He smiles. “Then it’s perfect for us.”
And somehow, impossibly, it is.
“Help me unpack my bags,” I tell him. “Or actually, help mefinishpacking. So I can permanently move to your villa.”
His face is beaming. Much like my own, I imagine.
“I will, but first...” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a folded document. “Marisol put this together. It’s a contract that has you working directly for the clinic, rather than as a contractor through the foundation.”
I take it, scanning the language with the part of my brain that never turns off.
“This eliminates the conflict-of-interest optics,” I say slowly.
“And the professional boundary issues.” His voice is careful. “If you want that.”
I look up at him. At this man who showed up barefoot and told me he loves me and brought me a solution I didn’t even know I needed.
“Corin Saelinger,” I say, “are you telling me you found a way to make our relationship HR-compliant?”
“I’m telling you I found a way to keep you.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and the gesture is so tender it makes my heart ache. “The compliance is just a bonus.”
I giggle. It comes out watery and a little broken.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll stay. But only because the contract language is solid.”
“Of course.” His eyes are warm. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Counselor.”
God I love him.
23
Amara
Corin helps me finish packing, and twenty minutes later, we’ve got everything sorted into two neat suitcases.
Then he stands and lifts both suitcase like they weigh nothing.
I can’t help but catalog the way his forearms flex under the weight. He looks like he walked out of a magazine spread titled “Barefoot Billionaires Who Travel.”
Keon appears at the door with his usual professional expression, about four minutes after Corin called him,
“Ready, Ms. Khan?” Keon asks.
I grab my legal pad and laptop bag. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s go before I change my mind and run away to become a hermit in the Bahamas.”
“You’re already in the Bahamas,” Corin points out.
“Then I’ll run to somewhere else. Antarctica. I hear the penguins taste great this time of year!”
He doesn’t laugh, but his mouth quirks. “No running.”
“No running,” I agree.
The ride back to The Westlight is charged. Like the air before a thunderstorm.
Corin’s hand rests on the seat between us, close enough to touch, but not touching.
I stare out the window at the passing palm trees and try not to think about the fact I just canceled my resort reservation and I’m moving all my belongings into Corin Saelinger’s private villa.
