Page 7

Chapter 7

The Edge of Goodbye

I take him into my mouth with the same hunger I felt all night, with the same desire to give, to worship, to burn this moment into both of us.

He groans low, hips tightening under my grip, and his free hand braces on the wall behind him.

“God that’s good…” The words leave him ragged. “Just like that.”

I give him everything—my mouth, my obedience, my farewell.

By the time he comes undone, shuddering and whispering my name like a prayer, I’ve left a mark on him.

Just as he’s left one on me.

Twenty minutes later, we're in the lodge's restaurant, which is just opening for breakfast. Cole speaks briefly to the hostess—someone he knows, given her familiar smile—and we're led to a quiet corner table with a view of the mountains.

"Perks of being the town's medical provider," he explains as coffee appears almost immediately. "Everyone wants to stay on your good side."

"Smart of them," I say, doctoring my coffee with cream. "Especially when the provider is as competent as you."

He inclines his head at the compliment but doesn't dwell on it. Instead, he watches me with those perceptive blue eyes that seem to see more than I intend to reveal.

"You're already gone," he observes after a moment. "Mentally, I mean. You're already in that OR."

I start to deny it, then realize he's right. Part of my mind is already walking through the procedures I'll need to perform, anticipating complications, and preparing for the intense focus that trauma surgery demands.

"I’m sorry. It's how I operate," I admit, then smile at the unintentional pun. "Literally and figuratively. I need to prepare mentally."

"I understand." And he does. This is another area where our differences in specialty don't extend to our fundamental approach to medicine. "It's one of the things I admire about you."

The simple statement catches me off guard. "You hardly know me," I remind him.

"I know enough." His hand covers mine on the table, warm and steady. "I know you're brilliant at what you do. I know you care deeply about your patients, even the ones you haven't met yet. I know you're willing to drop everything and drive four hours to perform surgery that few others can handle."

Put that way, it does sound like he knows significant things about me—the things that matter professionally, at least.

"And I know," he continues, his voice dropping lower, "that last night wasn't just physical for either of us. I’m not giving that up."

The waitress arrives with our food—simple but hearty breakfast plates that would typically make my mouth water. Today, I'm too distracted by Cole's words, by the intensity in his gaze, to appreciate the perfect omelet before me.

"I feel it too," I admit quietly once we're alone again. "But, my life is in Denver. My career is there. This position I'm about to get—it's everything I've worked for."

"I'm not asking you to give any of that up," he says, his tone reasonable. "I'm just asking for a chance to see what this could be."

"Long distance rarely works," I point out, picking at my food.

"It does when both people want it to." He takes a bite of his breakfast, chewing thoughtfully before continuing. "Look, I'm not saying it would be easy. Denver is three hours away in good weather and four in bad. We both have demanding jobs with unpredictable schedules. But if what I felt with you last night—what I'm feeling right now—is even a fraction of what's possible between us, it's worth the effort."

His directness is both refreshing and unsettling. Most men I've dated would be hedging by now, backing away from anything that resembled commitment after what essentially amounts to a one-night stand. But Cole isn't most men, as I've been discovering since we met.

"I don't know if I can do casual," I tell him honestly. "Not with my schedule, not with the demands of this new position."

"Who said anything about casual?" He leans forward, eyes intent on mine. "I don't do casual either. Not in my work, not in my life, and definitely not with you."

The echo of his words from last night—about how he needs to be in control—sends a shiver of awareness through me. He's applying the same intensity, the same absolute certainty, to the possibility of a relationship that he brought to our physical connection.

"What are you saying, exactly?" I ask, needing clarity.

"I'm saying I want to see you again. Regularly. Exclusively." His directness leaves no room for misinterpretation. "What we've found here is rare, and I'm unwilling to let it go without a fight."

Part of me wants to run from the intensity of his declaration. It's too much, too soon. We barely know each other. This could be nothing more than exceptional chemistry and the romance of a mountain getaway.

But another part—a part that's growing louder by the minute—recognizes the truth in his words. What I experienced with Cole in these brief encounters affects me more deeply than relationships that lasted months or even years.

"I need to think," I finally say, neither accepting nor rejecting his proposition. "This weekend has been... overwhelming, in the best possible way. But I need to process it."

He studies me, then nods, accepting my need for space without taking offense. "Fair enough." His hand finds mine again, squeezing gently. "Just promise me one thing."

"What's that?"

"Don't overthink it." His smile softens the command into a request. "Trust your instincts. They led you back here once already."

Before I can respond, my phone buzzes with a text. It's from the hospital: ETA? Patients stable. OR team standing by.

Reality intrudes with jarring finality. I show Cole the message with an apologetic grimace.

"I'll walk you to your car." Cole signals for the check.

The remaining breakfast and too-brief coffee are abandoned as we head back up to my room for my overnight bag, then down to the parking lot where my car waits. The morning is crisp and clear, and the mountain air is sharp with pine and possibility.

At my car, Cole takes my bag from my shoulder and places it in the back seat with the same casual authority he's displayed in every interaction. When he turns back to me, his expression is a complex blend of disappointment and understanding.

"Drive safely," he says, one hand coming up to cup my cheek. "Text me when you arrive, so I know you made it."

"I will," I promise, leaning into his touch.

"And Tess?" His thumb traces my lower lip, a gesture that's already become achingly familiar. "When you've had time to think, when you've processed everything that happened between us—call me. Whatever you decide, I want to hear it from you."

I nod, unable to find adequate words for the swirl of emotions his simple request evokes. Instead, I rise on tiptoes, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens as his arms wrap around me, pulling me firmly against him.

When we finally part, both slightly breathless, I see the same desire coursing through me reflected in his eyes. If I don't leave now, I might not leave at all.

"I have to go," I whisper against his lips.

"I know." He steps back, creating physical distance that does nothing to diminish the connection humming between us. "Go save lives, Dr. Carrington. It's what you do best."

He’s partially wrong about that.

Yes, I save lives. I’ve trained for it. Built a whole identity around it.

But after this weekend… something shifted.

Because the thing I did best —the thing I felt most alive doing—was surrendering to him.

Obeying.

Yielding.

Letting go of control and finding something deeper in the freefall.

I haven’t fully processed what that means, but it wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t a fantasy. It was truth—unfiltered and undeniable.

And I want more of it. More of him.

The only problem?

I have no idea how this works in the real world. How do I balance the woman I’ve always been with the one he pulled out of me?

I need to figure that out. Because now that I’ve felt what it’s like to be his… I don’t want to be anything else.

The drive back to Denver is a blur of mountain switchbacks and racing thoughts. I replay every moment with Cole, from our snowed-in night at the clinic to our passionate reunion, searching for perspective, for clarity about what this connection means and what I want it to become.

By the time I reach the hospital, I've come no closer to answers. All I know is that something significant happened between us, which defies the neat categories and controlled parameters I usually apply to my life.

I park in the physicians' lot and check my appearance in the rearview mirror. Despite the early hour and hasty departure, I look surprisingly good—cheeks flushed with more than just mountain air, eyes bright with lingering excitement. If I didn't know better, I'd say I was glowing.

As promised, I text Cole before heading inside: Arrived safely. Heading into surgery now. Will call when I can.

His response comes immediately: They're lucky to have you. So am I.

The simple confidence in those last three words stays with me as I change into scrubs, as I review the patients' files, as I scrub in for the first complex vascular repair. It steadies my hands and focuses my mind, not as a distraction but as a reminder of the connection between competence and passion, between professional excellence and personal fulfillment.

Six hours later, I emerge from the second successful surgery, exhausted but exhilarated. Both patients are stable, their complex vascular injuries repaired with techniques few surgeons in the region could have managed. It's the kind of work that reminds me why I chose this specialty and why I dedicated my life to the demanding, precise art of trauma surgery.

In the attending physicians' lounge, I collapse onto a couch, allowing myself a moment of professional satisfaction before the post-surgical documentation begins. My phone shows three missed calls from the hospital board and a text from Cole: Thinking of you. Hope it went well.

I smile at his message, typing a quick response: Both surgeries successful. Exhausted but satisfied.

Then I check my voicemail, listening as the board chair informs me that the CEO signed off on my appointment as department head, effective immediately. The position is mine, along with all the responsibility, prestige, and demands that come with it.

It should be a moment of pure triumph. This is what I've worked toward for years—the recognition of my skills, and the opportunity to shape trauma care at one of the region's premier hospitals. Yet, as I sit there, phone in hand, a curious ambivalence threads through my excitement.

I think of Cole's words at breakfast: Denver is three hours away in good weather, four in bad. We both have demanding jobs with unpredictable schedules. The new position will make my schedule more challenging and my availability more limited.

Can any relationship survive such constraints, especially one as new and untested as ours?

An email from the board chair interrupts my thoughts: There will be a celebration dinner tomorrow night at Mazzio’s at 7 PM. Bring a plus-one if you like. The board wants to officially welcome you.

I stare at the message, finger hovering over the reply button. It’s a plus-one—the perfect opportunity to integrate Cole into my professional world and merge our separate lives. But is that what I want?

Is that what he wants?

I'm still deliberating when my phone rings—this time, it’s Cole himself. For a moment, I consider letting it go to voicemail. I’m exhausted and emotionally drained, and I’m not sure what to say about us or the future.

But something compels me to answer.

"Hello?"

"Hey." His voice, warm and deep, sends an immediate wave of comfort through me. "Bad time?"

"No, it's fine. I just finished the surgeries."

"Both successful, you said. That's incredible." The genuine admiration in his tone warms me more than any generic congratulations could. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired. Satisfied." I hesitate, then add, "And I just got word that I officially have the department head position."

"Congratulations!" His enthusiasm sounds completely sincere. "That's fantastic news. I know how much it means to you."

"Thank you." I close my eyes, leaning back against the couch. "They're having a celebration dinner tomorrow night," I find myself saying. "For the promotion. I'm allowed to bring someone."

"Are you asking me to come to Denver?" I can almost hear him considering this and weighing the implications.

"Would you want to?"

"Tess." My name in his mouth still sends a shiver through me. "I'd drive to Denver right now if you asked me to. But this isn't about what I want. It's about what you want, what you're ready for."

His willingness to put my needs first and give me space while still making his interest clear resolves something in me. This man, whom I’ve known for a short time but who has deeply affected me, deserves honesty.

"I want to see where this goes," I tell him, the words coming easier than expected. "I don't know how we'll manage the distance or our schedules, but I want to try. If you do."

His relieved exhale is audible through the phone. "I do. More than I can express right now."

"So you'll come? Tomorrow? To the dinner?"

"Try to stop me." The smile in his voice is evident. "Text me the details, and I'll be there."

"Yes, sir." As I hang up, a curious peace settles over me. I've decided not just about tomorrow's dinner but about giving this unexpected connection a chance to grow into something more. The practical challenges remain, but the certainty that I'll see Cole again is enough to carry me through my exhaustion and doubts.

I gather my things, preparing to head home for a much-needed shower and rest before tomorrow's celebration. As I walk through the hospital corridors, nodding to colleagues and staff, I feel like I'm moving between worlds—the familiar professional realm I've inhabited for years and the new, unexplored territory that opened when a snowstorm forced me to seek shelter in a small mountain clinic.

What will happen when those worlds collide? When my colleagues meet the man who has so quickly and completely disrupted my carefully ordered life? When Cole sees me in my professional element, surrounded by the career ambitions that might challenge whatever is growing between us?