Page 26 of Ten Day Affair
But I’ll take intrigued.
And I plan to make her even more so.
I close my laptop and lean back in my chair. Close my eyes against the glare of Manhattan sunlight.
Twelve days in Palm Beach. Twelve days in her orbit.
My eyes open. I have work to do before Wednesday closes.
I spin back toward my desk, confronted by the chaos of papers I've left scattered. It's so unlike me.
The Good Samaritan file sits open, tabs color-coded with my personal system, financial projections neatly lined in columns. But for the first time in years, the numbers don't hold my full attention.
"Twelve days," I mutter under my breath, the words hanging in the air like a countdown. Or, maybe it's a warning.
My fingers trace the hospital's structural layout.Surgical wing. East corridor. Where she works. Where I first saw her through that glass, focused and fearless, while others fumbled.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the image.
I flip to the section detailing the Taylor Wing. It was named for her mother, I'd discovered during my late-night research. A charity operation running at a loss, serving patients who can't afford premier care.
It's the exact kind of inefficiency my company aims to eliminate.
The muscles across my shoulders knot tighter. I roll my neck but find no relief.
My phone buzzes. It’s the contractor confirming the Mariner’s Reach house is finished and prepped for my arrival.
Perfect timing.
I’ll be next door. Close enough to keep an eye on things—on the property, the hospital, and the people involved.
I stand and walk to the window, the skyline stretched beneath me in sharp, ordered lines. Manhattan is clean in its chaos. Predictable. Mine.
Palm Beach isn’t. Not yet, anyway. But that’s what this trip is for.
I've got less than two weeks to meet with stakeholders, smooth resistance, and get the board aligned behind the restructuring. I’ve done it before. It's my superpower. I'll step in, assess assets, trim what bleeds, and reshape operations into something profitable and without pressure, everyone will fall in line.
The hospital is no different. The east wing’s underused. The Taylor Wing runs at a loss. But public goodwill, donor sentiment, and strategic optics keep it on the protected list. For now.
I don’t need sentiment. I need leverage.
I press my palm to the glass. Cool. Solid. A good reminder.
She’s not part of the plan. But she’s in the middle of it, whether she knows it or not. I didn’t get where I am by avoiding complications. I manage them. I control the narrative.
I turn back toward my desk. Meetings are set, the house is ready, and the message is sent.
I slideinto our usual booth at Three Kings, the leather cold against my back. Dorian’s already at the table, drink in hand, looking like he just billed someone five grand for the pleasure of his company.
He lifts his glass when I sit. “To Palm Beach.”
I raise a brow, but clink anyway. “You make it sound like a vacation.”
“It’s not?” he says, leaning back with that smug lawyer smirk that’s made him a fortune and gotten him punched more than once.
"Dickhead."
“You’re staying a good amount of time in a multi-million-dollar oceanfront house with a woman who isn’t shy about getting you into bed. Most people call that PTO.”
