But what if he doesn’twantto reassess?
What if he just wanted one more night?
Oh God, this sucks so much.
The days and weeks that follow blur together in this weird professional purgatory where I’m supposed to pretend nothing happened.
We fall into a routine that’s almost comfortable if you ignore the simmering sexual tension that follows us around.
Days pass helping islanders with predatory contracts. Running workshops on lease agreements and exploitation clauses. Drafting legal frameworks that might actually protect people from developers who view locals as obstacles rather than human beings.
Corin brings me coffee every morning. Black, no sugar.
Without asking.
I pretend it doesn’t mean anything.
Because it probably doesn’t. Just a boss keeping his employer happy.
He adjusts the louvers to keep sun off my face.
I pretend I don’t notice.
We work elbow-to-elbow reviewing contracts, and every accidental brush of his arm against mine feels like a small electrical shock.
I’m definitely handling this maturely.
I start seriously considering just leaving when the six weeks are up. Taking my hundred thousand dollars and whatever’s left of my dignity back to Manhattan where I can process this disaster from a safe distance.
Maybe get a therapist.
Definitelyget a therapist.
I’m not even sure I believe his story anymore. About how he fought the board five years ago, how he tried to protect Leena, my mentor. Maybe he just made it all up so I’d want to kiss him like I did later that night. A lie to get into my pants. I wouldn’t put it past him.
The days continue to creep by. During the nights and weekends, when I’m not obsessing over every micro-interaction with Corin, I throw myself into my Manhattan caseload like a woman possessed.
Contract reviews. Client emails. Research memos. Anything to keep my brain from replaying that night in the study on an endless, torturous loop.
The distraction of work is literally the only thing keeping me functional right now.
Healthy?Debatable.
Effective?Absolutely.
I bill more hours in two weeks than I normally do in a month.
My clients back in Manhattan are thrilled.
Meanwhile, I’m having a mental breakdown disguised as productivity.
Finally,finally, only two days remain on the contract.
Thank God.
Today I find myself organizing foundation files in what Corin calls the “transparency room” at the clinic. Which is basically a fancy way of saying “the closet-sized office where we keep all the files that prove we’re not totally corrupt.”
It’s a space that probably used to actuallybea supply closet before someone slapped a desk in it and called it an office. The concrete walls match the rest of the bungalow, and there’s one small window with louvers that actually open.
