As I pull away, I check my rearview mirror one last time, watching him work, completely unaware of the rain, how late it is, or me driving away. The image burns into my mind. Zayn hunched over his papers, tie loose, hair messy, shoulders set like he won’t quit.
Back at the apartment, I slip inside quietly with Mia. Sara and Harper are both asleep behind closed doors. In my room, I change into pajamas, wash my face, brush my teeth—all my normal bedtime routines, even though dawn is a few hours away.
I slide under the covers and Mia jumps up to curl at my feet, warm and comforting like always. But I can’t sleep.
Rain patters softly against my window. It should be soothing, should help me sleep, but instead it seems to match my racing heartbeat.
Lying there staring at my ceiling as night bleeds slowly into morning, I realize something that terrifies me: my walls aren’t as strong as I thought. I’m not as tough as I pretend to be.
And some part of me—the part that keeps his photo hidden under my floorboards, the part that noticed those roses immediately, the part that stopped outside that coffee shop tonight—that part doesn’t want to be.
CHAPTER 6
Sleepless and Spiraling
The clinic looks strange before sunrise. Sara and I hurry across the parking lot, gravel crunching under our shoes. My pulse races with panic from Dr. Martinez’s cryptic text: “Emergency meeting, 6 a.m. Everyone must attend.” In my three years here, we’ve never had an emergency meeting. Not for the leaky roof during the big storm. Not when the X-ray machine broke. Not even when Mrs. Henderson’s persian cat got loose and shredded every roll of paper towels in the supply closet. Something’s seriously wrong, and my churning stomach tells me this isn’t a problem we can fix with bandages and antibiotics.
“What do you think it’s about?” Sara asks quietly. She looks as exhausted as I feel after my midnight drive to the cliffs. After watching Zayn through the rain-streaked window of The Daily Grind.
“No idea,” I lie. Really, I’m mentally running through at least seventeen catastrophic possibilities, like one of those carnival wheels that never lands on anything good.
The clinic door feels heavier than usual as I push it open. The familiar antiseptic smell hits me, but there’s something else—coffee brewing, stronger than normal, like someone made extra knowing we’d all need the caffeine. The fluorescent lights buzzoverhead, too harsh for this early hour, making everyone look washed out and sickly.
Jen from reception is already here, no makeup, hair yanked back in a hasty bun. The weekend vet tech—the quiet guy whose name I can never remember—stands by the water cooler, gnawing his thumbnail. Two kennel attendants huddle in the corner, whispering.
“Break room,” Jen says when she spots us, her voice strained. “Dr. Martinez is waiting.”
The break room is packed. Eight of us crammed between the mini fridge and the ancient microwave that burns popcorn without fail. I end up pressed against the bulletin board with Sara squeezed beside me, our shoulders touching. Thumbtacks from vacation photos dig into my back. My palms are slick with sweat. I wipe them on my scrubs, leaving dark streaks.
Dr. Martinez stands at the front, looking smaller than I’ve ever seen her. Her usually perfect bun is coming loose, strands escaping around her face. The dark circles under her eyes suggest she hasn’t slept. She clutches a manila folder against her chest like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Her hands quiver—something I’ve never witnessed before, not even during the most complicated surgeries.
“Thank you for coming in early,” she says, her voice steady even though her hands aren’t. “I wouldn’t have called you all in if it wasn’t urgent.”
The floor disappears beneath me. In my romance novels, this is where the struggling business owner would inherit money from a long-lost relative. But Dr. Martinez’s expression tells me this isn’t that kind of story. This is the other kind.
“I received a letter yesterday,” she continues, opening the folder and extracting a document with an official-looking letterhead. “Our landlord is selling the building.”
No one speaks. We’re all waiting for the rest, because there’s always more bad news coming.
“The new owners have different plans for the property. They’re willing to let us stay…” Dr. Martinez pauses, her throat working as she swallows hard. “But they’re tripling the rent.”
The words hit me hard. My stomach plummets through the floor. My hands turn ice-cold. A sharp pain lances behind my left eye—the beginning of what I know will be a brutal headache.
“How long do we have?” Jen asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Three months,” Dr. Martinez says. “If we can’t find a solution by then…”
She trails off. She doesn’t need to finish. We all understand. Bellrose Veterinary Clinic will close. My safe haven. The one stable thing I’ve built since Zayn left. Gone.
Everyone erupts at once.
“What if we relocate?”
“Could we get a business loan?”
“My cousin owns commercial property we might be able to rent…”
They’re all throwing out suggestions like they’re tossing lifelines to someone drowning. I stand there, frozen. I can’t move. I can’t speak. All I can think about is what comes next—not just for me but for the animals. Mrs. Donovan’s elderly dachshund who only trusts Dr. Martinez to examine his sensitive ears. The feral cats we’ve been trapping, neutering, and releasing. Jasper the tabby and Max the golden retriever and all the pets who depend on us.
