Page 72 of Ten Day Affair
The words are out before I even think.
Sam glances over, amused. "Look at you, trying to be all romantic."
"I'm not ready to let you go."
Her grin spreads lazily. "I do have a few hours, I might be able to swing it. For good coffee, only, though."
A devilish smile spreads across my face, and I jump out of bed, grabbing my joggers from the floor.
I bend down and kiss her, surprising myself and probably her. I've never been so domestic in my life.
By the time I reach the kitchen, I've decided eggs are happening too. I'm cracking the third one into a bowl when Sam pads in, wearing nothing but my white T-shirt. It hangs to mid-thigh, accentuating her tanned legs. My company logo sits just above her left breast.
Something primitive stirs in my chest at the sight of her in my clothes.
"Making breakfast, too? That is presumptuous."
She slides onto a barstool at the kitchen island, crossing her legs. My T-shirt rides up her thighs.
I force myself to focus on the eggs. "You need protein before surgery ."
"So it's sex and breakfast now?" Her voice carries a teasing lilt, but underneath I hear the real question she keeps hinting at. What exactly are we doing?
I turn from the stove, spatula in hand, and meet her eyes with a deliberate smirk. "Depends on how good you are."
For a heartbeat, I wonder if I've misstepped. Then she laughs. It's a genuine, throaty sound that fills my kitchen and does something uncomfortable to my chest.
"I think we both know the answer to that." She reaches for the coffee I've poured her, wrapping both hands around the mug.
I turn back to the stove, grateful for the moment tocompose myself. This banter, this easy morning-after chemistry, is unfamiliar territory. A woman in my kitchen, wearing my clothes, making jokes about our sex life like we have a shared history.
Like we might have a shared future.
The toast pops. I slide eggs onto plates, arrange bacon alongside them. When I turn, Sam is right behind me. She rises on tiptoes and presses a kiss to my shoulder before snagging a piece of toast from my plate.
"Hey. Thief." I grab her waist, pulling her against me.
Her eyes meet mine, warm and amused. "Residency rule number one. Always take food when offered. You never know when you'll eat again."
I should beknee-deep in projections, but all I’ve done for the last hour is stare at a single sentence in a board memo like it's written in another language.
Sam’s words from last night keep circling.
"If there's something I can do to shift this vote, please tell me."
And the worst part? She meant it. Fully and fiercely, like the woman she is, built from steel and grief and the legacy she’s trying to protect.
But there’s nothing she can do. Not really. Not with the way this deal was structured from day one.
Unless I change the structure.
My jaw tightens as I lean forward, fingers hovering over the keyboard. It’s a stupid idea. Naive, even. But I open a new document and start typing:
Regional nonprofit acquisition models – 2025
