Exhibit B: Amara Khan is a coward.
Exhibit C: The defense has no rebuttal.
The worst thing of all?
I’m in love with him.
Horrible, frickin’, head-over-heels, in love with him.
And I’m running away.
What’s wrong with you, Amara?
I don’t even know why I’m running anymore. It’s like this autopilot thing for me. This knee-jerk reaction when anything bad happens in my life.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
I don’t know how to fix me.
There’s a knock at the door.
I freeze, one hand still on the stuck zipper. Probably housekeeping. Or one of those aggressively cheerful timeshare vultures with their clipboards and their “Congratulations! You’ve been selected for an exclusive opportunity!” spiels, ready to trap me in a three-hour presentation about fractional ownership in paradise while I slowly lose the will to live.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and cross to the door. I yank it open with more force than necessary, already composing my “not interested” speech in my head, and—
It’s Corin.
He’s barefoot.
Barefoot.
My brain short-circuits a little. I’ve seen him in suits. In soft linen shirts. Seen himnaked, for god’s sake.
But I’ve never seen him barefoot.
His shirt is buttoned wrong. One side hangs lower than the other, like he dressed in a hurry, or just didn’t care. And he’s breathing hard, as if he just jogged all the way here from his private villa.
“I canceled my flight,” he says.
I blink. “Your flight?”
“The flight to Manhattan. My team wanted me back for damage control. Interviews, donor meetings, the whole circuit. Remember?” He pauses. “I told them no.”
I process this.
Then I process it again, because surely I misheard.
“That’s a terrible strategic decision,” I say finally.
“I know.” He steps inside without asking. I don’t stop him. The door swings shut behind him, and suddenly the resort villa feels way too small.
“I’ve decided not to run this time,” he continues. “I’m staying here. With the community. With the clinic. With...you.” Something vulnerable flickers across his face. “If you’ll let me.”
My throat tightens.
He’s not running.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I’m the one with the suitcase. I’m the one who was halfway out the door before he knocked. I’m the one who left her sandal outside his study like some kind of symbolic gesture and then, three days later, decided symbolism was overrated and self-preservation was the safer bet.
