The roses planted around the square show tiny buds now, small promises of color against green stems. In a few weeks, they’ll bloom fully for the festival. I focus on them instead of thinking about how natural this feels, working alongside him again, slipping back into our old rhythm of collaboration and easy planning.
“We should mark where the—” I start, but something cold strikes my cheek. A raindrop. Then another. And another.
We both look up simultaneously. Those wispy clouds from earlier have darkened to charcoal gray, rolling in fast. Beforewe can react, the sky opens. Not a gentle spring shower, but a torrential downpour that drenches you in seconds.
“Come on!” Zayn grabs his clipboard and sprints toward the gazebo. I run too, clutching my tablet against my chest to protect it.
We reach the gazebo just as the rain intensifies, drumming loudly on the wooden roof above us. The sound is almost deafening but somehow soothing, cocooning us in this small sheltered space. Water drips from Zayn’s hair, and a droplet slides slowly down his jaw. I have to physically stop myself from reaching out to brush it away.
“That came out of nowhere,” I say, slightly breathless from our sprint.
He nods, shaking water off the clipboard. “Spring in Bellrose. Should’ve known better.”
Wind drives rain sideways into the gazebo, and I shiver. The temperature has dropped from pleasant to genuinely cold. The scent of roses and rain mingles in the damp air, making everything feel more intense somehow.
I step closer to the edge, trying to gauge if the storm might pass quickly. More rain pelts my face and soaks through my shirt. Before I can retreat, Zayn is beside me, shrugging off his leather jacket and holding it over both our heads like an improvised umbrella. He does it so quickly, so instinctively, that for a moment I’m transported back five years.
Our second date. That unexpected downpour outside The Anchor after the concert. Him doing exactly this—surrendering his jacket to keep me dry while he got soaked. Me laughing up at him, rain clinging to my eyelashes, thinking he was the sweetest person I’d ever met.
I freeze. His jacket smells identical—that combination of leather and his cologne that used to stick to my clothes after we’dbeen together. Something inside me clenches at how familiar it feels.
“You don’t have to,” I say, but I don’t move away.
“Old habits,” he says quietly.
We stand there beneath the drumming rain, not voicing what we’re both thinking. We’ve done this before. Some things become instinct, buried so deep you can’t dig them out.
“I can’t escape you in this town,” I say finally, watching raindrops cascade from the gazebo roof like liquid silver.
“Is that what you want?” Zayn asks softly. “To escape me?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. The truth is too complicated. Part of me desperately wants to run as far as possible, while another part wants to stay right here under his jacket, surrounded by his scent and the rain and blooming roses.
A festival flyer plasters itself against the gazebo railing, pinned there by wind and rain but not breaking apart. I understand how it feels.
We stand in silence as rain continues falling around us, both acknowledging without words that Bellrose has woven us together in ways we didn’t anticipate. This town where we both belong, where we keep colliding no matter how hard I try to avoid him. This place that keeps insisting the past doesn’t vanish just because you stop looking back.
CHAPTER 10
Cherry Croissants and Rain
There’s a coffee cup on my desk again this morning, steam curling upward with the unmistakable scent of vanilla. Same spot as yesterday. And the day before. And every single day for the past three weeks. I set my bag down, hang up my jacket, and try to ignore the way my heart does that stupid little jump when I spot that familiar paper cup. It’s just coffee, Sophie. Get a grip.
I circle my desk warily, like the cup might somehow attack me. Which is ridiculous since it’s been appearing for twenty-one mornings straight. Twenty-one cups of coffee I never requested but keep drinking anyway.
The first one showed up the morning after that rainy day at the gazebo. I’d arrived at work with damp hair, my mind still replaying Zayn holding his jacket over both of us in the downpour. I was so distracted I nearly tripped over a water bowl in the kennel area. And there it was—a cup from The Daily Grind with my name scrawled across it in black marker.
No note. Nothing. Just coffee.
I pick up the cup, feeling its warmth seep into my palms. Vanilla latte with an extra shot and almond milk. Exactly how I take it. I’m honestly surprised Zayn even remembers this detail. We barely drank coffee together back when we were dating—Iwas eighteen and convinced drinking green tea made me seem sophisticated.
I take a sip and warmth unfurls in my belly. Damn it. It’s perfect, like always. Not too sweet, but strong enough to actually wake me up. I turn away from my desk, trying to hide how ridiculously happy this coffee makes me.
“Morning, Sophie!” Stella breezes past with her clipboard, then stops short when she spots the cup in my hand. “Ooh, your mystery coffee delivery strikes again!” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively.
“It’s nothing,” I say, aiming for casual indifference and missing completely.
“Twenty-one days of ‘nothing’ is definitely something,” she sings, disappearing into exam room one before I can throw my pen at her.
