Chapter 4 #2
Though I’m still not entirely sure why I’m doing this. The rational part of my brain is screaming that this is a terrible idea. But the rest of me, the part that’s been trained to see opportunities and exploit them, knows this could solve multiple problems at once.
In daylight she looks a little different than last night. Her hair is pulled back in a loose bun. No makeup. The sunlight filtering through the café’s palm frond roof catches the curve of her cheekbones and that stubborn set of her mouth. Still beautiful, objectively speaking.
Not that it matters.
It doesn’t matter.
Fuck.
I pull my tablet closer and open the file I had queued up for Marisol.
The foundation partnership agreement. Standard template for hiring legal counsel on community projects.
I had three versions drafted depending on whether Marisol wanted to bring someone in-house, contract with a local attorney, or partner with an outside firm.
I had not planned to use any of them like this.
But the framework is there. Scope of work. Compensation structure. Timeline. All I need to do is swap out the placeholder text.
I make the edits in real time. Twenty seconds. Maybe thirty. Change “Legal Counsel TBD” to “Amara Khan, Esq.” Adjust the rate to something she can’t refuse. Lock in six weeks.
Then I pull up the PDF and send it to the café’s printer via the WiFi network. Thorne will give me a lecture on secure document handling if he finds out, but I’m the boss, so...
“Well?” Amara asks.
“Just a sec,” I tell her.
I wave at one of the staff members.
“Can you check the printer?” I ask.
A moment later the staff member returns with the document I just printed. I take it without comment and slide it across the table.
“What is this?” Amara’s voice is wary.
“The proposal.” I lean back, keeping my expression neutral.
Business. Nothing more. “Six week legal access pilot program. Funded by the Saelinger Foundation. You would co-lead the clinic’s contract review workshops with Marisol de la Cruz.
Protect islanders from predatory developers. Advise my foundation from the inside.”
She looks up. Those dark eyes are sharp and suspicious. “And what do you get out of this?”
There it is.
The lawyer brain clicking into gear.
I could tell her the truth. That I need her expertise. That the foundation needs credibility and she has it in spades. That working with her gives me a chance to prove I’m not the monster she thinks I am.
But that sounds too close to caring what she thinks.
And I don’t.
This is strategic.
Nothing more.
Keep telling yourself that.
Fuck!
“The chance to do at least one thing right,” I say evenly. “Your reputation is solid. The locals will trust you, which means they’ll trust the clinic. And I need someone who actually knows how to review these contracts without getting played by developers.”
It’s the truth.
Or close enough.
The kind of answer that makes it clear this is business, not some attempt to rekindle whatever the hell we had five years ago.
What I don’t say is that working beside her will help stabilize the foundation’s credibility while I hunt down Xavier.
That her reputation for integrity is exactly what I need to counter the narrative that’s building against me.
That having her here feels like the only thing that has made sense in months.
She’s quiet for a long moment.
Reading.
Processing.
Finally she looks up. “I have commitments in the city. Clients. Cases.”
“Handle them remotely,” I counter. “You can work from Eleuthera. I’ll pay you a hundred K for the six weeks. That’s on top of whatever you bill your existing clients.”
Her eyebrows lift slightly. Not shock. Just recalibration.
At least she’s pragmatic about money. That makes this easier.
“That’s a lot of money for six weeks of community legal work,” she says carefully.
“It’s fair compensation for what I’m asking you to do.” I hold her gaze. “And you know it.”
She sets the contract down and folds her arms. “If I agree to this, we need ground rules.”
“Name them.”
She leans forward. “Strictly professional. No repeat of last night. We work together. We keep it clean. And when the six weeks are over we go our separate ways.”
Perfect. Exactly what I need to hear.
This makes it simple. Clean. No complications.
“Agreed,” I say. “Last night was a mistake. We both know it. Let’s not compound it by pretending otherwise.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. Like she expected more of a fight.
“Just like that?” she presses.
“Just like that.” I keep my voice steady. “You’re here to do a job. I’m here to run the clinic and clean up the foundation’s mess. That’s it. No history. No personal entanglements. We’re colleagues for six weeks, then we’re done.”
This is the right call.
The smart call.
Even if every instinct I have is screaming that I’m lying to both of us.
She picks up the contract again. Flips through the pages.
I watch her read. The way her brow furrows when she hits a clause she doesn’t like. The way she worries her bottom lip when she’s thinking.
I force myself to look away. To focus on something else. Anything else.
This is a business arrangement.
That’s all.
So why the hell does it feel like I just made a deal with the devil and signed away something I can’t afford to lose?
Finally she looks up. “I want editorial control over any community facing materials. And I want veto power over which developers we engage with. If I think someone is acting in bad faith I’m walking away and you don’t get to overrule me.”
“Done.”
“And I want it in writing. Also, that this stays confidential. No press. No public announcement. I’m not interested in being part of your foundation’s PR campaign.”
That one stings but I don’t show it. “Also done.”
She studies me like she’s trying to figure out the hidden angle.
There isn’t one. Not really.
You’re such a liar.
Forcing away the though, I extend my hand across the table. “Do we have a deal, Counselor?”
She looks at my hand. Then at my face.
The hesitation stretches.
Then she reaches across and takes my hand.
The contact is brief. A handshake between colleagues.
Except her palm is warm and her fingers linger half a second too long and when she pulls away I can still feel the ghost of her touch.
Fucking hell.
This is going to be harder than I thought.
“We have a deal,” she says quietly.
I should feel satisfied. I just secured six weeks of access to the exact expertise I need, plus the credibility boost that comes with her name attached to the project.
But instead I just feel hollow. Like I won the battle but lost something I didn’t know I was supposed to be protecting.
She’s only here because I’m paying her 100k. Because the terms were good enough to overcome her better judgment.
Not because she wants to be.
Not because she forgives me.
Not because any part of her still gives a damn about who I am or what I’m trying to become.
And that’s fine.
That’s what I wanted after all.
What I told her I wanted.
So why does it feel like I just fucked up worse than I did five years ago?
Fuck.
Across the café Thorne catches my eye and gives a subtle nod. He’s been tracking this whole interaction from his corner table. Logging threats. Monitoring exits. Making sure I don’t do anything catastrophically stupid.
Too late for that.
Amara is gathering her things. Sliding the contract into her tote. Preparing to leave.
“When do we start?” she asks.
“Tomorrow,” I say. “Marisol has a community meeting scheduled at the clinic. Two PM. I’ll have my driver pick you up.”
“I can drive myself,” she insists.
Of course she can. Because accepting help would imply some kind of connection beyond the contract.
Still, I can’t help but frown. “You don’t have a car.”
Her mouth tightens. “I’ll rent one.”
Still so fucking stubborn, after all this time.
“Fine,” I concede. “The clinic is on Queen’s Highway. You can’t miss it. I’ll have my people text you.”
She nods once. Then writes down her number on a slip of paper and hands it to me.
“I’ll expect the updated contract within the hour.” She stands. “Unless your people don’t work on New Year’s Day?”
“Oh, they work all right.” I stand, too, because I was raised with manners even if I’ve spent the last decade trying to forget them.
She turns to go.
“Amara.” Her name comes out rougher than I intended.
She pauses to look at me.
I should say something professional. Businesslike. You know, reinforce the boundaries we just established.
Instead I just stand there like an idiot, trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to say to the woman who keeps walking away from me.
“Thank you,” I tell her finally. “For saying yes.”
Her expression softens for half a second.
Then the walls go back up. “Don’t make me regret it, Corin.”
Then she turns and walks out of the café.
I watch her go.
Watch the confident set of her shoulders even though I know she’s rattled. Just like I am.
This is going to be a disaster. Six weeks of close quarters with someone I can’t figure out how to stop thinking about. Six weeks of pretending last night didn’t happen. Six weeks of lying to her, to myself, to everyone.
All so I can prove... what exactly? That I’m not an asshole? That I can make ethical decisions when it matters?
Christ.
I don’t need to prove anything to anyone. Least of all her.
This is bullshit.
What the hell am I doing?
I sit back down and finish my cold espresso in one bitter swallow.
My phone buzzes. A text from Thorne.
Marisol just pulled up.
Right. Marisol.
The actual reason I’m supposed to be here.
I pocket my phone and pull up the contracts again. Force my brain back into business mode.
But all I can think about is the way Amara’s hand felt in mine. The clinical detachment in her voice when she agreed last night was a mistake. The fact that I just bought six weeks of time with her and somehow made sure we’d spend all of it pretending we’re strangers.