Good sex, yeah, but that doesn’t explain why I can’t stop replaying every damn second of it.
Why I keep thinking about the way she looked at me in the dark, like maybe she still saw something worth salvaging beneath all the mistakes I’ve made. Why I—
Christ, what’s wrong with me?
Forget about her.
I came to Eleuthera to escape. To put distance between myself and the foundation scandal that has been quietly building in Manhattan for the past three months. Xavier Laurent, my former board member and current nightmare, has been planting falsified documents to cover his own embezzlement.
The press hasn’t broken the story yet but they’re circling. My general counsel Liora has been running damage control while I’ve been here pretending to work on the legal clinic project.
Except the clinic isn’t pretend.
It’s real.
I’ve been funding Marisol de la Cruz’s community legal work for two years and this pilot program is the next phase. A way to scale her impact. A way to do something that matters instead of just bleeding money into crisis management.
But it’s also strategic, like everything I do in business. If I can stabilize the foundation’s public profile with a high visibility community project then maybe I can buy enough time to expose Xavier before he buries me. Not to mention, the foundation is great for optics. Every billionaire wants to look like a dedicated philanthropist.
The woman I dismissed on the beach last night was a donor’s daughter making overtures all evening. Easy to send away the second I saw Amara’s face in the lantern light.
Seeing Amara fractured all my plans. Turned me into someone I don’t fucking recognize. Someone who makes decisions with his dick instead of his brain.
Now she’s gone and the urge to disappear into work is humming under my skin. It’s how I managed to forget about her before.
Or tried to, anyway.
Never quite worked, did it?
But I need to make it work this time.
Because whatever the hell last night was, it can’t happen again.
I stand and pull on yesterday’s linen pants.
Ysela appears in the doorway holding an espresso like she has a sixth sense for when I need caffeine and silence. She’s the only person on my staff who’s mastered the art of being present without being intrusive.
“Good morning Mr. Saelinger.” Her voice is professional. If she noticed the state of the bed or the fact that I’m alone she doesn’t show it.
“Morning.” I take the cup and down half of it in one sip. The burn grounds me.
She gestures toward the table near the window. “I’ve set out your tablet and the contracts for this morning’s meeting.”
“Thank you Ysela.”
She nods once and disappears as quietly as she arrived.
Meeting.
Because unlike normal people, of course I work New Year’s Day.
And expect everyone around me to work.
Helps that I pay my people very, very well.
I shower. Shave. Dress in a fresh linen shirt the color of sand and lightweight trousers that won’t betray how much I’m sweating. My reflection in the mirror looks like a man who got three hours of sleep and spent most of them reliving the feel of Amara Khan coming apart under his hands.
Fucking hell.
