I force myself to look back at my case files.
I’m a professional.
Ysela’s car pulls into the gravel drive just as I’m closing out a client file. She emerges with a matching pair of canvas grocery bags.
We’ve developed a friendship over the past few months. Ever since Corin gave up The Westlight and moved into the cottage with me.
She catches my eye through the studio window and gives me a knowing look. It essentially says, “I knew you’d stay.”
Everyone knew I’d stay except me.
My phone buzzes.
A text from Jess.
Marco and I are coming to visit next month. Ben’s excited to see the ocean. Also, I’m pregnant. Don’t tell anyone yet.
I read it twice. Three times. My face splits into a grin.
Oh my god.
Oh my GOD.
I type back immediately:Congratulations! Your secret’s safe.
Then I add:Also I’m screaming internally right now. You’re going to be the best mom. Again. Technically. You know what I mean.
She responds with a string of heart emojis and a crying face and something that might be a baby bottle or a rocket ship. Emoji interpretation is not my strong suit.
Jess is going to have a baby of her own.
Wow.
I set down my phone and stare out the window again, but this time I’m not looking at Corin. I’m looking at the ocean, thinking about how much has changed since that New Year’s Eve.
Corin turned out to be the love of my life.
The love I’d already lost once and was too scared to keep.
The thought reminds me of how grateful I am that things turned out the way they did.
How grateful I am that I decided to stop running.
That evening, Corin and I have dinner on the cottage terrace. Before we start, he presses a button on the railing, and fine mesh screens descend from hidden tracks overhead. They’re part of a custom retractable barrier system he had installed specifically to combat the no-see-ums that turn every sunset into a blood drive.
It’s so smooth and silent I barely notice it happening. The mesh is dark enough that you’d think it would block the view, but somehow we can still see the ocean perfectly. Special weave or coating or some other billionaire-engineered solution I don’t fully understand.
I’d mock him for it except I’m the one who gets to enjoy bug-free dining with an ocean view.
Corin is barefoot on the terrace with me. And his shirt is unbuttoned two extra buttons this evening. His hair is slightly disheveled from the beach, and he smells like sea salt and cedar smoke, a scent that’s become synonymous with “home” in my brain.
“You know you hate the spotlight,” I say, poking at my grilled fish. We’ve been talking about an upcoming conference. Some big ethics-in-philanthropy thing in Geneva where Corin’s been invited to keynote. He only accepted on the condition that I co-present.
Which is flattering.
But also terrifying.
And also deeply attractive.
