Chapter Fourteen Cole
We had sex three days ago.
The thought filters through me for approximately the eight hundredth time since she fell asleep in my arms and I lay there staring at the ceiling, trying to process what had just happened. The skydiving. The marsh. The shower. Her.
Her.
I’ve replayed every moment so many times that I’ve probably worn grooves into my neural pathways. The way she laughed when we hit the mud. The sound she made when I—
Stop.
I need to stop.
I can’t meet her with a hard-on.
Standing in front of my bathroom mirror, I adjust my shirt for the fourth time. Dark-gray T-shirt, dark jeans, boots. I’ve gone back and forth for almost an hour. This date is a literal walk in the park, but my brain is making it so much more serious than it needs to be.
My laptop sits open on the kitchen counter, cursor blinking in a search bar. I’ve spent too many days in a row deep-diving into Lars Winters’s life. The urge to learn everything there is to know about him constricts in my chest, a tightness that won’t ease until I know it all.
The man is a monster in more ways than one.
I grab my keys and wallet, deliberately leaving the laptop closed. Today is about me and Hailey. Not him.
…
The parking lot is half-full when I arrive at Sheldon Lake—families with strollers, joggers, a group of elderly women power-walking in matching visors. I spot Hailey’s car immediately, the keyed word covered by multiple rows of silver duct tape.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel. Every time I see it, something dark and violent unfurls in my chest. He did that.
Keyed that word into her car like he was marking his territory.
The urge to find him and have a very educational conversation about respecting women rises immediately. And by conversation, I mean—
No. That’s not who I am anymore. That’s not who I’m trying to be.
I park next to her car and take a second to compose myself before getting out. The autumn air is crisp, carrying the smell of fallen leaves and distant woodsmoke. Colorado in October is infinitely beautiful.
Hailey is waiting near a gazebo, leaning against a wooden sign that displays a map of the sculpture park. She’s wearing leggings that hug her curves and an oversize sweatshirt that keeps slipping off one shoulder. Her blond hair is loose, catching the afternoon light.
She’s devastating. I’ve known since our first meeting how naturally beautiful she is, but every time I see her, it hits me all over again.
When she spots me, her face breaks into a smile. She pushes off the sign and walks toward me, and before I can overthink it, she’s rising to press a kiss to my mouth.
“Hi,” she says against my lips.
“Hi.” My hands find her waist automatically, pulling her closer. She fits against me so perfectly. “You’re early.”
“So are you.”
“I’m always early.”
“I know.” She grins, pulling back to look at me. “I figured I’d beat you for once.”
“Damn.” I’m grinning now, the tension in my chest easing slightly. “Competitive.”
“You have no idea.”
We start walking along the paved path that circles the lake, and I have to consciously stop myself from immediately scanning for threats.
Old habits. Instead, I grab Hailey’s hand, lacing her fingers with mine.
The trail is well populated, with autumn colors reflecting off the water and families feeding ducks near the shore.
We approach the first sculpture along the trail—a towering metal structure that looks like either a bird in flight or a very ambitious tornado. The placard identifies it as “Aspiration” by some artist I’ve never heard of.
“What do you think it’s supposed to be?” Hailey asks, tilting her head.
“Modern art is just a Rorschach test for rich people.”
She snorts. “That’s deeply cynical.”
“I prefer realistic.” I study the sculpture, trying to see what the artist intended. I should make more of an effort. Modern art might be a test for the rich, but maybe this walk is Hailey’s test for me. “I think it’s supposed to represent upward movement. Maybe…striving for something?”
“I was going to say it looks like a drunk crane.”
I knew I liked this woman.
“Also valid.”
We continue along the path, passing more sculptures of varying comprehensibility. There’s one that’s definitely a fish, one that might be a human figure or possibly a melting candle, and one that I’m fairly certain is just a large rock with a placard next to it.
“This one’s called ‘Persistence,’” Hailey reads, gesturing to the rock.
“It’s a rock.”
“An artistic rock.”
“It’s literally just sitting there.”
“Uh, it’s persisting, obviously.” She grins at me, clearly enjoying my confusion. “Maybe that’s the point. It’s been here for millions of years.”
“Or maybe someone got a grant and decided to see what they could get away with.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m discerning.”
She laughs again, leaning into me as we walk. The contact sends warmth spreading through my chest. This is nice. Normal. Two people walking around a lake, holding hands, making fun of pretentious art.
I could get used to this.
The thought terrifies me. Love is something I’ve only ever allowed myself to view from a distance. It’s not something I thought I was cut out for—not something I ever let myself imagine.
After my parents died, I felt responsible for Emma in a way that had nothing to do with our grandparents.
They were loving caregivers who gave us the best childhood they could, given the circumstances.
But making Emma feel safe in a world that had suddenly upended life as we knew it—that had abruptly robbed us of our parents, our home, our normal—nothing was more important to me.
Maybe it’s not that I’ve viewed love from a distance. Maybe it’s just that I’ve viewed love as duty. Love is protection in a world full of unexpected impacts.
Emma and I learned early that the life you know can become something totally unrecognizable in the time it takes for an airbag to deploy.
I can only imagine what Tracey Doyle would do with that information.
She’d probably tell me that losing my parents at a formative age and assuming a parental role in Emma’s life was some kind of trauma.
She’d frame my experiences as a problem to be solved, or the symptoms of a disease only she can diagnose.
No fucking thank you.
So what if I’ve always been different—broken in ways others weren’t?
Everything is different with Hailey. Stunning and stunningly competent, cool under pressure, safe.
Hailey is a woman who understands how quickly tragedy can strike.
She sees it every day at work—probably understood it inherently from her childhood on military bases.
Is this my chance at love and happiness?
We stop near a bench overlooking the lake. The afternoon sun is starting to dip, casting long shadows across the water. Hailey sits down, pulling me with her.
“Can I ask you something?” I say.
“Sure.” She gives me a smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“How are things going with Lars Winters?” I keep my voice casual, but I’m watching her reaction carefully. “Has anything else happened that you haven’t mentioned?”
She’s quiet for a moment, looking out at the water. “Not really. Rachel told hospital security about it, which I’m still annoyed about, but nothing new.”
“Why are you annoyed? That seems like the right call.”
“Because she did it without asking me.” Hailey sighs, leaning against my shoulder. “I know she meant well, but it felt like she was making decisions about my life without consulting me.”
I file that away carefully. She doesn’t want to be managed.
“She’s worried about you,” I offer.
“I know. Everyone’s worried about me. It’s a lot.” She tilts her head to look up at me. “You’re worried, too, aren’t you?”
“A little,” I admit. A massive understatement. “Guy sounds unhinged.”
“He’s probably harmless. Just a patient who got fixated. It happens sometimes in the ER—people mistaking medical care for something more personal.”
She’s wrong. Winters isn’t harmless. His search history alone tells a different story—one she doesn’t know about. And never will, if I have anything to say about it. But I can’t tell her that without revealing how I got the information.
“Still,” I say carefully. “It’s good that security knows.”
“I guess.” She doesn’t sound convinced.
We sit in silence for a moment, watching the light change over the water. A family of ducks paddles by, the mother leading her ducklings in a neat line. The wholesomeness of the scene is a stark contrast to the dark bent of my thoughts about Lars Winters.
“Anyway,” Hailey says, shaking off the serious mood. “Enough about my creepy patient. Tell me something about you. Something I don’t know yet.”
“Hmm.” I bite at my lower lip. “I know I told you I can’t cook, but I do make really good pancakes. It’s the one thing I can cook.”
She laughs. “That’s your deep, dark secret? Pancake proficiency?”
“I take breakfast very seriously.”
“Noted. What else?” There’s a mischievous twinkle in her eye. Like she actually wants to get to know me.
“I played piano as a kid. Hated it then, kind of miss it now.”
“That’s actually sweet.” She grins at me. “What else?”
“I’m running out of fun facts here.”
“Fine, I’ll go.” She taps her chin, thinking. “I was a competitive swimmer in high school. Almost went to state but got mono junior year and missed qualifications.”
“Tragic.”
“Devastating. My butterfly stroke was legendary.”
“I’d pay to see that.”
“You absolutely would not. I haven’t been in a pool in years. I’d probably sink.”
The conversation flows easily after that.
We trade stories and small revelations as we continue our walk through the park.
She tells me about her college roommate who became a professional dog groomer.
I tell her about the time Jack and I got lost in the Rockies for three days because neither of us would admit we’d taken a wrong turn.
It feels normal. Easy. Like we’ve been doing this for years instead of weeks.