Stopthinking about it.
I pocket the pen before I leave.
I don’t know why.
I’mat the beachfront café at nine forty five. Fifteen minutes early. Thorne, my head of security, is already inside conducting his usual sweep. When he’s done, I enter.
The café is small. Open air. Positioned right on the sand with a view of the water that would be romantic if I weren’t here to conduct business.
A handful of tourists occupy corner tables. Couples mostly. Honeymooners probably. They look just as tired as I probably do. You know, that whole New Year’s Day hungover look.
I claim a table near the back with clear views of both entrances and pull out my tablet. Contracts for the legal clinic funding agreement. Partnership terms. Liability waivers. All the scaffolding required to turn good intentions into actionable reality.
I scan the first page without absorbing a single word.
Because my mind keeps wandering. Replaying last night. The way she kissed the scar above my eyebrow after—
Goddamn it.
This is exactly the kind of distraction I can’t afford right now. Not with Xavier circling and the foundation’s reputation hanging by a thread. Not when I need to be sharp, focused, strategic.
But instead I’m sitting here like some lovesick idiot pining after a woman who made it crystal clear she wants nothing to do with me.
Fuck her.
I certainly want to.
No I don’t!
I force my attention back to the contracts. This stuff...thisis what I am good at.
Not relationship bullshit.
Marisol is ten minutes late which is unusual for her. She runs her legal aid program with the kind of militant efficiency that would make most corporate CEOs weep. If she says she’ll be somewhere at ten she usually means nine fifty eight.
Though I suppose I should cut her some slack. ItisNew Year’s Day, after all.
At ten oh five the door finally opens.
I glance up expecting Marisol’s no nonsense energy and salt and pepper hair.
Instead I seeher.
Amara Khan.
Frozen in the doorway like she has just walked into a deposition she wasn’t prepared for.
Her eyes lock on mine.
And just like that, every rational thought in my head evaporates. Replaced by the kind of visceral reaction I haven’t felt since I was seventeen and too stupid to know better.
What the hell is it about her?
Why can’t I just file her away in the mental drawer labeled “mistakes” and move the fuck on?
She stays in the doorway. One hand gripping her canvas tote. The other braced against the doorframe like she’s considering turning around and walking straight back out.
Good. That makes two of us who wish she wasn’t here.
