Page 33 of Ten Day Affair
“Oh, that could be a perfect angle. You get some good sexandgently nudge him to steer things your way? I love multitasking.”
I shrug, even though she can’t see me. “He’s on the board. He’s smart, and I think he’s starting to see the whole picture. That’s the ticket to surviving this. If the board knew the story, the why behind Good Samaritan, and what it stands for, it wouldn’t even be a question. I could sort of use him to be that plug.”
“As long as you know it’s a means to an end,” she says, quieter now.
“I call it a win-win.”
“Just be careful, Sam. Hot doesn’t always equal hero.”
“I know.”
Still, the way he looked at me, like my mother’s legacy mattered, makes it hard to believe he could be anything else.
Or maybe I’m already in over my head.
Either way, Thursday’s coming.
EIGHT
Cole
The juice bar at Citrine is packed this morning, exactly as I expected. Palm Beach's wellness devotees congregate here like it's some kind of health cult initiation.
Sunlight floods through the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning everything golden. The entire place smells like someone juiced a garden. It's earthy, bright, alive, unlike the sterile spaces I spend most of my days in the city.
I’m not here for sentiment. I’m here because it’s clean, quick, and the only place in Palm Beach that gets my order right. The added convenience of it being five minutes from the beach house doesn’t hurt.
I nod at the barista, a woman with intricate line-art tattoos crawling up her forearms, behind the juice counter. “Cold-pressed Immunity. Extra ginger.”
She appears to recognize me, smiles, and then gets to work.
While she juices, I check my phone. I pull up my calendar first. I've got calls stacked until three, a late afternoon Zoom meeting with Dorian, and?—
Her name’s there. Slotted neatly between a virtualwalk-through of the Wynnewood project and a thirty-minute email block I’ll end up skipping.
Dinner. Eight o’clock.
My jaw clenches. I refocus and click over to my inbox, skimming a flagged message from the CLS rep about next month’s board vote. More questions about the east wing feasibility. More numbers I’ve already accounted for.
The juice slides across the counter. It's bright orange and flecked with pulp. Condensation beads on the outside of the cup, already slick from the morning humidity.
I take a sip, and it burns going down.
Sam flickers through my mind again. Her voice was steady and sure when she talked about her mom’s work at Good Samaritan.
Dinner tonight is the right thing to do. We slept together. We’re neighbors. Ignoring her would make me an asshole. I’m not in the habit of pissing off people I have to see on their back porch.
And if I’m being honest, I haven’t stopped thinking about her. She’s sharp. Direct. Sexy as hell in running shorts and flushed cheeks.
There’s no doubt she believes in what that place stands for. Believes in promises and purpose, and doing the right thing. It’s admirable.
It’s also naïve.
Hospitals don’t run on hope. They run on margins.
But tonight isn’t about any of that. It’s not business, it's dinner. One hour, maybe two. A conversation, a drink. Maybe round two, if the timing feels right.
I can keep the two things separate. I have to.
