Page 20 of Ten Day Affair
But my brain won’t shut off. It's the kind of wired that doesn’t come from caffeine or adrenaline.
It comes from a text.
In Palm Beach next week for board meetings. Dinner?
Just that. No punctuation. No emojis. Just my mysterious, fleeting neighbor being exactly as confident and composed over text as he was in person.
I read it twice when it came in. Then a third time. I haven’t opened it again since. Not because I’m not tempted, but because I am. I was too busy to think of what to say back.
I tell myself not to overthink it. I’m just curious. That’s all. About the man who showed up out of nowhere andruined my ability to function like a normal human being for a full week.
Instead of sleeping, I change into a tank top and climb into bed with my laptop. I tell myself I’m just answering emails, checking schedules. Normal things.
Instead, I type his name into the search bar.
The first sip of my Citrine sleepy-time juice floods my mouth with spicy ginger and earthy kale. It delivers a jolt that matches the electricity still coursing through my body whenever I think of Cole.
"Let's see exactly who you are, neighbor," I say to my computer.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, typing his name. The search results populate instantly. Cole Houston. Houston Enterprises.
I click the first link, a Forbes profile from last year.
"Houston Enterprises," I whisper, scanning the article. "Real estate development and acquisition. Assets totaling... Wow. This guy is the shit."
The number makes me choke on my juice. I quickly calculate zeros in my head, confirming what I'm seeing. Not millions. Billions. With a B.
My stomach does a little flip as I scroll through photos of him at charity galas, business conferences, and one particularly striking image of him standing on a yacht in Monaco.
His tailored suit fits his broad shoulders perfectly, that jawline even more pronounced as he gazes toward the camera with those piercing blue-gray eyes.
The same eyes that looked up at me from between my thighs.
Heat crawls up my neck. I gulp more juice, like the room temperature liquid might extinguish the fire his memory ignites.
I grab my phone and text Arden.
You won't believe who my beach hookup is. COLE HOUSTON. Yes, THAT Houston. The real estate mogul. Google him!
I stare at my phone, waiting for the bubbles that don't appear. Right. Tuesday night. She mentioned something about a sports star and a potential scandal breaking.
She's either deep asleep or deep into work. Either way, she isn't answering me now.
Back to my laptop. I scroll through more articles, learning about his ruthless business tactics and the empire he's built from supposedly nothing.
"Self-made billionaire," one headline declares.
Another calls him "The King of Commercial Real Estate in Manhattan."
He was inside of me. I'm feeling dizzy with the revelation.
I click on image after image, articles, interviews, drinking in information about this man who walked up from my beach and into my life. The way he carries himself in every photo, confident and detached, is so different from how he looked at me, with raw hunger in his eyes.
My body remembers his touch with embarrassing clarity. The way his hands gripped my hips. How his mouth knew exactly where to go.
I slam my laptop closed, suddenly aware I'm breathing too fast.
For a second, I lay there. Staring at the ceiling, willing my pulse to slow down.
