Chapter 6 Corin
Corin
The first week working with Amara is... interesting, to say the least.
Ten-hour days at the clinic. Concrete walls trapping heat the ceiling fan barely touches and the open windows do fuck all to cool. A single steel desk we share, like it’s neutral territory in a negotiation neither of us wants to lose.
Except this isn’t a negotiation.
This is something worse.
This is me pretending I’m not cataloging every detail about her.
The way she tucks hair behind her ear when she’s thinking. The faint scent of lemon peel mixed with industrial-strength sunscreen and enough bug spray to repel an army.
Her skin burns easily. Pale and soft and completely defenseless against the Caribbean sun. I caught her wincing yesterday when her shoulder brushed the window frame. Red as hell beneath her cotton dress.
So now I’m checking the UV index every morning like some kind of neurotic weather app addict. Suggesting earlier start times on high-exposure days. Adjusting the damn louvers so sun doesn’t hit her face.
It’s pathetic.
I know it’s pathetic.
But I can’t seem to stop. And I can’t figure out why the fuck I’m doing it.
She’s not mine to protect. We’re colleagues. Six-week contract that ends with both of us walking away.
So why am I acting like her sunburn is my personal failure?
What the hell is wrong with me?
Fuck.
We’ve fallen into a rhythm that feels too familiar. Too easy. Like muscle memory from five years ago except sharper now. More dangerous.
She drafts. I edit. We argue over phrasing with the kind of shorthand that comes from people who’ve done this before.
Except it’s different now.
At this very moment, we’re elbow-to-elbow, reviewing a predatory land-lease clause. The Martinez family case again.
Her forearm brushes mine as she scrolls my laptop.
Neither of us pulls away.
The contact makes me want to thread my fingers through hers. Want to kiss the spot where her pulse jumps at her wrist. Want to slide my hand up her arm and feel her shiver the way she did New Year’s Eve when I—
Stop.
Why the fuck am I thinking about this?
It was just one night.
A night she walked away from without looking back.
That should’ve been the end of it.
Instead I’m sitting here obsessing over the exact point where her wrist meets her palm like I’m a teenager losing my goddamn mind.
I’m thirty-six years old.
A billionaire.
I should have better control than this.
“Wait,” she mutters, leaning closer to the screen. “Look at this renewal date. March 2023.”
Her shoulder presses against mine. It feels warm through the thin linen.
Move!
Create distance.
I shift, breaking the contact, and force myself to focus on the screen. “What about it?”
“The Bahamas amended their Property Act in January 2023. Added new disclosure requirements for lease modifications affecting residential occupancy.” She’s scrolling now, fast, like she’s chasing something. “If this developer failed to provide the required statutory disclosures before execution...”
She trails off. Grabs her phone. Pulls up what looks like a legal database.
“There,” she says triumphantly. “Section 12, subsection C. Any lease modification affecting residential tenancy executed after January 1, 2023 requires written disclosure in plain language of all material changes, including but not limited to payment escalations, renewal terms, and termination conditions.”
She looks at me, her eyes shining excitedly. “Did the Martinez family receive statutory disclosure?”
Fuck.
I didn’t even think to check the amendment timeline.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “The file doesn’t mention it.”
“Because the developer buried it.” She’s making notes now in that precise handwriting I’ve memorized without meaning to.
Without wanting to. Without any fucking explanation for why my brain decided this was critical information worth storing.
“If they didn’t provide disclosure, the modification is void ab initio.
We don’t have to argue unconscionability.
We don’t have to prove mutual mistake. The contract is legally invalid from the moment of execution. ”
“Which means the family reverts to their original lease terms,” I finish.
“Exactly.” She’s already pulling up another document. “And if the developer’s been collecting payments under the invalid modification, we can argue unjust enrichment and demand restitution.”
I watch the way her mind moves from statute to remedy in seconds, building a legal framework that’s airtight, and I can’t help but think this is the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.
She glances at me. Those eyes sharp and assessing. “You’re good at this.”
I’m taking aback. “Me? At what?”
“Finding patterns. I spotted the statute. But you’re the one who documented every family the developer’s targeted.
” She gestures at the files spread across the desk.
“That pattern is what turns this from one invalid contract into systematic fraud. We’re talking criminal exposure, not just civil liability.
The developer doesn’t just owe restitution.
He faces potential prosecution.” Her smile is sharp and dangerous now.
“Which gives us leverage to settle every family’s case at once, at least with this particular developer.
Full restitution, legal fees, and an agreement to cease all similar practices on Eleuthera. ”
Fuck me.
She just turned a defensive contract dispute into an offensive prosecution threat in under a week.
“Most people in your position would throw money at the problem and call it philanthropy,” she adds, turning back to the screen.
Yeah. I’m actually running damage control on a potential foundation scandal caused by former board member Xavier Laurent while trying to prove I’m not the villain in a story I can’t fully rewrite.
But I don’t say that.
By Friday afternoon I’ve cataloged forty-seven distinct details about Amara Khan that I have no business noticing. Little things I once new about her, but had forgotten.
The way she bites her lower lip when she’s reading something that pisses her off. How she takes her coffee in exactly three sips before setting the mug down. The small sound she makes in the back of her throat when she’s about to argue a point.
This isn’t normal.
This level of fixation.
I’ve worked with attractive, brilliant women before.
Never once catalogued their coffee-drinking patterns.
So what the hell makes her different?
We’re at the community center now. Friday evening potluck. Marisol’s idea. A chance for locals to meet the legal team and ask questions in an informal setting.
My security staff, Thorne and Keon, are here, undercover as foundation staff. Their positioned near the exits. I’m peripherally aware of them the way I’m always aware of them. They know their job is to protect the perimeter without intruding on the work.
Right now Amara’s talking to an older woman named Mrs. Rolle about a land dispute. Her whole demeanor has shifted into lawyer mode. She’s calm and authoritative, and fiercely protective of this stranger’s rights.
She’s wearing a pale blue linen dress. Nothing provocative. But the way she moves in it is killing me. All those soft curves I remember too well from New Year’s Eve.
Stop looking at her like that.
You’re in public.
At a community event.
Get your shit together.
“Mr. Saelinger?”
I turn. A younger man is standing next to me. Mid-thirties maybe. He’s a local, judging from his accent and darker skin. He’s holding a folder.
“I’m Patrick Munroe. Marisol said you might be able to help. I’ve got a contract here that doesn’t make sense. The developer wants to lease my beachfront property for a resort expansion. The numbers look too good to be true.”
“Let’s take a look.” I scan the first page. Spot the trap immediately.
I hand the folder back. “Don’t sign this.”
Patrick frowns. “But the payout—”
“The payout’s contingent on occupancy rates you can’t independently audit.” I point to section seven. “Plus there’s a clawback provision here that lets them recoup payments if the resort underperforms. Which means you take all the risk while they keep all the control.”
It’s effective. Ruthless. Exactly the kind of strategy I built my career on.
His expression shifts. “I didn’t see that.”
“You weren’t supposed to.” I keep my voice even. “That’s how these deals work. Make the upside look appealing while burying the downside in fine print.”
Amara appears at my elbow. “Everything okay?”
Patrick explains. She takes the folder. Reads the same section I flagged.
Her jaw tightens. “Mr. Munroe. If you’d like, I can review this full contract for you. At no cost to you. We’ll make sure you understand exactly what you’re signing before you commit.”
He thanks her, takes her card, and walks away looking relieved.
She turns to me. “You spotted that fast.”
“I’ve structured deals like that before.” The admission comes out easier than I thought it would. “So let’s just say, I know what to look for.”
She arches an eyebrow. “So we’re talking past tense?”
“Yeah.” I meet her eyes. “Past tense.”
Something shifts in her expression. It’s not forgiveness, not quite. More like she’s updating her valuation model based on new data.
It’s not enough, of course.
Nowhere near enough to make up for the damage I caused five years ago.
But it’s something.
We leave the potluck at eight thirty. I’m heading toward where Keon’s waiting with the SUV when I notice Amara standing near the community center entrance, checking her phone.
“Problem?” I ask.
She looks up from her phone, frustrated. “Rental car won’t start. I’ve called the company but they can’t get a replacement out to me until tomorrow.”
I beckon toward the SUV. “I can give you a ride.”
She hesitates. That familiar wariness crossing her face. Finally she nods. “Okay. Thank you.”
Keon’s waiting with the SUV. Thorne’s already in the passenger seat logging the evening’s event summary.
Amara climbs into the back. I slide in beside her.
She immediately leans her head against the window. Closes her eyes. Not sleeping. Just... resting.
I watch her in the dim light from passing streetlights. Watch the slow rise and fall of her breath. And I think:
Why does this feel significant?
Why does watching her breathe feel like data I need to collect and store and protect?
She’s exhausted, of course. It’s been a long week.
Saying yes to every family that asks for help because she can’t stand the idea of leaving someone vulnerable.
Even if I’m paying her 100K, ten hour days will wear anyone down.
Not to mention she’s still carrying her full Manhattan caseload.
I’ve watched her take client calls during lunch breaks.
Seen her reviewing briefs at seven AM before the clinic opens.
She’s running two full-time jobs and pretending it’s sustainable.
I’m going to make sure she doesn’t come in on the weekend. I don’t care if she argues. She needs rest and I need her functional for the long game.
This isn’t about wanting to take care of her. This is strategic resource management.
Except that’s bullshit and I know it.
I want her rested because seeing her exhausted makes something tighten in my chest that has nothing to do with strategy.
Fuck.
We pull up to her resort at nine fifteen. She opens her eyes immediately and sits straighter. “All right. See you tomorrow.”
“Take the weekend off,” I tell her.
She starts to argue. I see it in her eyes. That knee-jerk refusal to accept help.
“That’s not a request, Counselor. You’re no good to the families if you burn out after week one.”
Her mouth tightens. But she nods. “Fine. Monday, then.”
“Try not to spend the whole weekend on Manhattan clients,” I add.
She grunts noncommittally and climbs out. But then she pauses to look back at me through the open door. “Thank you. For tonight. The way you handled Patrick’s contract. That was good work.”
Then she’s gone. Walking across the resort courtyard. Canvas tote over her shoulder. Legal pad tucked under her arm.
I watch until she disappears inside.
Keon pulls away without comment, taking the service road that leads to the resort’s private villa section. Thorne stays quiet as well. The two of them know better than to acknowledge what just happened.
What did just happen?
I spent a week watching Amara Khan work. Brought her coffee. Checked the UV index like some kind of stalker.
I’m paying her 100K for six weeks of consulting work, and letting her take weekends off.
And I still can’t explain why any of it matters.
Five years ago I understood what I wanted.
Now?
Now I don’t understand a damn thing except that I can’t stop thinking about her.
Can’t stop noticing her.
It doesn’t make sense.
We barely know each other anymore.
One night doesn’t create this kind of... whatever the hell this is.
And next week we do it all over again.
Fuck me.