Page 30 of Ten Day Affair

“Out for a run?”

“No, I’m dressed for a gala.”

The words come out drier than I intend. Sarcasm is my armor, but it's a little prickly at the moment.

His mouth quirks at one corner. It isn't quite a smile, but close. “I deserved that.”

Silence stretches between us. It isn’t unfriendly, just awkward. I shift my weight, suddenly aware of the sweat cooling on my back and the fact that I’m standing in running shoes and spandex, face-to-face with a man whose fitted joggers leave very little to the imagination.

“So,” I say, breath steadying. “Back in town for board meetings?”

God, I'm such a dumbass. Of course he is.

“Yes.”

“And the hospital’s future gets decided over white wine and catered lunches?”

His mouth curves slightly. “I'm sure you know that’s not how it works.”

“Do I?” I meet his gaze, calm but direct.

He smiles, like I'm joking, but I'm serious as a heart attack.

“Because from where I’m standing, rumors are flying and zero transparency. I’d love to hear your insight.”

He studies me. “Are you asking as a curious resident?”

“No. I’m asking as the daughter of the woman whose name is on the wing everyone’s suddenly pretending doesn’t exist.”

I wait for an excuse or an explanation. I'll take anything to make this less weird.

He gives me nothing. Instead, he watches, his face unreadable, the porch light casting sharp angles across his features.

Instead of letting this get any more awkward, I look for an exit.

“I should finish my run.”

“Mind if I join?” He nods toward the path. “Just to the corner and back.”

“If you can keep up without shoes.”

He chuckles softly, falling into step beside me. His stride is steady. His presence is oddly comforting, offering a solution to the awkwardness between us.

We run in silence for a few beats, then he breaks it.

“The Taylor Wing. That’s your mother, right?”

“Yes.” My chest tightens.

"Samantha Evelyn Taylor?"

“How did you?—”

“Research. It’s what I do.”

We reach the corner and slow to a walk, turning back toward our houses. His arm brushes mine once, then again. Each touch sparks down my spine like it’s personal.

“It’s important to you.” It's another non-question. He's stating facts and watching for my reaction.