I busy myself setting up at the other end of the desk. Pull out my laptop. Open my email. Pretend I’m not hyperaware of every movement Corin makes, every shift in his posture, the way his voice drops slightly when he’s explaining something complicated to someone who might not follow legal jargon.
It’s always surprised me how good he is at this. Most venture capitalists I’ve dealt with have entire legal teams to handle the fine print while they focus on the overall strategy or whose yacht is bigger. But Corin actually reads contracts like someone who understands them.
I asked him about it once. He’d shrugged and said something about how you can’t rely on lawyers to catch everything when you’re the one signing your name. Also mentioned he’d been sued enough times in his early career that he learned to spot problems on his own before they became litigation. Problems his own lawyers had missed.
Which, honestly, is fair. Because nothing teaches you contract law quite like living through it day in and day out.
They work through the fishing lease for another forty minutes. Trying not to sweat in my expensive business casual, I force myself to focus on extending the contract template I put together for Corin last week, the one he was supposed to use in my absence, but I keep catching fragments of their conversation. Corin is patient, and thorough, walking the fisherman through every clause with careful attention.
Finally, the fisherman stands and shakes Corin’s hand gratefully. “Thank you, Mr. Saelinger. Really. My family’s been fishing these waters for three generations. Wasn’t about to let some mainland developer take our land from us.”
“You shouldn’t have to fight this hard for what’s yours,” Corin replies. For some reason, I get the impression that what he’s saying has some kind of a double meaning. When his eyes catch mine and I see the determined glint there, oh I know his words definitely have a double meaning.
The stubborn side of me rears its ugly head.
You think I’m yours, do you?
And you think you don’t have to fight?
Oh we’ll see about that.
The fisherman leaves, and suddenly it’s just the two of us in this tiny office with the concrete walls and the louvers open to salt air that does nothing to cut the tension.
Silence.
I stare at my laptop screen.
Corin shifts papers on his side of the desk.
This is fine.
We’re professionals.
We can absolutely work in the same space without addressing the fact that I walked out on him last night, or that he keeps trying to exile himself to “protect” me, or that I spent the entire night wanting to both throttle him and kiss him until we forget every boundary we’ve ever constructed.
Healthy coping mechanisms.
Really nailing this.
Then Corin slides something across the steel desk.
I glance up.
It’s the pilot one-week extension agreement. Ready and waiting for me to sign.
But at the bottom, in handwriting I recognize, there’s a note:
Thank you for staying. I appreciate you more than you’ll ever know. —C.
My throat goes tight.
Don’t you dare cry.
I pick up my black gel pen. The same brand I left on his nightstand after New Year’s Eve. The same kind I’ve used for years because the ink flow is perfect and the grip doesn’t cramp my hand during long contract reviews.
The pen hovers over the signature line.
You’re probably going to regret this.
