Actually, you knowexactlywhy you’re not saying anything.
Marisol’s already moving on.
Corin picks up both our bags like the decision is settled.
Fine.
We’ll play it his way.
But I’m watching him.
The storage room is exactly as bad as I expected. Concrete floor. One small window. Shelves stacked with ancient workshop materials and what looks like a broken projector from 1987.
And the promised futon.
Thesinglefuton.
I stare at it like it’s a hostile witness I’m about to cross-examine.
Corin sets our bags down and notices my gaze. “I can sit on the floor.”
Well, at least it’s quieter in here than in the main hall. The rainfall is a lot more muffled, so that we can actually talk without shouting.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” The words come out sharper than I meant. “We’re both adults. We can sit on a futon without it being weird.”
Uh huh.
It will definitely be weird.
The power cuts out right then, plunging us into darkness except for the faint gray light coming through the window.
“Great,” I mutter, fumbling for my phone.
I manage to get my phone’s flashlight on, which helps approximately zero percent. The beam just makes the shadows more ominous.
Corin’s already digging through his bag, and a second later he produces an actual flashlight because of course he’s the kind of person who travels with emergency supplies.
“Always prepared?” I ask.
“Something like that.” He props the flashlight on one of the shelves so it illuminates the room with a dim, diffused glow. “Thorne insisted I keep one in my bag after the last time we got caught in a blackout. Let’s just say, the power cuts out in the Bahamas a lot more than it does in New York City.”
We sit on opposite ends of the futon, which immediately sags in the middle like it’s trying to roll us toward each other.
Lovely.
We now have both physicsandfurniture conspiring against my self-control.
I scoot back toward my end, pull my knees up, and wrap my arms around them.
“So,” I say, because silence feels more dangerous than talking. “On a scale of one to ten, how much do you think Marisol is regretting scheduling this workshop?”
“Eleven.” His voice is low and steady. “She already apologized twenty minutes ago for the ‘logistical oversight.’”
I huff out a laugh despite myself. “It’s not her fault the storm decided to show up early. Though I’m pretty sure my Manhattan clients are going to have feelings about me being unreachable.”
He shrugs. “You can’t control the weather.”
“Tell that to opposing counsel when I miss a filing deadline because I was trapped in a tropical storm.”
