Page 18 of Ten Day Affair

I tap the screen off and put the phone in the inside pocket of my suit jacket.

One night.

I walk back to my office and drop into my leather chair.

I lean over my desk and wake up my laptop. I open the board portal we use for hospital reports, doctor bios, departmental stats, all part of the oversight package I have access to.

I tell myself it’s nothing. It's just curiosity, due diligence.

“Checking credentials,” I mutter out loud.

My fingers hover. I start typing SAM T, and the system autofills.

Two results: Samana Tangue in billing, and a surgical resident. I click the second.

Dr. Samantha Taylor. Trauma surgery. PGY-3.

I scan the file. Degrees, surgical stats, commendations. It's obvious she has extreme ambition.

I exhale. Smart, sexy, and ambitious are a dangerous combination.

Her professional headshot fills my screen. White coat. Hair pulled back severely. No smile, just the intense focus in those hazel eyes I remember from across the operating room through the glass window. Even serious as hell, she's stunning.

Dr. Samantha E. Taylor. E for what? Elizabeth? Emma?

I scroll down. Education: Yale Medical School. Undergraduate: Duke University. Honors in both. Impressive. Current rotation: General surgery, specializing in critical care trauma.

Her personnel file notes "Family connection to GoodSamaritan through Evelyn Taylor Wing (maternal relation)."

Evelyn Taylor.

I pause, frowning. Why does that name...? Something about it tugs at my memory. I've heard it somewhere. In a meeting, maybe? During the acquisition briefing? It's right there at the edges.

I close her file, annoyed with myself. This is absurd. I'm looking up a woman I had a one-night stand with, like some obsessed teenager. I'll be selling that house before the year is up, so the neighbor angle won't even be a thing before too long.

“Jesus, get a grip. This is pathetic," I mutter.

"I'm sorry," Angela says.

I look up to see her standing in my doorway.

"Did you need me?" I ask. How long has she been standing there?

"Yes, I asked what you wanted to do about your meeting at one. You'd said earlier you might want to reschedule."

"Oh, right. Sorry. Yes, please push it back a few hours to my next opening. I've got something I want to take care of."

"Yessir."

She turns and walks away.

Even still, here I sit, sixty floors above Manhattan, master of all I survey, and I can't stop thinking about a lone medical resident in Florida. The way she looked at me. How she didn't seem impressed by anything about me, except how my hands felt on her skin.

I should delete her number, and I definitely shouldn't text her again. That was stupid of me to do that.

I close the file and push back in my chair. I need to let it go.

I grab my phone out of my pocket, open my messages, and click on Dorian's name.