That’s what I wanted after all.
What Itoldher I wanted.
So why does it feel like I just fucked up worse than I did five years ago?
Fuck.
Across the café Thorne catches my eye and gives a subtle nod. He’s been tracking this whole interaction from his corner table. Logging threats. Monitoring exits. Making sure I don’t do anything catastrophically stupid.
Too late for that.
Amara is gathering her things. Sliding the contract into her tote. Preparing to leave.
“When do we start?” she asks.
“Tomorrow,” I say. “Marisol has a community meeting scheduled at the clinic. Two PM. I’ll have my driver pick you up.”
“I can drive myself,” she insists.
Of course she can. Because accepting help would imply some kind of connection beyond the contract.
Still, I can’t help but frown. “You don’t have a car.”
Her mouth tightens. “I’ll rent one.”
Still so fucking stubborn, after all this time.
“Fine,” I concede. “The clinic is on Queen’s Highway. You can’t miss it. I’ll have my people text you.”
She nods once. Then writes down her number on a slip of paper and hands it to me.
“I’ll expect the updated contract within the hour.” She stands. “Unless your people don’t work on New Year’s Day?”
“Oh, they work all right.” I stand, too, because I was raised with manners even if I’ve spent the last decade trying to forget them.
She turns to go.
“Amara.” Her name comes out rougher than I intended.
She pauses to look at me.
I should say something professional. Businesslike. You know, reinforce the boundaries we just established.
Instead I just stand there like an idiot, trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to say to the woman who keeps walking away from me.
“Thank you,” I tell her finally. “For saying yes.”
Her expression softens for half a second.
Then the walls go back up. “Don’t make me regret it, Corin.”
Then she turns and walks out of the café.
I watch her go.
Watch the confident set of her shoulders even though I know she’s rattled. Just like I am.
This is going to be a disaster. Six weeks of close quarters with someone I can’t figure out how to stop thinking about. Six weeks of pretending last night didn’t happen. Six weeks of lying to her, to myself, to everyone.
