Chapter 13
Corin
It’s twelve thirty in the morning and I’m staring at my laptop screen.
Amara left the clinic six hours ago after dropping that bomb about whether I actually want her or if I was just hiding behind professional ethics.
And I’ve been sitting in my study ever since, at the exact same spot where I ravaged her, and trying to figure out how the fuck to answer a question she didn’t technically ask.
Because here’s the thing: she’s right.
I did push her away after we had sex. Told her we couldn’t do it again while I was still tasting her on my tongue.
And yeah, the professional boundary concern was real, but it was also convenient. A ready-made excuse to protect myself from the terrifying reality that I want this woman so badly it makes me crazy.
I’ve been drafting and deleting the same email for the past hour.
Subject: Dinner.
Tomorrow night.
Westlight terrace.
Not a date.
A conversation we should have had five years ago.
My cursor hovers over the send button.
It’s too late to send this. She’s asleep. I should wait until morning. Be reasonable about it.
But if I wait until morning, I’ll talk myself out of it. I’ll run projections on all the ways this could go wrong, calculate the risk exposure, and decide the smart play is to let her finish the contract and walk away clean.
Except I don’t want clean.
I want messy and complicated and terrifying. I want her sitting across from me while I try to explain why I’m such a disaster. I want the chance to prove that when she asked if professional boundaries were an excuse, the answer is: maybe they were, and I’m sorry, and I’m done hiding.
But maybe I should change the location. Maybe having a date in my private villa is a bad idea.
Fuck it.
I hit send before I can second guess myself.
Then I sit there staring at my inbox like a pathetic asshole, because what else am I going to do at twelve thirty in the morning? Sleep?
Yeah right.
My phone buzzes.
Three minutes later.
Three fucking minutes.
I grab it so fast I nearly drop the damn thing.
Amara’s reply is one word: Okay.
Not “yes” or “I’d like that” or even “what time.” Just okay, like she’s agreeing to review another predatory lease agreement instead of sitting across from me while I try not to implode.
But she answered.
At twelve thirty in the morning.
Within three minutes.
Which means she was awake, too. Probably sitting in her resort villa staring at her phone the same way I’ve been staring at mine.
Maybe she couldn’t sleep either.
Maybe she’s been replaying our conversation from earlier, trying to figure out what the fuck we’re doing here.
A guy can hope, right?
I read her message a few more times, looking for subtext that isn’t there.
It’s one word.
There’s no hidden meaning in “okay.”
But the speed of her response? That means something.
At least I think it does.
Or maybe I’m projecting because I want it to mean something.
Christ, I’m a mess.
One day left on the contract after tomorrow. She could walk away and I’d have no professional justification to keep her here. No reason to see her every morning.
I probably should let her go.
As I mentioned, it would be the smart thing to do.
But I’ve never been smart where she’s concerned.
The next day at the clinic is torture.
Amara arrives right on time, as always. She’s wearing linen trousers and a tank top, hair twisted up off her neck. She sets her canvas tote on the desk, pulls out her legal pad, and says, “Morning.”
“Morning,” I reply.
That’s it. That’s the extent of our personal interaction.
We spend the next eight hours reviewing the Morrison family’s land-lease renegotiation, drafting transition materials and workshop templates so whoever takes over after she leaves has something to work with, and coordinating with Marisol on donor follow-up.
All business.
All the time.
When I bring her coffee at ten, black with no sugar, she says “thanks” without looking up from her screen.
I want to ask if she’s okay. If she’s still thinking about what she said yesterday. If tonight’s dinner is going to be a disaster or a breakthrough or both.
But Marisol is in the other room organizing files, well within eavesdrop range, and the fluorescent lights are too bright, and this office doesn’t have enough air for the conversation I need to have.
So I just nod and go back to my side of the desk.
By four thirty, we’ve accomplished more than we have in the past week. Productivity through emotional avoidance. It’s a strategy I’ve perfected over the years.
Amara closes her laptop and starts packing her tote. “I should head back to the resort. Get ready.”
“Yeah.” I stand, too. “See you at seven?”
“Seven works.” She slings the tote over her shoulder. “See you, then.”
She walks toward the door, and I watch her stop to say goodbye to Marisol, who’s at the filing cabinet.
“Last day tomorrow,” Marisol says warmly. “Are you excited to get back to Manhattan?”
Amara hesitates. “Not going to lie, I’m going to miss it. The island. The work. All of it.”
Marisol smiles widely. “Well, you’re welcome back anytime!”
Amara grins wanly. It’s heartbreaking. “Thanks, Marisol.”
She walks from view and I hear the door close behind her.
Last day tomorrow.
The words sit in my chest.
Marisol glances over at me from the filing cabinet. “You okay, Mr. Saelinger?”
“Fine.” I’m the opposite of fine. “Just thinking about the workshop schedule.”
She doesn’t look convinced. She walks over, and stops in the doorway. “You’re seeing Ms. Khan tonight, yes?”
I blink. “You heard that?”
“I did.” Marisol’s expression softens. “Seven o’clock, yes? Ysela told me Raeni’s preparing a special dinner for tonight.”
Of course Ysela told her.
Of course she’s coordinating behind my back like I’m some kind of romantic disaster that needs managing.
Which, to be fair, I am.
Marisol leans against the doorframe. “Don’t let her go, Mr. Saelinger.” Her voice is quiet but firm. Maternal in a way that makes my chest tighten. “That woman is good for you. Really good. And you’re good for her, even if you don’t see it yet. So don’t let her walk away tomorrow. Don’t you dare.”
I stare at her, completely blindsided.
She knew.
She’s known this whole time.
“Marisol—”
“I’m not blind,” she continues. “Neither is anyone else who works with you two. The way you look at her when she’s not watching? The way she looks at you? We all see it.” She pauses. “So whatever you’re planning to say tonight, make it count.”
Then she straightens, gives me one last knowing look, and heads back to the filing cabinet like she didn’t just gut me with maternal wisdom.
I sit there alone, trying to process what just happened.
She knows.
Marisol knows. Raeni knows. Ysela knows. Thorne and Keon definitely know. Probably Sable, too.
My entire team has been watching me fall apart over this woman for six weeks, and not one of them said anything.
Christ.
Tonight’s going to be fun.
By seven, Raeni has outdone herself. My personal chef has cooked up grilled fish with island greens and rum cakes that smell like cinnamon.
Ysela coordinated the whole thing with surgical precision, and Keon transported everything onto the terrace before disappearing into the service area like a ghost.
I know Thorne is in the security office right now, monitoring external feeds. The terrace cameras are angled for perimeter threats, not for whatever disaster I’m about to create over dinner. Sable is somewhere on the property doing her evening patrol, staying out of range unless I need extraction.
Which I might.
I hear footsteps on the stone path before I see her. When Amara rounds the corner onto the terrace, backlit by the villa’s exterior lights, I forget how to breathe.
She’s wearing one of those cotton poplin dresses she favors here, the kind that moves with her body in ways that make me want to peel it off with my teeth. Her hair is loose, catching the breeze off the ocean.
No legal pad tonight.
Just her, looking at me with a poker face.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi.” Real eloquent, Corin.
I pull out her chair. She hesitates for a fraction of a second before sitting. I take the seat across from her, and the table between us feels both too wide and not wide enough.
“This looks amazing,” she comments, glancing at the spread.
“Raeni’s work,” I reply. “I just provided the funding.”
She almost smiles. “You’re good at that.”
We eat in silence for the first few minutes. It’s not uncomfortable per se, but it’s weighted. Like we’re both waiting for the other to detonate first.
Finally, she sets down her fork. “The clinic is doing well.”
Safe territory. I can work with this.
“Better than projected,” I agree. “Marisol says we’ve helped twenty-five families renegotiate their lease terms. With three more contracts under review.”
“Donor interest is up, too,” Amara adds. “That reporter from the town meeting wrote a favorable piece. It’s generating traction.”
“Saw that.” I take a sip of water because I need something to do with my hands.
“See what taking interview requests with actual reporters every now and then can do?” she comments. “Instead of running away and hiding?”
“Oh no,” I wave a dismissive hand. “The favorable piece wasn’t because of my interview. It was your presentation. You were fucking brilliant.”
Her cheeks flush. “I was just doing my job.”
“You demolished all the arguments like swiss cheese,” I counter. “That’s not ‘just’ anything. Yes, the good press we had was all because of you.”
She looks down at her plate. “Thank you.” Then: “By the way, in that reporter’s piece, Xavier Laurent was brought up. The former board member who buried your objections those five years ago. Is he a problem?”
“He’s being dealt with,” I reply.
Which is the truth.
Just not the whole truth.
The silence stretches again. I should say something. Anything. But my brain is running projections on how this conversation could go and none of them end well.