He pauses. “Thank you. For staying.”
My throat becomes tight. “You already said that. In writing.”
He nods. “I know. But I wanted to say it out loud.”
I should get in my car. Start the engine. Drive away before I say something stupid like “I’m glad I stayed” or “please stop trying to protect me from things I can handle” or “why do you have to look so goddamn good in linen shirts.”
Instead I hear myself say, “See you tomorrow.”
Then I climb into my rental before I can complicate things further.
Back at my villa, I collapse onto the couch and immediately text Jess.I signed an extension. Staying another week.
Her reply comes back almost instantly:GOOD. Don’t fuck this up.
Thanks for the vote of confidence.
Jess:You know what I mean. Stop running.
I stare at my phone.
Stop running.
Like it’s that easy.
I set my phone down and open my legal pad. Beside today’s entry, I write in tiny letters at the bottom of the page:
What if you stopped running and stayed long enough to find out what happens?
That’s a very good question.
15
Amara
Two days into this extended pilot program and I’m about ready to lose my mind.
Not because of the work. The work is fine. Great, even. We’ve helped three more families, and the local newspaper ran a follow-up piece praising the clinic’s community impact.
No, the problem is Corin.
Or rather, my reaction to him.
Specifically, the way my eyes keepstickingto that pale scar above his left eyebrow when he’s scowling at a contract, that jagged little bolt I’ve traced with my tongue. The way his throat moves when he swallows his coffee, those thick tendons flexing against his sun-darkened skin, and the salt-sweet flavor of the sweat I tasted there not long ago.
Then there are those stupid linen shirts, clinging to him when the humidity rises, plastering themselves to the hard planes of his shoulders and back that I’ve held so close. When that happens, I can see every defined ridge of his muscles, every shift of power as he leans over the desk, teasing me.
Or the way he looks after he’s rolled up his sleeves. Christ. It’s not just forearms, it’s veins mapping strength beneath taut skin, corded muscle flexing as he writes, and god I remember exactly how those arms caged me. And those hands, with the long, ruthless fingers that I’m supposed to pretend didn’t drag up my dress while his mouth scorched a path down my pussy?
Anyway, you get the picture.
It’s not maddening.
It’storture.
So yeah, it’s day two. Nine thirty at night.
We’re still here, supposedly finishing up paperwork for tomorrow’s workshop. In reality, I think we’re both avoiding going back to our respective villas because the second we’re alone in separate spaces, we’ll have to acknowledge that this whole “strictly professional” thing is a joke.
