Even if she never fully forgives me.
9
Amara
The first sign that today is going to be a disaster is the way the palm trees are bending like they’re auditioning for a limbo contest.
The second sign is when Marisol looks at her phone and mutters something in rapid Bahamian Creole that I’m pretty sure translates to “we’re all going to die.”
Wonderful.
We’re at a community hall on the far side of Eleuthera, running a contract-review workshop for about fifteen locals who showed up despite the threatening sky. Because apparently island residents have more commitment to understanding predatory land-lease clauses than they do to basic self-preservation.
I respect that.
Also I think we’re all idiots.
“We should wrap up early,” Marisol says, glancing out the window.
“Maybe it’s just a squall?” I ask hopefully. Because the Bahamas rarely get storms this time of year, right?
Marisol shakes her head urgently.
I’m wondering if I should continue explaining how escalation clauses work when the first fat raindrops hit the tin roof like gunshots.
Within thirty seconds it sounds like we’re inside a drum being played by a very enthusiastic percussionist.
Either that, or inside a machine gun.
“Okay!” I have to shout to be heard over the noise. “Let’s call it. Everyone get home safely!”
The locals file out quickly, most of them looking way less concerned than I feel. Probably because they’ve lived through actual hurricanes and know this is just a tropical tantrum.
Meanwhile I’m having flashbacks to that one time in law school when I got trapped in the library during a northeaster and had to sleep on a study table because the dorms lost power.
Fun times.
Corin’s already moving toward the door, following an older woman who’s struggling with an umbrella. I watch through the window as he helps her to her car, holding the umbrella over her head while getting completely soaked himself. The rain is coming down in sheets now.
When she’s safely inside, he doesn’t come back. Instead he moves to help the next person, a man with a cane. Thorne materializes from somewhere near the building’s side entrance, and takes an elderly couple’s bags while Corin steadies the man with the cane.
I should probably help, too. Except I’m stuck holding about seventeen legal pads and a box of workshop handouts.
By the time he helps the last straggler, a woman who apparently decided now was the perfect time to have an extended conversation about her grandson’s legal troubles, the parking area has transformed from “concerning” to “legitimate water hazard.” I watch her car create a wake as she drives away, like she’s piloting a boat instead of a sedan.
Geez.
That escalated quickly.
Corin appears at my elbow, and I do my absolute best not to notice that his sand-colored linen shirt is now plastered to his chest in ways that highlight his gorgeous pectorals. His dark hair is dripping, with water sliding down his temple, and he’s breathing slightly harder than normal.
I hate him a little bit for still managing to look like some kind of tropical romance novel hero even when he’s soaking wet.
Actually, scratch that.
Especially when he’s soaking wet.
Focus, Amara.
