Page 8

Chapter 8

Reality Check

Mazzio's is Denver's premier Italian restaurant, all dark wood panels and crisp white tablecloths, with a wine list that rivals any in the city. It's where hospital board members bring donors, where department heads celebrate major grants, and where medical royalty comes to see and be seen.

Tonight, I'm the guest of honor and a nervous wreck.

Not about the promotion—I've earned that through years of dedicated work and exceptional skill. No, my anxiety centers entirely on the man who will be arriving any minute to join me in this celebration.

I smooth the fabric of my midnight blue cocktail dress for the tenth time, checking my reflection in the restaurant's bathroom mirror. The dress is elegant but not overly formal, complementing my dark hair and complexion. It is professional enough for a work event but with a hint of allure in the way it skims my curves.

Will Cole like it? Will he be comfortable in this rarified atmosphere, so different from the rustic warmth of Angel's Peak? Will my colleagues see what I see in him, or will they dismiss him as just another rural healthcare provider, lacking the sophistication and ambition that drives our urban medical center?

The questions swirl in my mind as I apply a fresh coat of lipstick and take a steadying breath. This is ridiculous. I'm acting like a teenager before prom, not a newly appointed department head about to introduce a... what? Boyfriend seems too juvenile, and partner feels too presumptuous for our brief connection.

Whatever the label, Cole Blake has become important enough that I want him here tonight, important enough that his opinion of me—of this part of my life—matters more than perhaps it should.

When I return to the private dining room, several board members and key members of my department have already arrived. Dr. Samuel—my primary competition for the position—is noticeably absent, but that's no surprise. He's probably licking his wounds at the bar across town where surgical fellows gather to gossip and gripe.

"Dr. Carrington!" Dr. Eleanor Weiss, the board chairwoman, approaches with two glasses of champagne. "Here's our woman of the hour. You look lovely, my dear."

I accept the glass with a smile. "Thank you for organizing this, Eleanor. It means a lot to have the board's support."

"Well-deserved support," she corrects, clinking her glass against mine. "Your work on the Miller case alone would have secured this position. The rest is just icing on an already impressive cake."

We chat about the department's future direction, funding priorities, and research opportunities. It's comfortable territory, the kind of conversation I've been preparing for throughout my career. Yet part of me remains distracted, my gaze drifting repeatedly to the door.

Then suddenly, there he is.

Cole stands in the doorway, scanning the room with those intent blue eyes. He's wearing a charcoal gray suit that fits his broad shoulders perfectly. The effect is polished but not overly formal, a perfect balance of respect for the occasion without pretension.

When his gaze finds mine, everything else recedes—the murmur of conversation, the clink of glasses, Eleanor's voice still outlining some administrative priority. All I see is him.

All I feel is that same electric connection that sparked when I walked into his clinic a week ago.

"Excuse me," I murmur to Eleanor, not waiting for her response as I move toward the door.

Cole meets me halfway, a smile warming his features as he takes in my appearance. "You look beautiful," he says, voice pitched just for me despite the crowded room.

"You clean up pretty well yourself," I reply, trying for lightness despite the flutter in my stomach. "I wasn't sure you owned a suit up in Angel's Peak."

"Special occasions only." His hand finds the small of my back, warm and steady through the thin fabric of my dress. "Like celebrating my girlfriend's well-deserved promotion."

The casual label—girlfriend—should annoy me. I'm thirty-two years old, a respected surgeon, not some college student defining relationships on social media. Yet coming from him, with that quiet confidence, it feels right. A clear statement of intent and connection.

"Well, your girlfriend appreciates you driving all this way." I accept the designation with a smile. "How was the trip?"

"Uneventful, thankfully. Roads were clear." His gaze travels over the assembled group, assessing in the same efficient way I've seen him evaluate patients. "Quite the turnout."

"The hospital board rarely needs an excuse for an open bar." I joke, but there's an undercurrent of nervousness I can't quite hide. "Are you ready to meet them? I should warn you, they can be a bit..."

"Intimidating?" he supplies with a raised eyebrow. "Don’t worry about me; I once talked down a grizzly bear that wandered into Mrs. Peterson's backyard while delivering her twins. I can handle a few hospital administrators."

The absurd claim startles a laugh out of me. "You did not."

"Well, it was a tiny bear. Possibly a large raccoon." His eyes crinkle with humor. "The point stands. I'm here for you, not to impress your colleagues."

The simple declaration settles something in me. Cole isn't intimidated by these people or this environment because he knows exactly who he is and what he brings to the table. It's the same quiet confidence that drew me to him from the start.

"Come on," I say, taking his hand. "There are some people I'd like you to meet."

The next hour passes in a blur of introductions and conversations. Cole charms Eleanor with his knowledge of her research on rural healthcare disparities, impresses the chief of surgery with pointed questions about our trauma protocols, and finds common ground with my colleagues through shared medical experiences. He's neither deferential nor arrogant, simply comfortable in his skin in a way that commands respect.

I watch him with growing admiration and, if I’m honest, a touch of surprise. I hadn't expected him to navigate these waters so skillfully, to hold his own among people who typically measure worth by institutional affiliations and publication records.

"Your date is quite something," Dr. Chen, one of my closest colleagues, murmurs as we stand by the appetizer table. "Not what I expected when you said you were bringing someone from that mountain clinic."

"What did you expect?" I ask, curious about how others see him.

She shrugs, sipping her wine. "I don't know. Someone more... provincial, I guess? He's very well-informed, very articulate." She gives me a sidelong glance. "And incredibly hot, which I'm sure hasn't escaped your notice."

"It may have come to my attention, yes." I rush of heat rises in my cheeks.

"So this is serious? You and the mountain doctor?"

The question catches me off guard. Is it serious?

We've barely known each other, yet we spent two incredible nights together. Three if you count the night of the storm. By any reasonable standard, this is nothing more than the beginning of a potential relationship, too new and untested to be called serious.

Yet when I look across the room to where Cole is deep in conversation with the chief of surgery, something in my chest tightens with a certainty that defies such rational assessment.

"It's... evolving," I tell Chen, which is both true and entirely inadequate.

She follows my gaze, her expression softening. "Well, for what it's worth, he hasn't taken his eyes off you all night. Even when fully engaged in conversation. He tracks your movements like you're the most important person in the room."

I hadn't noticed, but now that she mentions it, Cole has positioned himself throughout the evening to keep me in his line of sight. It's not possessive or controlling, just... attentive. As if maintaining our connection across the crowded room is as natural and necessary as breathing.

The realization warms me, adding to the glow of the evening's success. My colleagues respect me, the board supports my vision for the department, and I have this remarkable man by my side, watching over me even as he establishes his presence among my professional peers.

After dinner, Dr. Weiss offers a toast, praising my surgical skills and leadership potential with genuine enthusiasm. I respond with appropriate gratitude and a brief outline of my goals for the trauma department, earning approving nods from the assembled group.

As the formal part of the evening concludes and people mingle again, Cole appears at my side, hand settling lightly on my lower back. The simple touch, now familiar, grounds me amid the swirl of professional congratulations.

"Proud of you," he murmurs close to my ear. "You're going to be an exceptional department head."

Something in his tone makes me look up sharply. "But?"

His smile is gentle but tinged with something I can't quite identify. "No 'but.' Just pride. You've worked hard for this. You deserve it."

I study his face, sensing an undercurrent he's not expressing. "Let's get some air," I suggest, nodding toward the restaurant's small terrace. "It's getting warm in here."

The night is cool but not uncomfortable; the terrace is empty except for us. City lights stretch below, so different from the star-filled mountain skies of Angel's Peak. Cole leans against the railing, loosening his collar with one finger as he gazes at the urban landscape.

"Beautiful view," he comments. "Different from home, but beautiful in its own way."

"Cole." I move to stand beside him, close enough that our shoulders touch. "What's on your mind? And don't say 'nothing'—I've seen that look before."

He turns to face me, those blue eyes serious now. "I was just thinking about what this means for us."

"What?"

“This.” He gestures toward the dining room behind us. “Your promotion. The responsibilities that come with it.” His hand finds mine on the railing, fingers intertwining with quiet certainty. “You’re about to take on a major leadership role at one of the top hospitals in the region. That means longer hours, more administrative headaches, politics, pressure, and very little room for anything else—especially something like this.”

He says it gently, but it lands hard.

“I know that.” The defensive edge in my voice is sharp. “I’ve worked toward this for years. I know exactly what it entails.”

“I’m not questioning that.” His voice doesn’t rise. Doesn’t match my heat. It stays steady. Grounded. Unshakable. “I know you earned this. You deserve every piece of it.” He looks at me like he means it. Like he’s proud. “But it complicates things between us. And pretending otherwise doesn’t change the reality.”

The truth of his words slices through the fog of accomplishment and adrenaline.

He’s right.

The title I just accepted comes with a cost. And I’ve always been willing to pay it.

Until now.

“So what are you saying?” I ask, even though I know. Even though I dread the answer. “That we should end this before it even begins?”

“No.”

The word is immediate. Unyielding.

“I’m saying we need to be honest about what we’re up against. The distance. The time. The way our lives demand everything from us.” He shifts, facing me fully. His fingers tighten around mine. “But if we both want it badly enough, we can make it work. The question is—do you want it? Do you want me enough to fight for this when it’s inconvenient and hard and messy?”

Cole’s gaze pins me. It’s not an accusation—it’s an invitation.

But it still scares the hell out of me.

“I do.” My voice is quiet. Honest. “I want it, but I’m scared.” The words rip from somewhere deep—past the pride, past the practiced calm. “I’ve given everything to this career. Sacrificed friendships, family, sleep, everything to be the best.” I look away. My throat tightens. “And now I’m standing here thinking—what if I can’t be the best at both? What if loving you means I fail somewhere else? Or worse… what if I fail you?”

The admission leaves me bare.

He doesn’t flinch.

“Then we fail together,” he says. Just like that. No hesitation. No doubt. “And we get back up together. But I’d rather try and fall flat than let you walk away pretending this didn’t mean something.”

I exhale shakily, my heart thudding like it’s trying to climb into his hand.

“Just like you,” I whisper, echoing his words from that night by the fire, “I don’t do things halfway. Not in my work. Not in my life.”

“I’ve noticed,” he murmurs, a hint of a smile playing at the edge of his mouth. “It’s one of many things I admire about you.”

But something inside me trembles loose. Something I’ve kept hidden beneath years of control and focus.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit, barely breathing. “I’ve never made space for someone like you. It terrifies me.”

His expression shifts—something fierce behind the softness.

He steps closer, one hand rising to cradle the side of my face. His thumb brushes over my cheek, grounding me.

“Then let me say it for both of us,” he murmurs. “I’ve fallen for you.”

My breath stutters.

“I knew it the second you walked into that clinic. Love at first sight.” His voice is steady, unapologetic. “It hit me like a freight train, and I haven’t stopped thinking about you since.” He leans in, forehead pressing lightly to mine, anchoring me with nothing more than presence. “I’m not scared of this. Not even a little. Because what we have?” His gaze doesn’t waver. “It’s real. It’s rare.”

Then his voice drops—low, resolute. Certain.

“And it’s worth every mile, every sacrifice, every fight it takes to keep. Now, all I need you to do is believe that you can have both. Your ambition… and something real with me.”

He doesn’t ask. He states.

Something in me responds to that—like muscle memory, like instinct.

I take a breath, gathering courage for the kind of honesty I don’t often let myself voice.

“What I feel when I’m with you—it’s different. Stronger. Deeper. More…” I struggle to name it. “More real somehow.”

His hand tightens around mine—steady, grounding. “I feel it, too.”

“But my career is real too,” I continue, voice firmer. “This position, this hospital—it’s not just my job. It’s my purpose.

“I know,” he says, voice even. “And I’d never ask you to give that up.”

"Then what is it about? Because it feels like you're asking me to choose."

He shakes his head, frustration briefly crossing his features. "No. I'm asking you to consider making room for both. For your career and for us." His free hand cups my cheek, thumb tracing my jawline. "I'm asking if you believe what we have is worth the effort it will take to nurture it alongside your professional responsibilities."

When he puts it that way, the answer seems obvious. Of course, it's worth fighting for. The connection between us, as new and unexpected as it is, has already affected me more deeply than relationships that lasted years.

"I do," I admit softly.

His expression softens, understanding replacing frustration. "We figure it out together. Day by day. We make plans when we can, use technology when we can’t be physically together, and communicate honestly and directly about what's working and what isn't."

The practical approach appeals to my logical nature. No grand promises or unrealistic expectations, just a commitment to try, to work at it, to value what we're building enough to weather the inevitable challenges.

"It won't be easy," I warn, echoing his earlier assessment.

"The best things rarely are." His thumb traces my lower lip, a gesture that's become achingly familiar in our brief time together. "But you're worth it, Dr. Carrington. The question is whether you think I am."

The vulnerability beneath his confident exterior touches me deeply. This strong, capable man who commands every room he enters is letting me see his uncertainty and his need for reassurance that I value this connection as much as he does.

Rather than answer with words, I rise on tiptoes to press my lips to his, pouring into the kiss everything I'm still learning to express. My belief in us, my commitment to trying, and my growing certainty that what we've found is too precious to sacrifice on the altar of career ambition or practical concerns.

When we part, slightly breathless, I find the words I need.

"You're worth it."

The smile that breaks across his face, warm and genuine, makes my heart flip in my chest. "Good," he says simply, pulling me closer. "Because I'm not giving up on you. Not without one hell of a fight."

The conviction in his voice steadies me, anchoring me against the swirl of doubts and fears. Cole Blake may have entered my life by accident, a random consequence of a mountain snowstorm, but keeping him there will be a deliberate choice—one I'm increasingly certain I want to make.

Our moment of connection is interrupted by the glass door sliding open, revealing Dr. Weiss with an apologetic smile.

"Sorry to intrude," she says, though her knowing look suggests she's not sorry at all. "The CEO just arrived and wants to congratulate you personally."

"I'll be right there," I promise, reluctantly stepping away from Cole's embrace.

When Eleanor retreats, Cole doesn’t let me go.

His hand tightens at my waist, pulling me back into him until my spine meets the solid heat of his chest.

His mouth dips to my ear, and his voice is a slow, sinful growl.

“Go be brilliant.”

The words are soft. Deceptively sweet.

But then—his teeth scrape my earlobe, and everything shifts.

“While they’re raising glasses and telling you how impressive you are…” His palm flattens over my stomach, holding me in place. “I’ll be thinking about how fast I can get you out of this dress. How fast I can get you on your knees.”

My breath catches.

“I want to see that proud mouth open for me. I want to feel your lips stretch around my cock while you look up at me and obey.”

His voice turns darker. Silk over steel.

“I brought toys tonight.”

The words slam through me, straight to my core.

“Leather cuffs. Real ones. Bought them for you.” His lips graze the edge of my jaw. “A velvet gag to keep you quiet when you’re screaming into the mattress.”

I whimper, and his smile curves against my skin.

“And a crop.” The word lands like a strike. “So when you’re tied down and begging to come, I can remind you exactly who you belong to.”

Heat floods me. Arousal twists tight and fast, blooming everywhere at once.

His hand drifts lower, slow, possessive.

“I’m going to spread you out, cuff you to my bed, and make you wait. Make you feel every single second of what it means to be mine.”

I bite back a moan.

He pulls back just enough to see my face, eyes blazing with hunger and power.

“Now go.” His voice is low. Absolute. “Smile. Nod. Accept their praise like the good girl you are.” He leans in, one last whisper pressed to the shell of my ear. “Because after this party ends… you’ll serve me.”

Back inside, the room swells with voices and laughter and light, but I’m already on fire.

My legs tremble beneath the weight of his promises. My skin burns where he touched me. My lips ache to say Yes, Sir even in a room full of my peers.

Every glass of champagne is laced with the taste of anticipation. Every handshake feels distant.

Because I’m not thinking about my title. Or the applause.

I’m thinking about cuffs.

A gag.

A crop.

His control.

And the moment he finally makes good on every filthy promise.

I watch him move through the crowd, at ease among these medical elites, and feel a surge of something that might be pride, possessiveness, or the beginning of something deeper than I'm ready to name. His confidence is quiet but undeniable.

He speaks with the hospital board chair like he belongs here—because he does.

What he said to me stays with me throughout the evening, a warm current beneath the professional satisfaction of this career milestone. No one in this room knows what I know.

They see calm, composed Dr. Carrington accepting accolades and shaking hands.

They don’t see the ache beneath my smile.

The heat curling low and steady between my thighs.

The countdown running in my head.

If they had any idea what I’d be doing later tonight.

Not leading a prestigious department. Not delivering another keynote or drafting policy.

But kneeling.

Obedient and ready.

Waiting for a man who’s completely, unapologetically rewritten the rules of who I thought I had to be.

My knees pressed into soft carpet. My wrists bound in cuffs he bought just for me. A gag at the ready in case I get too loud when he denies me just to hear me beg.

They’d never believe it.

And maybe that’s what makes it even more intoxicating.

The secret. The surrender. The thrill of giving up every ounce of control in private… after spending my life projecting nothing but power in public.

I glance at Cole. He’s mid-conversation, but he must feel it—because his gaze cuts to mine through the crowd like a blade.

Heat. Hunger. Command.

And just like that, I’m burning again.

I want this night to end. Need it to.

Because no award, title, or standing ovation can compare to what’s waiting for me when this is over.

Later, we'll figure out the practical details of distance and schedules, of professional obligations and personal needs. We'll map the terrain of this unexpected connection, defining boundaries and expectations with the same care we'd approach a complex procedure.

For now, it's enough to feel his steady presence beside me as I accept congratulations on my professional achievement, knowing that when the public celebration ends, a more private one awaits.

But after this night ends?

I want to fall to my knees and thank him for ruining me. For showing me who I can be when I let go.

The second these champagne glasses empty, the second the last handshake ends?—

This isn’t the future I envisioned when I drove to Angel's Peak a week ago, seeking nothing more than a brief escape from my demanding career. As I glance at Cole, catching the warmth in his eyes as he discusses trauma protocols with the chief of surgery, I realize I’m already his.

Sometimes, the detours are more valuable than the destination. And sometimes, getting caught in that snowstorm was the luckiest wrong turn I could’ve taken.