Because I’m staying for the families.
Not for him.
Definitely not for him.
My cursor hovers over the send button.
You’re lying to yourself and you know it.
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
Then I close my laptop without waiting for a reply, with perhaps more force than necessary. Then I go take a shower that uses up most of the villa’s hot water, and get dressed. I aim for full business casual. Wool trousers. Wool jacket. The works. The kind of thing I’d normally wear in Manhattan, not Eleuthera.
Yes, I know how pathetic it is that I packed complete business attire alongside my vacation clothes.
I was never a light packer.
But I don’t leave for the clinic. I just sit in my air-conditioned villa. Waiting. Ignoring all email and call pings on my phone.
Until two PM. Then I leave.
Which is petty. Extremely petty. The kind of petty that would make my law school ethics professor deeply disappointed in my lack of professional maturity.
But if I’m staying another week, Corin needs to understand that I’m doing this on my terms. Not his schedule. Not his careful choreography of when I should arrive and how we should maintain appropriate professional distance.
Myterms.
When I finally walk out of my air-conditioned rental car and into the parking lot of the island clinic, the afternoon heat hits like a physical wall. I’m already regretting my trouser choice. Should’ve gone with the cotton poplin dress. But no, I had to make a Statement with my wardrobe.
Idiot.
Through the clinic’s front window, I can see Corin at the steel desk. He’s with someone. A local guy, looks mid-fifties. They’rereviewing what looks like a fishing lease agreement spread across the desk.
My stomach does this stupid little butterfly thing.
Because Corin looks good. Like, annoyingly good.
He’s wearing one of those lightweight linen shirts in washed navy, unbuttoned one extra button because apparently he’s trying to kill me. His hair is slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it. The small scar above his left eyebrow catches the light.
I enter, and Marisol is nowhere to be found. Probably in the storage area or the conference room.
I push through the door to Corin’s office.
He glances up immediately and surprise flickers across his face. It’s replace by relief, but then he quickly locks it down.
“You came back,” he says.
The fisherman looks between us, clearly sensing he’s walked into the middle of something complicated.
I sit on the nearest chair and pull out my legal pad with perhaps excessive precision. “For the clinic. Not you.”
Wow. Really driving that point home, aren’t we?
Corin’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, but he just nods. “Understood.”
The fisherman clears his throat. “Should I come back another time?”
“No,” Corin says, refocusing on the lease agreement in front of them. “Let’s finish reviewing clause seven. You were saying the renewal terms changed without notification?”
