Chapter 7 Amara #2
“This morning,” I reply, still distracted by that thumb of his. “Maybe last night. I don’t know.”
His expression darkens. “And you still drove to the clinic.”
“Commitments,” I reply. “You’re paying me...”
“You have a fucking fever.” He reaches for the medicine he brought, reads the label, then hands me two pills and a water bottle. “Take these. Now.”
I swallow the pills without arguing because honestly I feel too awful to fight.
He takes the water bottle back, sets it on the nightstand, then lifts my feet onto the bed. The gesture is so casually tender that something inside me cracks open.
“Get some rest,” he says softly, and when he pulls his hands away from my feet I immediately want to grab them back like some kind of fever-drunk weirdo.
Great.
Now you’re getting clingy over basic human kindness.
Next you’ll be writing his name in your legal pad with little hearts.
I would never.
Hearts are unprofessional.
He goes back to the armchair, pulls out his phone, and starts reading emails.
“Hey. Corin.” My voice sounds so distant.
He glances up at me.
“You don’t have to stay,” I say.
He nods. “I know.”
But he doesn’t leave.
I watch him through half-closed eyes. The way his brow furrows when he’s concentrating. The way his fingers move across the screen. The way he shifts in the chair every few minutes like how he can’t quite get comfortable in furniture that wasn’t quite designed for someone his size.
He dropped everything to take care of me.
So?
Doesn’t mean anything.
He’s just being professional.
Wants to ensure his 100K investment remains in good shape and in full working order.
My eyes drift shut.
Maybe I’ll wake up to him licking my pussy...
Amara!
When I wake up, the room is darker.
Overhead, the ceiling fan is still spinning.
And Corin is still in the armchair, reading something on his laptop now, bathed in the blue glow of the screen. When did he bring that in? Guess it was in the bag or something.
“You’re still here,” I mumble.
He looks up. “How are you feeling?”
I do a mental inventory. Still feverish but not as bad. Headache duller. Throat less sandpaper and more regular paper.
“Better,” I admit. “What time is it?”
“Eight thirty,” he replies.
Geez.
I’ve been asleep for hours. “You stayed all day.”
“Marisol handled everything at the clinic.” He closes the laptop and sets it aside. “You hungry?”
“Now that you mention it... a little.”
He disappears into the kitchenette again. I hear the microwave beep, then turn on. After a minute or so he returns with more soup.
I eat sitting up this time, and manage to finish half the bowl before my stomach calls it quits.
“Good,” he says, taking the soup back. “Though I’d prefer you ate it all.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “You’re very bossy when people are sick.”
He narrows his eyes. “And you’re very stubborn when you should be resting.”
I shrug. “Pot, kettle.”
His mouth quirks in something almost like a smile. “Fair.”
I lean back against the pillows. “Thank you. For the soup and the bossiness and... everything.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” he insists.
“Oh I know.” I smile. “But I am anyway.”
We look at each other across the small space of the villa. The air between us suddenly feels charged.
God, why couldn’t I wake up to him licking my—
Stop!
This is dangerous territory.
You’re vulnerable, he’s being kind, and your defenses are down because fever has apparently killed all your brain cells.
Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.
Actually, it’s definitely a bad thing.
“Why did you work all weekend?” he asks quietly.
I could lie. Should lie. Instead I hear myself say, “Because I don’t know how to stop. If I stop working, I start thinking. And if I start thinking, I start remembering. And I really don’t want to remember.”
The words hang in the air between us.
His expression finally softens. “Remember... what?”
“All the reasons this is a terrible idea,” I explain. “Working with you. Being here. Any of it.”
He’s quiet for a time. Then he says, “For what it’s worth, I think about those reasons, too. Every day. Every time I see you.”
My heart catches.
“And yet here you are,” I whisper. “Taking care of me.”
“Yeah.” His voice is rough. “Here I am.”
Neither of us looks away.
Finally he stands. “Well, I should go. Let you rest up.”
Part of me wants to tell him to stay. The fever-addled, vulnerable part that’s tired of being strong all the time.
But the lawyer part, the part that’s kept me functional for five years, wins out.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Thanks. Good night.”
“Night.” He moves to the door, then pauses with his hand on the handle. “Text me if you need anything. Doesn’t matter what time.”
“I will.”
Another lie. We both know I won’t.
“And if you’re still not feeling well,” he adds. “Don’t come in to work tomorrow, got it?”
I force a brave smile. “Got it.”
He leaves, and I’m alone in the villa with the ceiling fan.
I reach for my phone and text Jess: I’m sick and Corin brought me soup and stayed all day while I rested and then left and now I don’t know what’s happening.
Three dots appear immediately.
Then: Oh honey. You’re in so much trouble.
Yeah.
I really am.