Chapter 5
Amara
The second I’m through the door of my villa I collapse onto the overstuffed couch and stare at the ceiling fan circling above me.
So.
I accepted a six week contract to work alongside the man I had spectacular sex with last night. The same man I walked away from five years ago.
It’ll work out.
Totally work out.
Nothing screaming malpractice or ethical violations here.
My phone buzzes. I pull it out expecting some kind of formal contract addendum from Corin’s legal team.
Instead it’s Jess. Gotta love International roaming plans.
Happy New Year!!!!!
How’s the island????
Did you actually relax or are you reading legal briefs on the beach??
Also Marco says hi and wants to know if you met anyone cute. K K that’s it.
I stare at that last message. Oh you have no idea.
I should lie. Tell her it’s quiet and boring and I’m spending quality time with my legal pad.
That would be the smart play.
Instead I type: I’m fine but I kind of maybe sort of slept with someone.
Three dots appear, disappear, appear, disappear.
Then my phone rings.
“Spill,” Jess demands the second I answer. “Every detail.”
I sigh. “Remember that guy I dated five years ago?”
“The one who was ‘complicated’ and we don’t talk about him?” Jess asks.
I smile wistfully. “That’s the one.”
“What about him?” How can she sound both accusing and exasperated at the same time?
I take a breath. “He’s here. On Eleuthera. I ran into him on New Year’s Eve and we had sex and then this morning he offered me a six week contract position and I said yes.”
Silence.
After a moment, Jess says, very carefully, “I’m going to need you to walk me through that again. Slower this time. With more context.”
So I do. I tell her about the lantern, the beach conversation, the cottage, leaving at dawn. The brunch ambush and Corin’s proposal for the legal clinic partnership.
When I’m done she’s quiet for a long time.
“Amara,” she finally says. “Is this healthy or are you punishing yourself?”
The question lands like a subpoena I wasn’t expecting.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “The money’s good. A hundred K for six weeks? That’s insane compensation even for Manhattan rates. And the work is legitimate. Helping locals with predatory contracts. That’s exactly the kind of stuff I’ve always wanted to do more of.”
“But,” Jess prompts.
“But I also just agreed to spend six weeks in close quarters with a man I’m apparently still wildly attracted to even though he represents everything I’ve spent five years trying to avoid.”
“And you think you can keep it professional?” she presses.
I laugh. It comes out slightly unhinged. “We shook on it. Literally. Strictly professional. No personal entanglements. I even made him agree to it out loud.”
“Uh huh.” Jess sounds deeply unconvinced.
I close my eyes. “Tell me I’m not making a huge mistake.”
“I can’t do that,” she says gently. “But I can tell you you’re one of the smartest people I know and if anyone can navigate this it’s you. Just promise me you’ll be careful. With your heart, I mean.”
My throat feels tight. “I will.”
“Good. Now tell me what he looks like again because I need to know if he’s worth this level of emotional chaos.”
That gets a real laugh out of me. “Look him up. He’s a billionaire, like your Marco... shouldn’t be hard to find some recent tabloid photos. Imagine someone took a corporate lawyer and a Greek statue and combined them into one person. That’s Corin Saelinger.”
“Damn.”
We talk for another twenty minutes about nothing important. Her daughter Ben’s latest art project. Her husband Marco’s restaurant expansion plans. Normal life things that make me feel slightly less unmoored.
When we hang up I feel marginally better.
Marginally.
Then my email pings.
The subject line reads: Saelinger Foundation Legal Services Agreement - DRAFT
All right.
Here we go.
I open my laptop and pull up the document.
It’s twelve pages long. Single spaced. Every clause meticulously detailed with the kind of defensive precision that screams “drafted by someone who’s been sued before and learned their lesson.”
Classic Corin legal team.
I read through it once quickly, then again slower, making mental notes. The scope of work is clear. Timeline reasonable. Compensation structure exactly what he promised. Confidentiality clauses are standard but thorough.
Everything is buttoned up tighter than a pre trial brief.
Except.
There’s nothing about our personal relationship. No acknowledgment that we have history. No clause addressing what happens if things get complicated.
Which means he’s either assuming we’re both professionals who can handle this, or he’s deliberately leaving that landmine unaddressed because putting it in writing makes it real.
Or, you know, he’s protecting himself from the tabloids.
Because that’s the thing about working for a billionaire. Everything becomes potential ammunition. One leaked contract with language about “prior personal relationships” or “romantic history” and we’d be front page news on every gossip site from here to Manhattan.
I can see the headlines now.
“Billionaire’s Mystery Lover Returns: What’s Really in the Contract?”
Wouldn’t be pretty.
With a sigh I print the contract. Grab a black gel pen from my bag. Sign it.
Then I photograph it with my phone and email the image back with a one line message: Reviewed and accepted. See you tomorrow.
His reply comes in under two minutes. See you tomorrow.
I stare at those three words.
We’re talking like we’re colleagues who’ve worked together before and are simply resuming a professional relationship.
Which, technically, we are.
Except for the part where I can still feel his hands on my hips and taste the salt on his skin and hear the way he said my name when he came.
Stop it.
I close the laptop and try to think about anything other than tomorrow morning.
Doesn’t really work.
The next day arrives with the kind of aggressive cheerfulness only a tropical island can muster. The sun is shining. The breeze is warm and salty. The birds are doing their whole chirping thing.
I rent a small sedan from the resort. The drive to the clinic takes twenty minutes along Queen’s Highway, past pastel houses and roadside fruit stands and views of water so blue it looks Photoshopped.
Under different circumstances I’d find it charming.
Right now I’m too busy rehearsing professional small talk in my head to appreciate any of it.
By the time I pull into the clinic’s parking area I’ve cycled through approximately fifteen conversation openers and rejected them all.
Going to be a long morning.
The clinic is a converted bungalow painted white. It has concrete walls, and louvered windows currently propped open to catch the breeze. A hand painted sign out front reads Eleuthera Legal Access Program in friendly letters that somehow make the whole thing feel more legitimate.
I grab my canvas tote and head inside.
The interior is exactly what you’d expect from a community legal clinic operating on a shoestring budget.
There’s mismatched furniture, a single steel desk that looks like it survived multiple hurricanes, and filing cabinets that predate the internet.
Everything is clean but worn in that way that says “we make do with what we have.”
A woman in her early fifties stands at the desk organizing files. She’s wearing a bright orange linen dress and her salt and pepper hair is pulled back in a practical bun.
She looks up when I enter and breaks into a warm smile.
“You must be Amara Khan. I’m Marisol de la Cruz.” Her handshake is firm. “Mr. Saelinger said you’d be joining us for the next six weeks. I have to say I’m thrilled. We can use all the help we can get.”
“Happy to be here,” I reply, which is at least sixty percent true.
“He’s already in the back office,” Marisol continues, gesturing toward a doorway. “Getting set up. Let me give you a quick tour first.”
She walks me through the space. She shows me the small conference room where they conduct client meetings, then the storage area filled with boxes of archived case files, and finally the kitchenette with a coffee maker that looks older than I am.
“We serve about forty families right now,” Marisol explains. “Most of them are dealing with land lease agreements that are deliberately designed to be confusing. Developers banking on people not understanding what they’re signing. Stuff like that.”
My jaw tightens. “How bad are we talking?”
“Unconscionable terms. Automatic renewals with escalating rates. Clauses that let landlords seize property for minor violations.” She shakes her head. “These families have been here for generations. They deserve better.”
“They absolutely do,” I agree. “That’s exactly why I’m here.”
It’s not about the 100k of course.
Not at all.
And certainly not because of a certain hot billionaire...
God, I’m such a liar.
Marisol’s expression softens. “I appreciate that. And I appreciate Mr. Saelinger’s foundation funding this pilot program.”
I nod.
I’m trying my very best to hide the guilt.
“But between you and me?” She continues, lowering her voice. “Originally, I was skeptical when he first approached me. Rich guy from Manhattan wanting to help? Usually that means tax writeoffs and photo ops.”
“But?” I prompt.
“But he’s been nothing but professional. Asks good questions. Doesn’t try to micromanage. Actually seems to care about the work.” She pauses. “You’ve worked with him before I take it?”
Oh you have no idea.
“We have some professional history,” I say carefully. “He knows I specialize in contract review for nonprofits.”
She smiles. “Well you come highly recommended. He spoke very highly of your expertise.”
Something warm and uncomfortable twists in my chest.
Don’t read anything into that.
It’s professional respect.
That’s all it is.
Yep.
Marisol leads me to the back office.
It’s small. Maybe ten by twelve feet. The windows are open to let in the salty breeze. A single steel desk with a laptop is already set up.