My Big, Fat, Second Billionaire Chance (Big, Fat Bigwigs #7)

Chapter 1

Amara

The thing about running away from your problems is that you have to actually run far enough. Eight hundred miles and one resort villa apparently don’t cut it.

But the wind keeps killing my flame.

Even the weather’s got a sense of irony tonight.

This is what freedom looks like.

You and a cheap lighter having an existential crisis on a beach.

The resort staff pressed this lantern into my hands a few moments ago because apparently someone in management decided to borrow traditions from the Far East for tonight’s festivities.

Because why stick to normal Bahamian New Year’s celebrations when you can appropriate the Lantern Festival, which, for the record, is traditionally reserved for Lunar New Year, not December 31st, and transplant it to a Caribbean beach?

Cultural authenticity aside, the whole thing is also technically illegal in the Bahamas, but hey, what do I know? I’m just a corporate litigator.

But here I am anyway, trying to participate in this ridiculous imported ritual because the alternative was staying at the villa’s main pavilion watching drunk couples make out at midnight while pretending I’m fine being alone.

Which I am.

Totally fine.

The lighter sparks again and dies. I cup my hand around it, lean closer. The fuel cell at the base of the lantern refuses to cooperate.

“Come on,” I mutter, clicking the lighter again.

I give up on my current position and start walking farther down the beach, away from the main pavilion’s glow.

At least the wind keeps the no-see-ums at bay.

Small mercies. Those invisible little bastards are basically the Bahamas’ way of reminding you that paradise comes with terms and conditions.

Specifically, the condition that at dusk you will be consumed alive by midges so tiny you can’t see them unless you’re absolutely slathered in bug spray.

It’s well past sunset now, so in theory they’ve clocked out for the night.

Then again, if they’re anything like me, they don’t respect normal working hours.

So good thing we have the wind playing backup security.

The darkness thickens around me as I walk farther, though “darkness” is a relative term on a clear Bahamian night.

Above me, the sky is doing that whole tropical celestial show-off thing.

Moon bright enough to read by, stars so thick they look like someone spilled glitter across black velvet.

It’s annoyingly beautiful. The kind of beautiful that would be romantic if I wasn’t actively avoiding romance.

Plus people from the resort have already started releasing their illegal lanterns.

Above me, glowing paper wishes float up, adding to the celestial show.

Maybe out here, away from the crowd, I can finally launch my own lantern. Or at least no one will witness my ongoing battle with basic fire safety.

I turn right, walking parallel to the water until the resort is just a wash of cozy orange light.

The beach here is dotted with darker shapes.

Folded umbrellas. Stacked chairs. The occasional abandoned beach towel.

All the detritus of a resort day winding down into a resort night.

I navigate around them carefully, because adding “tripped over beach furniture” to tonight’s highlight reel seems excessive even for me.

I stop at what feels like a good spot. Private. Dark enough that my failure won’t have an audience.

“Okay,” I say to the lantern. “Third time’s the charm. That’s legally binding in the universe of clichés, right?”

I cup my hand around the lighter. I angle my body to block the wind, stepping to the side, but then my hip catches something solid.

There’s a scraping sound, the brief sensation of wood tipping, and then soft thumps as multiple objects hit the sand around me.

“Shit.”

I abandon my lantern and lighter and scramble to collect what I’ve just knocked over. I can barely make out paper lanterns. At least six of them, rolling away in different directions like they’re personally offended by my very existence.

Which they probably are.

Exhibit A: Why Amara Khan cannot have nice things.

My face is burning. Not from the lighter. From the mortification.

Thank God there’s no one around.

I’m on my hands and knees grabbing the lanterns when I hear her voice.

A woman’s, cutting through the darkness with the kind of amused disdain that makes my stomach clench. “Look at that. Such a clumsy klutz.”

I freeze, clutching two paper lanterns to my chest like they’re evidence that needs suppressing.

My cheeks are definitely red now.

I can feel the heat spreading down my neck.

Not that anyone can see my mortification in the dark. Except... I glance up and remember that stupidly gorgeous sky I was just admiring. All that moonlight and starlight and floating lanterns doing their picturesque thing behind me.

Which means I’m probably backlit. Silhouetted against all that celestial glory. Anyone looking from shore would see me perfectly outlined, frantically collecting lanterns like some kind of paper-obsessed raccoon.

Are there even raccoons in Eleuthera?

Doubt it.

A different voice chimes in. Male. Low and calm and... gentle maybe? “She’s just trying to find a good spot to launch her lantern.”

Something in his tone catches me. Not just the words, but the way he says them. There’s a familiarity to it that tugs at something in my memory, but I can’t place it.

A tall man steps partially into view. He’s mostly silhouette from where I’m crouched, backlit by the glow from the resort pavilion behind him.

Broad shoulders. The outline of a woman still seated beside what I now realize is their private setup.

Her silhouette hasn’t moved. Just watching me like I’m dinner theater.

Of course it’s a couple’s thing. Of course you just crashed their romantic moment.

Well la dee da.

“I didn’t see the table,” I stammer, standing awkwardly with their lanterns clutched against me. “I’m so sorry.”

My legal training kicks in. Acknowledge fault. Mitigate damages. Offer restitution.

I hurry to place the two lanterns back on their table, then scramble to collect the others scattered across the sand.

The woman makes a small sound of impatience. I pretend not to hear it.

When I’ve retrieved all their lanterns and returned them to the table, I turn to grab my own abandoned lantern and lighter. Except the man’s silhouette is already there, standing above it.

I stop short.

He crouches down without a word.

“Seriously?” the woman says from behind him. Her tone has an edge now. Not amused anymore.

He glances back at her briefly. “Give me a minute.”

Wait.

I know that voice...

He picks up my lighter and lantern. Stands. I watch as he shields the fuel cell with one hand, his body angled to block the wind.

The lighter sparks once.

The flame catches.

He holds the base steady with the kind of practiced ease that suggests this isn’t his first lantern rodeo.

The paper balloon begins to fill. I’m frozen in place, watching it expand. The flame inside grows brighter as the lantern strains against his hands, wanting to rise.

Like a cock.

No!

Down, dirty mind!

Then the light flares across his face.

And I stop breathing.

Oh my god.

I know that face.

The lantern’s glow illuminates his features with perfect, damning clarity. The sharp line of his jaw. The close-cropped dark hair at his temples. The small scar cutting through his left eyebrow like someone signed their name there years ago.

No no no.

This cannot be happening.

Corin Saelinger.

The man I walked away from five years ago.

The man whose name I haven’t said out loud since.

The man I flew eight hundred miles to avoid thinking about because Jess’s New Year’s party would’ve involved too many questions about why I’m still single and too much champagne and too much honesty about the fact that I’ve measured every man against someone I swore I’d forgotten.

He’s here.

On this beach.

Holding my lantern.

He releases it. The lantern lifts from his hands, wobbling slightly before catching the wind. As it rises he turns to me, his mouth already forming words.

“There—”

But he doesn’t finish.

Because his breath catches now as well. Because the light from the ascending lantern would be playing not just across his face, but mine, too.

Recognition flares in his eyes.

Immediate.

Undeniable.

Catastrophic recognition.

Objection. Grounds: this is literally impossible. The Bahamas have how many islands and he’s on MINE?

The universe really hates me.

The lantern climbs higher, its light growing distant. Soon it’s high enough that we’re cast back into darkness, reduced to silhouettes facing each other across three feet of sand that might as well be a chasm.

Neither of us moves.

Neither of us speaks.

The moment stretches. I can hear the ocean. The distant sounds of the resort’s party. My own heartbeat, which has apparently decided now is a great time to audition for a drum solo.

Then without looking away from me, without breaking whatever this moment is, he turns slightly toward the woman behind him.

“Go back to the villa,” he orders.

“But—”

“Go.” His voice is final. The kind of quiet tone that ends negotiations before they start.

I hear her huff. Then the soft padding of sandals against sand as she stands and stalks away. She doesn’t argue further. Doesn’t even say goodbye. Just leaves.

Who is she?

Does it matter?

Why do I care?

I don’t.

Definitely don’t.

We’re alone now. Just us and the ocean and five years of silence.

My eyes drift to his clothes... he’s wearing linen.

Linen.

Corin Saelinger always wore wool suits and cashmere scarves.

He takes a step closer. The moonlight catches the angles of his face. I can smell him now. Leather and sea salt and something cedar-dark underneath.

This version of him even smells like he belongs here.

Do not spiral.

Do not catalog his clothes and scent like you’re filing evidence.

Do not—

“Amara.” He says my name.