I follow her gaze. A distinguished man with silver hair and an impeccably fitted suit stands examining the auction catalog. Zayn is beside him, pointing out specific items.
“Wow,” I breathe. “Zayn must have serious connections.”
“Or he’s just exceptionally good at getting what he wants,” Sara says with a knowing smile that makes me want to dump my water over her head.
We navigate through the crowd toward our clinic information table. I’m carrying the poster board displaying before-and-after photos of animals we’ve rescued. Sara has set up her laptop with a slideshow. People keep intercepting us—mostly grateful pet owners asking about specific cases.
But I always know exactly where Zayn is. I can’t help it. I’m aware when he moves from the hotel developer back to themayor’s group. I hear his distinctive laugh even over the music. I notice how he keep his distance, not crowding my space, yet his eyes find me repeatedly across the square.
“He’s really trying not to hover,” Sara observes, apparently reading my thoughts. “It’s actually sweet.”
Harper makes a skeptical noise. “Or it’s strategic.”
“Can we please discuss something else?” I plead. “Like our fundraising totals or?—”
“Fine,” Sara relents, squeezing my arm. “But he’s been watching you since we arrived.”
My heart rate accelerates. I try to dismiss it, but I can’t ignore that warm, fluttering sensation whenever I catch him looking. I hate that he still affects me like this after everything.
The band transitions into smooth jazz, and couples drift toward the dance floor. The night air feels perfect—not cold enough for a wrap but cool enough to raise goosebumps. Glasses clink in toasts. Laughter ripples through the crowd. Paper lanterns sway in the breeze, creating shifting patterns of light and shadow on the ground.
I watch Zayn work the room, moving seamlessly from one potential donor to another, utterly confident and charming. He knows exactly how to make people feel valued, how to capture their interest, how to inspire generosity for our cause. It’s impressive. And frustrating. And deeply confusing.
He didn’t need to do any of this. A simple cease-and-desist letter would have sufficed. Instead, he organized this entire fundraiser, recruited wealthy donors, and stayed up late with me finalizing every detail. Every morning, there’s coffee waiting on my desk. He remembered about cherry croissants. He planted those roses at our cliff spot.
That’s what terrifies me most. I’m not afraid he’ll leave again. I’m afraid he genuinely means it this time. What if the umbrella,the coffee, tonight—what if they’re exactly what they appear to be? What if he’s truly trying to prove he’s changed?
Dr. Martinez appears at our table, smiling as she looks around at all the people. “You two have created something truly special here,” she says, gesturing toward the crowd clustered around one of the auction tables. I glance over and spot a woman with silver hair and diamond earrings writing down a bid that makes my breath catch. Dr. Martinez leans closer and lowers her voice. “He’s been working tirelessly on this for weeks.”
I know exactly who “he” is. I busy myself flipping through the auction catalog, pretending to study the listings. “Everyone contributed,” I say, aiming for casual. Like my pulse isn’t racing.
“Sophie.” The way she says just my name makes me stop mid-page. “That hotel developer? Zayn called him daily for nearly two weeks to secure his attendance. And those luxury spa packages? He drove to Coastal Bliss three separate times to negotiate those donations.” She watches him across the square with an expression of genuine admiration. “Nearly every major donor here tonight is his client or personal connection.”
I don’t know how to respond. Should I admit I’ve noticed? That I’ve been tracking his movements all evening, watching him charm everyone from Mrs. Peterson to the mayor? That every time someone writes a substantial bid on our auction sheets, I feel simultaneously grateful and terrified?
Dr. Martinez pats my arm gently. “I thought you should know. People show us who they truly are through their actions, not their words.”
The band transitions songs. The upbeat tempo fades and something slow and achingly romantic begins. Couples drift toward the dance floor, drawing close. The string lights overhead glow like suspended stars. It looks like a scene from a film, not something happening in my actual life here in Bellrose.
“I think we’ll exceed our fundraising goal,” I say, desperately changing subjects. “Maybe even significantly.”
Dr. Martinez smiles knowingly. “I never doubted it.” She glances over my shoulder and her smile widens. “I should go check on the silent auction closing time.”
She vanishes before I can protest, and I already know who’s standing behind me. I can sense his presence. The fine hairs on my arms stand up before I even turn around.
Zayn. His beautiful eyes—the ones that still haunt my dreams sometimes—lock onto mine with an intensity that steals my breath.
He extends his hand. “One dance,” he says. Not a question, not a demand. Just an invitation hanging in the air between us.
I should refuse. I’ve rehearsed declining him countless times in my head since he returned to Bellrose. But what emerges is, “Just one.”
I stare at his outstretched hand. At the tattoos that wraps around his hand. At those fingers I once knew intimately. Taking his hand feels like crossing a line I drew for myself, but I reach out anyway.
When our palms connect, electricity shoots up my arm. His fingers close around mine gently, reverently. He leads me toward the dance floor slowly, and I blink back tears. Five years ago, he would have pulled me along eagerly, impatiently. This Zayn has learned the value of patience.
We reach the center of the floor and face each other. The air between us crackles with tension, charged with everything unspoken. Like we’re both reliving the last time we stood thisclose. Then his hand settles on my waist, and my body responds instinctively. I step closer without conscious thought. My hand finds his shoulder. We fit together seamlessly, like we never stopped dancing, my emerald dress vivid against his dark suit.
The band plays something slow and melancholic. Around us, couples sway in the amber light. I try to ignore how his hand feels on my waist—warm and solid and somehow both familiar and entirely new. I try to ignore how my entire body responds to his proximity, how I can feel my pulse hammering where my fingers rest against his shoulder.
