Chapter 5 #2
Behind stands Corin, reviewing something on the screen, one hand braced against the edge while he scrolls with the other. He’s wearing lightweight linen trousers in a washed navy color, with a linen shirt the color of sand. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows.
My eyes lock onto those forearms. All lean, corded muscle and olive skin and—
Stop staring at his forearms.
You’re here to work.
Remember?
He glances up.
Our eyes meet.
For half a second the entire room shrinks to just the two of us and the memory of his hands on my skin.
Then Marisol says cheerfully, “I’ll leave you two to get organized. The Martinez family is coming in at eleven for their consultation. That gives you about two hours to strategize. Have fun!”
She leaves, closing the door behind her.
And just like that we’re alone.
The silence stretches.
Aware of his eyes on me, I quietly set my tote on his desk and pull out my legal pad.
“So.” I clear my throat. “I guess we should discuss strategy for the Martinez consultation.”
“Indeed.” He finally takes a seat. He pulls up a file on the laptop and angles the screen so we can both see it. Then he gestures to the chair beside him.
I sit.
Immediately I’m aware of how how close we’re sitting. How I can smell that cedar and leather cologne mixed with sea salt.
Focus on the screen.
He opens the Martinez file.
“Family of four,” he explains, scrolling through the document. “Been leasing their land for thirty years. The developer introduced new terms last month that effectively double their annual payment and give the landlord right of first refusal on any improvements.”
I lean closer to read the actual contract language.
Oh hell no.
“This is unconscionable,” I mutter. “Look at Section 8. They’ve buried an automatic renewal clause that locks the family in for another twenty years with escalating rates tied to quote, market value, unquote.”
“Which the landlord gets to determine,” Corin adds. “With no independent appraisal requirement.”
“Exactly.” I grab my pen and start making notes on my legal pad.
“We need to argue unconscionability based on unequal bargaining power. The Martinez family didn’t have legal representation when they signed.
The terms are so one sided that no reasonable person would agree to them with full understanding. ”
“We could also push for reformation based on mutual mistake,” Corin suggests. “If we can prove the family believed they were signing a standard lease renewal and the developer deliberately obscured the new terms.”
I glance at him.
He’s looking at the screen but there’s this slight crease between his eyebrows. The expression he always got when he was working through a complex problem.
I forgot how good he is at this.
Even though he’s not technically a lawyer.
“That’s actually a solid approach,” I admit. “Reformation plus unconscionability gives us two paths to challenge the contract.”
“We should also document the pattern,” he continues. “If the developer is doing this to multiple families it strengthens the unconscionability argument. Shows systematic exploitation rather than isolated incidents.”
“Agreed.”
We fall into a rhythm after that.
Me drafting arguments on my legal pad. Him editing and refining as I go. Both of us building on each other’s ideas with the kind of easy collaboration that comes from people who’ve done this before.
Except.
It’s different now.
Every time our hands accidentally brush over the laptop I feel it like a static shock. When he leans closer to point at something on screen I catch that cedar scent and have to force myself to focus on the contract language instead of the memory of his mouth on my neck.
Shouldn’t have slept with him, Amara.
Also shouldn’t have agreed to work with him.
Stupid stupid stupid.
No.
You’re both professionals.
You can absolutely work together without incident.
You got this.
100k.
Focus on the 100k.
An hour passes. We’ve built a comprehensive strategy for the Martinez consultation. Identified three additional families who might be facing similar terms. Outlined a plan for documenting the developer’s pattern of behavior.
It’s solid work.
The kind of legal advocacy I’ve always wanted to do.
And yet I can’t shake the feeling that our professionalism is just a performance, like we’re just pretending the air between us isn’t charged with everything we’re not saying.
Corin stands suddenly. “I’m going to grab coffee. You want some?”
I start to decline automatically.
Then he adds, “Black, no sugar, right?”
I freeze.
He remembers.
Of course he remembers.
He remembers everything.
Including the way you take your coffee at three AM when you’re both pulling all nighters on a brief.
“Yeah,” I hear myself say. “That would be great, actually. Thanks.”
He nods and heads toward the door.
I watch him go.
Those broad shoulders. The confident stride. The way he moves like he’s used to people getting out of his way.
I shake my head. Turn my attention to my legal pad.
He returns a few minutes later carrying two mugs of coffee. Sets mine on the desk beside my legal pad without comment and walks to the opposite side of the office so that he’s standing near one of the windows.
Like he’s giving me space.
Or maybe keeping himself at a safe distance.
I pick up the mug and take a sip.
It’s black with no sugar.
Exactly how I like it.
I want to say thank you.
I want to ask why he still remembers these small details about me when we spent five years not speaking.
I want to know if this is as hard for him as it is for me.
Instead I just take another sip and pretend the warmth in my chest is from the coffee and nothing else.