My fingers freeze on the keyboard. “What?”
She nods, wearing that same knowing expression. “When we were organizing this, I suggested Sara since she’s good with people. But he insisted it had to be you.” She briefly touchesmy forearm. “He told me, ‘No one else cares about this place as much as she does.’”
I can’t formulate words. I stare at her, eyes wide. He asked for me? Me specifically? My mind scrambles, searching for any explanation that doesn’t involve… us.
Dr. Martinez stands. “I thought you should know that,” she says gently. “Sometimes we think we understand how someone truly feels, but we miss what matters most.”
She moves toward the door, leaving me sitting there speechless. Through the small window, I can see Zayn pacing in the hallway, phone pressed to his ear, his free hand gesturing as he speaks. Cold floods through me while simultaneously my stomach fills with butterflies.
No one else cares about this place as much as she does.
I turn back to my laptop, but the numbers blur into meaninglessness.
Harper rifles through my closet and wrinkles her nose. “When did you last organize in here? I’m pretty sure something just moved in the back.”
“Hilarious.” I sit cross-legged on my bed, watching her go through my wardrobe. My room still smells like the cucumber face masks we applied earlier. “I don’t need anything fancy. It’s just a fundraiser.”
“Just a fundraiser,” Harper echoes mockingly. She holds up a blue shift dress I’d completely forgotten about. “Where you’ll be standing beside Hot Tattooed Lawyer all night with the entire town watching.”
My stomach does that annoying flip. “We’re simply working together to save the clinic. That’s it.”
“Mm-hmm.” Harper holds the dress against herself, frowns critically, and tosses it onto the growing rejection pile on my floor. “And I’m just helping you look presentable for absolutely no reason whatsoever.”
I launch my pillow at her, but she ducks and it smacks my lamp instead. The thud makes Mia’s head pop up from her bed, ears alert.
“It’s fine, girl,” I reassure her. “Harper’s just being annoying.”
Harper rolls her eyes dramatically. “I’m being honest and you know it,” she says, pulling out a black cocktail dress. “You wore this to Sara’s birthday party. It looked great on you.”
Hangers scrape and click as she pushes through clothes I never wear. My room looks like a boutique exploded—dresses draped across my chair, shoes scattered everywhere, jewelry spread across my dresser like a ransacked jewelry box.
“What about this one?” Harper holds up a deep burgundy wrap dress.
I tilt my head, considering. “Maybe. Let me see it with those black heels?”
Harper grins triumphantly. “See? You absolutely care how you look tomorrow night.”
“I don’t want to embarrass Dr. Martinez in front of major donors,” I say, but it sounds unconvincing even to my own ears. “We need those wealthy patrons to open their wallets. Professional appearance matters.”
“Professional, sexy, whatever you want to call it.” Harper keeps looking through my clothes. “If you genuinely didn’t care, you’d wear literally anything. But you’ve already rejected six dresses for being too short or too long or too bright or too boring.”
She’s infuriatingly correct. I’ve been obsessing about this all week—browsing outfits online during lunch breaks, wondering what would complement my hair or make my eyes pop. Not because of Zayn, obviously. Just to look… nice.
I pick at a loose thread on my comforter. “Just because I’m working alongside him doesn’t mean anything. I’d want to look good regardless of who my fundraising partner was.”
Harper makes an undignified snorting sound. “Sure, Jan.” She shoves hangers aside, then suddenly freezes. “Oh. My. God. This is it.”
She pulls out a dress I’d completely forgotten owning—emerald green silk that catches light like water. I’d purchased it for a wedding two years ago, but the couple split before the ceremony, so it’s been hanging untouched ever since.
“This,” Harper announces, holding it up reverently, “is the one. It’s the exact shade of your eyes.”
My pulse quickens as I study it. The dress strikes that perfect balance—fitted bodice with a flowing skirt that would hit above my knees. Not too revealing, not too boring. Just… perfect.
“Try it on,” Harper urges, eyes gleaming.
“I’m not sure…” But I’m already reaching for it. The silk feels cool and impossibly smooth against my fingertips.
Harper smirks knowingly. “For professional reasons, right?”
