Sara raises an eyebrow knowingly. “Him?”
I nod, tilting the phone so she can read it. “Even my phone isn’t a safe zone anymore.”
“What are you going to say?” she asks.
I stare at the screen, cursor blinking in the reply field. I could claim I’m busy. I could ask Carol to handle it instead. I could just ignore him completely. But then I think about Dr. Martinez’s relieved expression when Zayn offered pro bono legal services. I think about all those shelter animals who deserve loving homes through our adoption booth.
“I’ll meet him,” I say with a resigned sigh. “Strictly coffee and paperwork. Nothing more.”
Sara gives me that look—the one that says she can see straight through my defenses. “Sophie, this town might have room for both of you. But I’m not sure your heart does.”
I roll my eyes, but my hands aren’t quite steady as I type:
The Grind, 10am tomorrow. I'll bring last year's documentation.
Outside the window, wind catches a festival flyer and sends it tumbling across the square. It spins and dances before plastering itself against one of the gazebo posts, stuck.
“I hate when you’re right,” I tell Sara, setting my phone face-down on the table. “This town really is too small to avoid people forever.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” she says softly. “Some connections shouldn’t be completely severed.”
I don’t respond. I watch the townspeople moving through the square, living their uncomplicated lives, while mine gets messier by the day.
For an entire week, I’ve kept my distance. I’ve sent professional emails about festival planning. I’ve made brief phone calls that stick strictly to business. We’ve met for coffee three times, and I always choose the high-top tables so I can escape quickly if needed. I keep my answers short. I don’t smile much. I cross my arms defensively. I’m building a wall between us, and he doesn’t try to climb over it. He stays on his side, never asking for more than I’m willing to give. Well, mostly.
But I can’t help noticing things. He’s always early. He remembers I take vanilla in my coffee. His eyes track me when he thinks I’m not looking.
Sometimes he attempts casual conversation. “How’s Mia doing?” or “Everything okay at the clinic?” Or small reminders that he used to know me intimately. I shut these down immediately, redirecting to permit applications and vendor contracts. His jaw tightens when I do this, but he doesn’t push. He just nods and returns to festival business.
I’m exhausted from the pretense. And today will be the hardest test yet—walking the festival grounds to figure outwhere to put the pet adoption booth. No table between us. No easy exit strategy. Just me and Zayn, alone at the town square gazebo.
I arrive twenty minutes early on purpose, wanting to survey everything before he shows up. It’s a gorgeous morning—crisp air, wispy clouds, everything smells fresh and new. Town Square is awakening, tiny buds appearing on the rose bushes planted throughout. The wooden gazebo sits centerpiece, already strung with lights for the festival. They’re dark now, but come evening they’ll transform everything into magic.
The old clock tower chimes nine-thirty, the sound echoing across the mostly empty square. I run my hand along the smooth wooden railing as I climb the gazebo steps. I mentally map where everything will go: the main stage here, food vendors there, and our pet adoption area along this side.
I pull out my tablet and start making notes. We’ll need electrical access for the microchip scanners. Shade structures for the animals. Water bowls, designated bathroom area, barriers to prevent overeager children from overwhelming shy dogs. List-making soothes my anxiety.
“Morning.”
I startle and nearly drop my tablet. Zayn stands at the base of the steps, clipboard in hand. He’s wearing dark jeans and a charcoal henley that fits across his shoulders, topped with a black leather jacket. He looks more like the boy I used to know than the attorney who returned.
My heart does that stupid flutter I hate. “You’re early,” I say, though I arrived even earlier.
“So are you.” He climbs the steps but keep his distance. “I got the permits approved. The city granted us additional square footage.”
I nod, trying not to notice how sunlight catches in his hair. “Perfect. I’ve been mapping the layout.” I gesture towardthe grassy area. “Dog enclosures here, and we can set up the microchipping station under that oak tree for natural shade.”
“Smart,” he says, scribbling on his clipboard. “We should walk the entire perimeter, make sure the flow works.”
We descend the steps together, careful not to touch. The square is still relatively empty— a few people hurrying to work and someone walking a golden retriever that makes me think of Max. I wonder how Zayn got away from his law office this early, but I don’t ask. That would be too personal, and we’re keeping everything strictly professional.
“How’s the clinic situation progressing?” he asks as we pace out the adoption area dimensions.
“Better,” I admit. “The landlord’s attorney contacted Dr. Martinez yesterday. They’re suddenly very interested in ‘finding a mutually beneficial solution’ now that they know we have legal representation.” I can’t suppress a small smile. “Funny how that works.”
Zayn grins. “Funny indeed.”
We walk side by side, close enough that I catch his scent—woodsy and clean. His hand accidentally brushes mine when we both point to the same spot for the tent position. I jerk away and nervously tuck my hair behind my ear. He watches me do it, and I know he remembers this old habit.
