Page 157 of Ten Day Affair

THIRTY-SIX

Cole

The doctor looks at me like I'm an idiot. Can't say I blame her.

"Nothing's broken. Just a deep soft-tissue contusion. You're lucky."

She clips her pen to the clipboard, already moving toward the door. No bedside manner, but I respect the efficiency.

"Sling for a few days. Try not to get in the way of any more sliding glass doors."

I huff a laugh despite the throbbing in my shoulder. "Yeah, I'll stay out of door wars."

Door wars. Christ. I sound like a moron.

Twenty minutes later, I'm standing in some boutique wine shop off Worth Avenue, scanning the refrigerated cases. The clerk hovers, eager to push whatever costs the most.

"We have an excellent Chablis from?—"

"Vermentino. Coastal. Whatever you've got chilled."

His eyebrows lift. "Ah. Excellent choice. We have a lovely bottle from?—"

"I'll take three bottles of your best one. Whatever's coldest."

He bags them in ice sleeves without another word, probably thinking I'm stocking up for a party. If only he knew this was my Hail Mary.

Back at the house, I stick the bottles in the refrigerator and kick off my shoes. The sling cuts across my chest, navy fabric against my rumpled button-down. I look like I've been through a blender.

The deck's bathed in late golden light when I step outside. The ocean stretches endlessly. This is a pretty sweet view.

Unable to help myself, I look to my right to see if Sam is in her normal seat on her deck. She waves when she sees me, and I lift my left hand back.

Her mouth tightens when she sees the sling and walks over to the edge closest to mine. "Is it broken?"

I walk toward her to answer without yelling. "Nah. Just badly bruised. Doc said I'd live. I bought wine on the way home to nurse it."

She stares at me, wary as a cat sizing up a stranger. "What kind?"

"Vermentino. Your favorite, of course. Shameless bribery tactic. Care to join me?"

Her lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but not the door-slamming fury from this morning either.

"I'm not coming to your house, but you're welcome to join me. But only if you're bringing the wine."

My pulse jumps. She's inviting me over. It's not forgiveness, but it's something.

"Deal."

I slip back inside, grab the wine, and cross the sand between our houses. Each step is loaded, like walking a tightrope over everything we haven't said.

Don't fuck this up, Houston. Last chance.

The bag crinkles in my good hand as I climb her deck steps. Sam's already got plastic stemless wine glasses on the coffee table. She's wearing baggy jeans and a tank top, hair loose around her shoulders.

"I got it."

The corkscrew motion sends fire down my right shoulder, but I grit through it. Sam watches me struggle with the simple twist-top for exactly three seconds before her face softens.