“We could also push for reformation based on mutual mistake,” Corin suggests. “If we can prove the family believed they were signing a standard lease renewal and the developer deliberately obscured the new terms.”
I glance at him.
He’s looking at the screen but there’s this slight crease between his eyebrows. The expression he always got when he was working through a complex problem.
I forgot how good he is at this.
Even though he’s not technically a lawyer.
“That’s actually a solid approach,” I admit. “Reformation plus unconscionability gives us two paths to challenge the contract.”
“We should also document the pattern,” he continues. “If the developer is doing this to multiple families it strengthens the unconscionability argument. Shows systematic exploitation rather than isolated incidents.”
“Agreed.”
We fall into a rhythm after that.
Me drafting arguments on my legal pad. Him editing and refining as I go. Both of us building on each other’s ideas with the kind of easy collaboration that comes from people who’ve done this before.
Except.
It’s different now.
Every time our hands accidentally brush over the laptop I feel it like a static shock. When he leans closer to point at something on screen I catch that cedar scent and have to force myself to focus on the contract language instead of the memory of his mouth on my neck.
Shouldn’t have slept with him, Amara.
Also shouldn’t have agreed to work with him.
Stupid stupid stupid.
No.
You’re both professionals.
You canabsolutelywork together without incident.
You got this.
100k.
Focus on the 100k.
An hour passes. We’ve built a comprehensive strategy for the Martinez consultation. Identified three additional families who might be facing similar terms. Outlined a plan for documenting the developer’s pattern of behavior.
It’s solid work.
The kind of legal advocacy I’ve always wanted to do.
And yet I can’t shake the feeling that our professionalism is just a performance, like we’re just pretending the air between us isn’t charged with everything we’re not saying.
Corin stands suddenly. “I’m going to grab coffee. You want some?”
I start to decline automatically.
Then he adds, “Black, no sugar, right?”
I freeze.
