I nearly knock over my water glass. “Seriously? That would be amazing.”
Marco smiles warmly at us both. “You two make quite the team, don’t you? How long have you been dating?”
Marco’s question freezes everything. Heat floods my face. Zayn and I make brief eye contact before simultaneously looking away.
“We’re not—” I start but can’t finish the sentence.
“Just working together,” Zayn adds, but it sounds unconvincing even to my ears.
“Ah,” Marco says, clearly skeptical. “My apologies.”
I shift in my chair, suddenly hyperaware of Zayn’s proximity. Our elbows nearly touch on the narrow table.
Zayn clears his throat. “The donation form,” he says, taking a document from his folder. “If you could just complete this…”
We both study the form intently while Marco fills it out, carefully avoiding each other’s gaze. The silence between us feels weighted with everything unspoken. Five years of separation compressed into this tiny space between our chairs. The pen scratches across paper. Someone in the kitchen drops a dish. I count slowly in my head, trying to regulate my racing pulse.
“All finished,” Marco announces, returning the form.
Zayn murmurs thanks, still not quite meeting my eyes. I smile, but my face feels stiff. We leave with Marco’s generous commitments and the lingering weight of his mistaken assumption hanging between us, neither of us knowing what to say.
The staff room looks like a gift shop exploded. Baskets wrapped in cellophane gleam under fluorescent lights. Framed artworkleans against every available wall surface. Gift certificates in elegant envelopes sit arranged in stacks across Dr. Martinez’s desk. My lower back aches from hauling everything in from Zayn’s car, but satisfaction swells as I survey our week’s work displayed like treasure. We canvassed every business and boutique in Bellrose, and we collected enough to fill the entire room. I suppose people in this town genuinely care about our veterinary clinic. Or maybe they can’t refuse when Zayn deploys his attorney charm and unwavering confidence. Or maybe—and I try not to dwell on this—we’re genuinely effective as a team.
“Where do you want these restaurant certificates?” Zayn holds up a glossy envelope from The Crab Shack.
“Food and beverage category, by the window,” I say without looking up from my laptop. “Keep them separate from retail gift cards.”
The clinic smells different after hours—less antiseptic-heavy, more like the lavender plug-in Jen activates before locking up. Outside, streetlights have just flickered on against the darkening sky. My empty coffee cup sits beside a turkey sandwich I barely touched. My eyes burn from staring at spreadsheets too long.
I gesture toward the chef’s tasting menu from The Pearl. “Can you believe this? A thousand-dollar dinner experience? That’s going to be our star auction item.”
Zayn glances up from sorting gift cards. “This town loves the clinic,” he says simply. “You just had to give them a reason to show it.”
I almost deflect—want to point out that he conceived this entire fundraiser strategy—but I’m too exhausted to argue. I nod and continue typing.
We work seamlessly together—him organizing physical items, me cataloging everything digitally. It feels disturbingly familiar, reminiscent of late-night study sessions back whenwe… I stop that thought cold. I shouldn’t reminisce about those days.
“We should set the spa basket minimum higher,” I say, redirecting my thoughts. “Those products retail for serious money.”
Zayn adjusts the tag. “Two hundred instead of one-fifty?”
“Perfect.”
The door swings open and Dr. Martinez enters carrying a coffee carafe. Her eyes widen when she takes in our collected donations. “Dios mío! This is incredible!”
“Sophie deserves the credit,” Zayn says, accepting coffee. “People in this town would do anything for her.”
I roll my eyes, but warmth creeps up my neck. “That’s not true. Bellrose residents are just generous by nature.”
Dr. Martinez glances between us with that subtle smile she’s worn all week—like she’s privy to something I’m missing. “Well, whatever magic you two are working, it’s effective. Three more people called today asking how they can contribute.”
Zayn’s phone vibrates. He checks the screen and his expression shifts. “I need to take this. Client emergency. Be right back.” He steps into the hallway, his voice fading as the door closes behind him.
Dr. Martinez settles into the chair beside me, cradling her coffee mug. “He’s been such an asset through all of this,” she says quietly.
I nod, keeping my eyes fixed on my spreadsheet. “He knows a lot of people in town.”
“You know,” she says, her voice dropping lower, “he specifically requested you as his fundraising partner.”
