Chapter 2
Amara
“That was a good show,” he finally says, breaking the silence that’s stretched between us since the fireworks ended.
I glance at him. “Yeah.”
Brilliant contribution to the conversation.
I know I should leave.
The smart play is to stand up, brush the sand off my dress, say something polite but final, and disappear back to my villa before this gets complicated.
But I don’t.
The ocean does its ocean thing. Rolling in, rolling out. Above us, a few straggler lanterns drift across the sky.
“How long are you here for?” he asks, his voice quiet enough that I have to lean slightly closer to hear him over the waves.
Oh goodie.
Small talk.
That’s definitely not going to make this more awkward.
Not at all.
“A week.” I hug my knees to my chest. “You?”
“Longer.” He pauses. “I’m here indefinitely. For work.”
Indefinitely.
Of course he is.
“Alone?” The question slips out before I can stop it. I bite the inside of my cheek.
None of your business.
You don’t get to ask that anymore.
“Alone,” he confirms.
“What about the woman from earlier?”
Stop.
Talking.
“She’s no one,” he says simply. “Resort guest. Met her at the bar. She asked to watch the fireworks. I said yes because saying no seemed rude.”
“And then you dismissed her the second you saw me.” The words hang in the air before I realize I’ve said them out loud.
Shit.
His mouth quirks in the dark. Can’t tell if it’s almost a smile or what. “Yes.”
Just that.
Yes.
No elaboration.
No excuses.
“Ah,” I comment.
We fall back into silence.
But it’s not the comfortable kind.
It’s the loaded kind.
The kind where you’re both thinking a thousand things and saying none of them.
I study him in the dim light. He looks a little different than I remember. The sharp edges are still there, the careful control, but something underneath has shifted.
He looks... tired? Not physically tired. But tired in the way people get when they’ve been holding something heavy for too long.
“The island’s beautiful,” I finally say, because someone has to say something and apparently that someone is me.
“It is,” he replies.
This is excruciating.
I might as well ask next, How’s the weather been?
That would be appropriately awkward.
But then I finally find my backbone. “Why are you really here? On Eleuthera.”
He turns to look at me. “Same reason as you. The quiet. Avoiding people.”
I frown. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I have.”
I shake my head. “I’ve taken enough depositions to know when someone’s deflecting. Try again.”
He sighs in the dark, though it sounds amused. “Still the same Amara.”
I hold up a hand. “Don’t do the whole ‘you haven’t changed’ thing. We’re not doing that.”
“Fair enough.” He shifts positions, drawing one knee up and resting his forearm on it. The movement brings him slightly closer.
I can smell him again. That cologne mixed with salt...
I should move away.
I don’t move away.
“Foundation work,” he says after a long pause. “There’s a project here. Legal access clinic for the locals. I’m considering funding it long-term.”
“That’s very philanthropic of you.” I comment wryly.
“Is it?” He looks at me. “Or is it damage control?”
The honesty catches me off guard. I wasn’t expecting that. Deflection, yes. Corporate speak, absolutely.
But actual vulnerability?
Not from Corin Saelinger.
“What kind of damage?” I ask carefully.
“The kind I can’t fix yet.” He looks out at the water. “The kind that makes you question whether you should even try.”
Against every instinct screaming at me to maintain professional distance, to protect myself, to remember why I left in the first place, I find myself asking, “What happened?”
He shakes his head. “Long, complicated story. It’s probably not something I should tell you while sitting on a beach after midnight.”
“Why not?” I press.
“Because you’ll think less of me than you already do,” he states coldly.
“I don’t think less of you,” I hear myself say.
Liar.
He glances at me. “Oh yes, you do. And you should.”
I want to argue. To tell him he’s wrong. But we both know he’s not.
“Your turn, now,” he continues. “Why are you really here, Amara?”
I could deflect. Give him the same half-truths he gave me.
But something about the way he just handed me a piece of his truth makes me want to match it.
Quid pro quo, counselor.
“I’m running,” I admit. “From Jess’s party. From Marco trying to set me up with every single friend he has. From everyone asking why I’m still alone like it’s some kind of personal failing.”
“The Amara I know has always been a success,” he comments quietly.
“Yeah, well, tell that to my mother. Or Jess. Or literally anyone who thinks being twenty-eight and single is a tragedy that requires immediate intervention.”
“For what it’s worth,” he says softly. “I think you’re exactly where you should be.”
“Yeah?” I say sweetly. “And where’s that exactly?”
“Here,” he replies. “On this beach. Making poor life choices. With me.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. It’s not a pretty laugh. It’s the kind that bubbles up when you’re teetering between anxiety and hysteria and you’re not sure which way you’ll fall.
“This is definitely a poor life choice,” I agree.
“The worst,” he says.
Someone left champagne on the beach table. I notice it now, sitting there like an invitation.
Or a trap.
Probably the latter.
“Yours?” I ask, nodding toward it. “The champagne?”
“It was supposed to be for the fireworks,” he explains.
“Uh huh,” I taunt. “So that woman with you... she’s just ‘no one’ huh? A resort guest who asked you to watch the fireworks, and you just so happened to supply an expensive bottle of champagne?”
“It seemed the polite thing to do,” he comments wryly. “Speaking of which...” He stands, walks over, picks up the bottle. “Want some?”
I should absolutely say no. “Sure.”
He twists the cork. It releases with a soft pop. No glasses, so he takes a sip straight from the bottle before passing it to me.
I wipe the rim with my thumb before drinking. Not because I’m worried about germs. Because the intimacy of sharing a bottle feels dangerous and I need the extra second to prepare myself.
The champagne is warm. Slightly flat, as if it was opened already. Exactly what you’d expect from a bottle left sitting on a beach for who knows how long.
“Terrible,” I say, passing it back.
“Completely.” But he drinks again and sets the bottle in the sand between us.
After a moment he says, “The stars here are incredible.”
He tips his head back.
I follow his gaze. “Better than Manhattan, that’s for sure.”
“Manhattan has stars?”
I giggle. “Allegedly. I think I saw one once. Turned out to be a plane.”
That gets a small laugh out of him. “When was the last time you left the city?”
I turn to look at him. “Define ‘left.’”
“Traveled somewhere,” he replies. “As in, for more than a weekend.”
I have to think about it. “Jess’s wedding. Two years ago. Also in the Bahamas, actually. Different island.”
“You didn’t take any vacation time between then and now?” he sounds surprised.
“I took plenty of vacation time,” I comment dryly. “I just spent it working from my apartment instead of the office.”
He shakes his head, passing me the bottle. “That doesn’t count.”
“Says the man who probably answers emails at three AM,” I mock.
“I resent that accusation.”
“But you don’t deny it.”
“I don’t deny it,” he admits.
The champagne is making everything feel slightly fuzzy around the edges.
Not drunk... just... warm.
“This resort is nice though,” I say, gesturing vaguely toward the distant lights. “Very... resort-y.”
“High praise, coming from you,” he comments.
“Hey I’m a lawyer, not a travel critic. Sue me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I laugh, take another sip. The bottle’s getting light. “You know what that place reminds me of?”
“What?”
“That beach bar in Coney Island,” I reply. “You know, the one with the terrible karaoke?”
“The place with the parrot?” he asks.
“That’s the one. And speaking of the parrot... Captain Morgan bit you, if I recall.”
“I maintain that was unprovoked.”
I laugh. “You tried to steal his cracker.”
“It was my cracker,” he replies. “I ordered it.”
“The parrot had different opinions...”
I’m smiling now. Like, constantly.
When did that happen?
“I can’t believe you remember that,” he says.
“Hard to forget a grown man getting into a territorial dispute with a bird and losing,” I quip.
He raises his hands defensively. “I didn’t lose. We reached a diplomatic settlement.”
“You gave him the entire basket of crackers and apologized,” I state dryly.
“Exactly!” he claps his hands. “Diplomacy.”
I laugh again. I can’t help it
Stop it.
You’re supposed to be maintaining emotional distance, not reminiscing about parrots at bars.
“Remember how the bartender asked if we wanted to come back the next week for trivia night?” I ask.
“Yep,” he answers. “We did come back.”
“And came in third place!” I exclaim.
He doesn’t sound impressed. “Out of four teams...”
I shrug. “Still counts as an achievement.”
“You answered every single literature question wrong,” he points out.
“Those were trick questions,” I counter. “No one actually reads Moby Dick all the way through you know.”
“Well I did...”
“Liar.” I shove his shoulder lightly. He catches my hand before I can pull it back, his fingers wrapping around mine for just a second before releasing.
That was... nothing.
Just a playful thing.
Doesn’t mean anything.
“This island’s got better restaurants though,” he continues, like that hand-catch didn’t just happen. “I’ve found some good spots since I’ve been here.”
“Oh?” That piques my attention. I’m always a sucker for good food. And he knows it. “Recommendations?”
“There’s a place near Governor’s Harbour. Family-run. Best conch fritters I’ve ever had.”
I purse my lips. “Bold claim.”
“I stand by it.”
I resist the urge to shove him again. “You’re a venture capitalist. You probably eat at Michelin-starred restaurants.”