Coastal Crafts smells like sea salt candles and craft glue. Wind chimes tinkle somewhere in the back as Zayn holds the door open for me. My shoulders are practically touching my ears from tension. Day one of working directly with my ex-boyfriend, and I’m already regretting not calling in sick. It’s barely past ten, we have twelve businesses to visit today, and I’ve barely spoken to him since we left the clinic. He doesn’t push conversation—just walks beside me with his clipboard and that patient expression that makes my stomach do uncomfortable things.
Lisa, the owner, emerges from behind a display of shell necklaces, her hands stained blue from jewelry dye. I’ve treated her golden retriever Tucker for chronic ear infections countless times.
“Sophie!” She wipes her hands on her paint-splattered apron. “What brings you in today?”
I take a steadying breath and launch into our fundraiser pitch. When I talk about the clinic, my voice gains strength and the words flow easier. I tell her about Max, the elderly golden with kidney disease who still wags his tail during treatments. I mention the three abandoned kittens we rescued from acardboard box last month, now thriving and adoptable. My hands move all around as I talk, showing how much I care.
Lisa’s expression softens. When I reference Tucker specifically—how Dr. Martinez always keeps his favorite treats stocked just for him—I can see we’ve won her over.
“I have some handmade jewelry pieces I’d love to donate,” she says, disappearing toward the back room. “And perhaps a gift basket of local artisan crafts as well?”
Zayn remains silent throughout, just standing there with a subtle smile playing at his lips. When Lisa heads to the stockroom, he shifts closer.
“That was impressive,” he says quietly. “You really connected with her.”
I shrug, but warmth blooms in my chest. “She adores her dog. People who love their pets understand why the clinic matters.”
We leave with commitments for two gift baskets and a handcrafted necklace valued at roughly two hundred dollars retail. Not bad for our first attempt.
At Lighthouse Books, a bell chimes our arrival. The familiar scent of aged paper and coffee from the tiny café corner immediately envelops me. Mr. Grayson is restocking shelves, reading glasses perched on his nose. He looks surprised to see us together.
Zayn steps forward, extending his hand. “Mr. Grayson, Zayn Blackwell. We met when I consulted on that downtown bookstore zoning dispute.”
Mr. Grayson squints, then recognition dawns. “Oh yes! The young attorney. Good to see you again.”
I hang back, observing Zayn work his magic. He mentions some recent tax code amendment that could save Mr. Grayson significant money on property assessments. The specifics goover my head, but Mr. Grayson is clearly engaged, nodding and asking follow-up questions.
When Zayn pivots to our fundraiser, I seamlessly join in. I describe our therapy dog reading program—how shelter dogs sit patiently while nervous children practice reading aloud. I explain our senior citizen assistance fund that helps elderly residents afford veterinary care on fixed incomes. Mr. Grayson’s entire demeanor brightens.
“I could donate several signed first editions,” he offers enthusiastically. “And perhaps we could host one of those reading sessions right here in the store?”
Outside, I check Lighthouse Books off our list. We’ve just secured books worth approximately three hundred dollars plus a potential new venue for our reading program. I feel almost giddy.
“We make a good team,” Zayn observes.
The words land heavily because he’s absolutely right. His professional legal approach opens doors, and my animal stories seal the commitment. I’ve been working so hard to maintain distance that I forgot how well we complement each other. Like old times.
“I guess we do,” I admit, focusing intently on my clipboard.
By the time we reach The Salty Dog Bakery, my shoulders have finally dropped from my ears. The shop smells intoxicatingly of sugar cookies and fresh cake. My stomach growls audibly—I’d skipped breakfast to avoid the break room when Zayn arrived this morning.
“Mia still goes crazy for those pumpkin treats,” I tell Emma behind the counter.
“Just made a fresh batch this morning,” Emma grins. “How’s your girl doing?”
I pull up photos of Mia romping on the beach on my phone. Zayn leans in to look, and his arm brushes against mine. I don’t jerk away like I would have earlier.
Emma offers more than just baked goods—she proposes a “Treat of the Month Club” package so the winner returns to her bakery throughout the year. We brainstorm logistics together. I share animal stories while Zayn takes detailed notes and asks insightful questions. It feels effortless working alongside him. And that terrifies me.
Zayn holds the door as we exit with promises of complimentary event pastries plus the gift certificate. Sunlight illuminates his face, highlighting his cheekbones and the slight scruff along his jaw. My stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.
Our final stop is The Pearl—the most upscale restaurant in Bellrose. The owner, Marco, approaches to greet us personally. The dining room sits nearly empty this early, but soft lighting and the gentle clink of servers prepping for dinner service create an intimate atmosphere. The air carries scents of fresh-baked bread and herbs from the kitchen.
“Of course I’ll donate a gift certificate,” Marco says, refilling our water glasses. “How about an exclusive chef’s tasting menu? Seven courses with wine pairings?”
Zayn whistles appreciatively. “That’s incredibly generous, Marco.”
Marco waves dismissively. “The clinic saved my daughter’s cat last year after emergency surgery. Worth every penny.” He drums his fingers on the pristine tablecloth thoughtfully. “Actually, you know what? I’ll also provide discounted catering for the event itself. Some appetizers, perhaps a signature cocktail for the cause.”
