Jazz and Gabbi exactly where Marcus said they’d be—the music room, warm and sunlit despite the snow outside. And I couldn’t gather myself into something resembling dignity, because within seconds, I was on the floor.
My suit jacket was tossed over a chair. My tie was damp where Gabbi had enthusiastically gummed it.
Rascal was weaving between my knees as if I were his personal jungle gym.
Toys everywhere—blocks, a tiny piano, some soft rattly thing that kept going off every time I shifted.
Jazz chatting about his new course—some veterinary nursing module he’d signed up for because, according to him, “if Rascal’s gonna choose me as his emotional support human, I should at least know how to look after the little dude properly. ”
And I didn’t care about the creases in my shirt or the baby drool soaking into expensive silk or the fact I probably looked like I’d rolled straight out of a toy store explosion.
Gabbi reached over my thigh with a determined little grunt, smacking a hand onto my stomach as if claiming the spot. Rascal thumped his kitten head against my ribs, demanding attention.
I gave it to both of them without thinking.
I didn’t care about work, or the stupid swing set lie, or how ridiculous I must’ve looked—a grown man in a custom suit sitting on the floor making animal noises to make a baby giggle.
I just… liked being here.
And I was so wrapped up in that tiny bubble that I didn’t notice the doorway until Jazz, lounging opposite me, juggling brightly colored cubes, lifted his chin.
“Morgan’s here,” Jazz murmured.
My head snapped up.
Morgan stood just inside, one hand braced on the frame, his expression something I couldn’t immediately read. Tired. A little stunned.
How long he’d been there, I didn’t know.
But his eyes weren’t on the kitten. Or the toys. Or even Gabbi.
They were on me.
And the way he looked at me—as if he didn’t know what to do with the sight of me on the floor, suit rumpled, tie chewed on, baby and kitten climbing me like a human playground—did something warm and slow and terrifying to me.
“Hi,” I said, then lost my thread.
Morgan stepped in and knelt beside me, holding out his arms.
“Bah!” Gabbi exclaimed, reaching for her dad. He chuckled and helped her, holding her close and then sitting crisscross, his back to the wall, as she burrowed into his arms.
“She finished her bottle,” I said. “And I burped her like Jazz showed me.”
Morgan nodded, but the movement was too quick. His lips pressed to Gabbi’s hair, his eyes shutting as if the feel of her was the only thing holding him together. A tremor went through him—barely there, but enough that my heart skipped.