Then I sit there staring at my inbox like a pathetic asshole, because what else am I going to do at twelve thirty in the morning? Sleep?
Yeah right.
My phone buzzes.
Three minutes later.
Three fucking minutes.
I grab it so fast I nearly drop the damn thing.
Amara’s reply is one word:Okay.
Not “yes” or “I’d like that” or even “what time.” Just okay, like she’s agreeing to review another predatory lease agreement instead of sitting across from me while I try not to implode.
But she answered.
At twelve thirty in the morning.
Within three minutes.
Which means she was awake, too. Probably sitting in her resort villa staring at her phone the same way I’ve been staring at mine.
Maybe she couldn’t sleep either.
Maybe she’s been replaying our conversation from earlier, trying to figure out what the fuck we’re doing here.
A guy can hope, right?
I read her message a few more times, looking for subtext that isn’t there.
It’s one word.
There’s no hidden meaning in “okay.”
But the speed of her response? That means something.
At least I think it does.
Or maybe I’m projecting because I want it to mean something.
Christ, I’m a mess.
One day left on the contract after tomorrow. She could walk away and I’d have no professional justification to keep her here. No reason to see her every morning.
I probably should let her go.
As I mentioned, it would be the smart thing to do.
But I’ve never been smart where she’s concerned.
The next dayat the clinic is torture.
Amara arrives right on time, as always. She’s wearing linen trousers and a tank top, hair twisted up off her neck. She sets her canvas tote on the desk, pulls out her legal pad, and says, “Morning.”
“Morning,” I reply.
That’s it. That’s the extent of our personal interaction.
