Colton: I’m downstairs.
My pulse jumps anyway.
I grab my coat and head out, the cool night air grounding me as I step onto the sidewalk. He’s already there, leaning casually against his car, posture relaxed, confidence effortless.
Jeans. Dark henley. The fabric stretches across his chest in a way that makes my breath catch before I can stop it.
This is Colton without hospital walls. Without authority. Without distance.
His eyes lift the moment he sees me, and his expression shifts, warm and unmistakably appreciative.
“You look …” He pauses, like he’s choosing the right word. “Really good.”
The way he says it, low and sincere, it makes my stomach flutter. He doesn’t use cliché words merely to make an impact. And I appreciate that.
“So do you,” I reply, unable to keep the smile from my voice.
He opens my door, his hand briefly brushing my lower back as I slide into the seat. The touch is fleeting, but my body reacts instantly, awareness sparking where his palm was.
The drive is easy this time. No tension thick enough to choke on. We laugh—really laugh—about something Trudy said earlier that day.
“She announced she’s done emotionally supporting grown men,” I tell him, shaking my head.
He snorts. “She says that at least once a week.”
“She means it this time.”
“Trudy always means it. That’s what makes it terrifying.”
By the time he pulls into the parking garage beneath his building, my shoulders have loosened completely. I feel lighter. Safer.
Then he parks. And instead of getting out, he turns toward me. The air shifts. He studies my face for a moment, eyes dark and intent, like he’s committing this version of me to memory.
“I need to get this out of the way,” he murmurs.
Then he leans in and kisses me.
It’s not rushed. Not hesitant. His mouth is warm and firm, familiar already, like my body recognizes it before my mind does. My fingers curl instinctively into his jacket sleeve.
When he pulls back, my lips tingle, and my breath feels shallow.
“Now,” he adds quietly, “we can go upstairs.”
His penthouse is stunning. It has sleek lines, expansive space, floor-to-ceiling windows, revealing Manhattan stretched out in glittering lights. It should feel intimidating, but it doesn’t.
He pours me a glass of wine and moves into the kitchen with easy confidence, already rolling up his sleeves, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. I sit at the island and watch.
His hands move with purpose as he chops vegetables, the expensive watch at his wrist catching the light with every motion. Strong forearms. Controlled movements. The kind of competence that makes my stomach tighten in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.
I tell myself to stop staring, but I don’t.
Dinner is warm and unpretentious. We talk about work, about music, about nothing at all. The conversation flows easily, punctuated by smiles and shared looks that linger a beat too long.
Eventually, curiosity wins.
“So,” I say, swirling my wine, “how does someone like you end up … like this?”
He smiles faintly. “Luck. Timing. And one very smart investment.”