“I’d rather let the clinic close than ask him for anything.”The words shoot out of my mouth before I can think.
But something must flicker across my face. Something Sara catches immediately. That’s what happens when you live with someone who knows all your tells.
“Really?” She raises one eyebrow in that knowing way she has. “Because your face is telling a completely different story.”
“What are you talking about?” I snap, hitting the keyboard harder than necessary. The spacebar makes a weird protesting click.
“You’re doing that thing where your mouth says one thing but your eyes say another.” She sits up fully and pushes my laptop closed, forcing me to look at her. “He’s an attorney,Sophie. A good one, according to everyone in town. And the clinic desperately needs someone who understands the law.”
“The clinic needs a miracle,” I mutter, trying to reopen my laptop.
Sara keeps her hand firmly planted on the screen. “And what if that miracle happens to have tattoos and blue-gray eyes?”
My stomach does an uncomfortable flip. I hate that she’s right. I hate that after hours of frantic research, the answer has been staring me in the face all along. It’s exactly like one of those romance tropes—heroine needs hero’s specialized expertise, they’re forced to work together, old feelings resurface, everything works out perfectly in the end. Except this is real life. In real life, asking your ex for help just makes you feel pathetic and desperate. In real life, you don’t get to save the clinic and get the guy.
“I can handle this without him,” I say, finally shoving her hand away and flipping my laptop open again. The harsh screen light makes the dark circles under my eyes look even worse.
Sara sighs but relents. That’s her strategy—she drops an idea in your head and then just lets you think about it. She knows if she pushes too hard, I’ll just dig in harder out of sheer stubbornness.
“There’s pasta in the fridge,” she says, standing up. “Eat something besides coffee before you pass out on your keyboard.”
After she leaves, closing the door softly behind her, I stare at my screen without actually seeing it. The words swim and blur, but not from exhaustion. It’s because Zayn keeps invading my thoughts. His face at The Daily Grind. Those roses he planted at our spot on the cliff. The image of him working late at the coffee shop, tie loosened, hair disheveled, completely absorbed in whatever case he was building.
I imagine walking into his office. Having to ask for his help. Having to swallow every ounce of my pride. Everything inside me revolts thinking about it.
I attack the keyboard harder, like I can force a solution to appear through sheer determination. Like I can magically discover some loophole that doesn’t require crawling back to the one person who knows exactly how to hurt me.
The clinic needs help. The animals need help. Dr. Martinez needs help.
But why does it have to be him?
My fingers hover shakily over the keyboard. Before I can stop myself, I open a new tab and type “Hargrove & Associates Bellrose.” Their professional website loads. I click on “Our Team” and there he is—Zayn Blackwell, Associate Attorney. He looks so serious in his headshot, nothing like the guy with the easy smile I remember. I stare at his photograph far too long, feeling like my chest might crack open from all the conflicting emotions warring inside it.
I close the tab fast. Not yet. Not unless there’s absolutely no other option.
CHAPTER 7
Forced Proximity
The clinic door swings open under my hand. That familiar antiseptic smell wraps around me as I step inside. My eyes burn from staying up too late searching desperately for legal solutions online. The building is quiet—just the low hum of the heating system and soft dog whines drifting from the kennels. But something feels off. The air feels charged, like right before a storm breaks.
I hang my jacket on the hook by the entrance. I’m about to head to the treatment room when I hear a voice coming from Dr. Martinez’s office—deep, male, and so achingly familiar it steals my breath. Pain blooms in my chest. I know that voice. Even after five years, I’d recognize it anywhere.
I turn slowly and peer through the half-open office door. Zayn Blackwell, sitting across from Dr. Martinez’s desk, posture straight, shoulders broad in a crisp blue button-up. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, exposing the tattoos that now cover his forearms and hands—dark ink stark against his skin.
My vision blurs. I can’t move. This can’t be happening. Not here. Not in my sanctuary. This is what romance novels call “forced proximity”—when two people desperate to avoid eachother get trapped together. It’s supposed to be romantic and tension-filled. It’s not. It feels like an ambush.
Dr. Martinez glances up and spots me frozen in the doorway. Her face brightens. “Sophie! Good morning. Come in, please.” She gestures me inside like this is a perfectly normal day, not a trap with my ex-boyfriend sitting three feet away.
I consider bolting. I could turn around, go home, call in sick. But I’ve never missed a shift in three years. And the clinic is in crisis—I couldn’t find any viable solutions last night despite hours of frantic research. My feet carry me forward while my brain screams at me to run.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I manage, my voice coming out steadier than I feel. Work Sophie kicks in automatically—cool, professional, detached.
“You’re not interrupting at all,” Dr. Martinez says, rising to make introductions like we’re at some social gathering. “Sophie, this is Zayn Blackwell from Hargrove & Associates. Jen mentioned he might be able to help with our landlord situation.” She turns to him. “Zayn, this is Sophie Whitmore, one of my best veterinary technicians.”
His eyes lock onto mine, those stormy blue-gray. His expression remains neutral, but I catch the slight muscle tick in his jaw. He knows how absurd this charade is. He knows exactly who I am.
“Nice to meet you,” he says, all business-like as he extends his hand toward me.
