Page 35 of Ten Day Affair
Dorian grunts. “I figured that would be your position. Ring me once you have a chance to comb through it. I have a few ideas, but let's nail down some of these details.”
"Sounds good."
The line disconnects.
I push back from the desk and let my gaze settle out the window. White sand. Blue water. Order.
This project has a trajectory and was put into play before I ever met Sam Taylor. We buy debt low, restructure the model, improve margins, and sell high. It's simple.
Whatever happens over dinner tonight doesn’t change that. At the end of the day, we’ll do what the numbers demand.
The Seaside Terracerooftop stretches over the Atlantic, white tablecloths tugging in the breeze.
I got here early and secured the corner table. It's the best view on the island, according to TripAdvisor.
The server stops by, eyeing my empty glass.
"Would you like another Macallan?"
I consider it, then shake my head. That went down way too fast. "No, thank you. Maybe after my dining partner arrives."
Dining partner? What the fuck?
Across the terrace, I hear the elevator ding.
I look up to see her step out like she owns the place. Her dark hair is down tonight, and she has on a navy dress that doesn’t try too hard but still hits hard.
Sam walks like she doesn’t notice every head turning, including mine. Goddamn, that's hot.
I stand as she crosses toward me.
"Dr. Taylor."
She smiles. It’s real this time. Not polite or professional.
"Sam."
"Sorry, of course. Sam."
"You got my favorite table," she says, settling into the chair I pull out.
I sit back down. "Lucky guess."
She smirks. "You strike me as the type who doesn’t guess."
"Usually not."
The server reappears with menus and a raised eyebrow. He's wordless at first, but clear.
He turns to Sam. "What can I get you to drink, ma’am?"
"Sauvignon blanc," she says confidently without even glancing at the list.
"Go ahead and bring me another Macallan, neat."
"You're punctual," she says, unfolding her napkin after the server leaves.
"We said eight, right?"
