I push myself upright, shoving hair out of my face. Mia lifts her head from the foot of my bed, regarding me with sleepy confusion. “What did you find?”
“It’s about the clinic building.” He’s talking fast, excited in a way I haven’t heard in years. “I think we can get it designated as a historic landmark.”
“Historic?” My brain struggles through lingering fog. “It’s old, but is it that old?”
“It’s not about age. It’s about cultural significance to the community.” I hear rapid keyboard clicking in the background. “The building was Bellrose’s first medical facility back in 1932. If we can document its historical importance, the new owners can’t demolish it or make substantial alterations.”
I sit up straighter, suddenly fully awake. “So they can’t evict us? Or impose that rent increase?”
“Not without navigating through a lot of hoops. The building would be protected under preservation statutes.” His voice drops lower, more intense. “It might not work, but it’s absolutely worth pursuing. I need your help reviewing historical documentation. Can you come to my office in an hour?”
An hour? I glance down at my ratty sleep shirt with the mysterious coffee stain and touch my tangled bedhead. “Make it two.”
“Two hours,” he agrees, then adds in a softer tone, “It was really good seeing you last night, Sophie.”
Heat floods me remembering how his hand felt on my waist, how intoxicating he smelled, those words that kept me awake for hours. “Yeah,” is all I can manage. “See you soon.”
Driving to his office, I keep insisting to myself this is purely professional. We’re trying to save a building. It has nothing to do with dancing together or near-touches or words that shouldn’t still matter after five years. But my heart isn’t cooperating—it does this erratic, fluttery thing the closer I get.
I check my reflection before exiting the car. My hair cooperated today, falling in soft waves. I’m wearing dark jeans and an emerald sweater—nothing fancy, but flattering. I definitely didn’t spend nearly an hour selecting this outfit.
Zayn’s waiting when the elevator doors open, holding two coffee cups. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, exposing his tattoos, and he’s wearing jeans instead of his typical suit.He looks more relaxed than I’ve seen him since returning to Bellrose.
He extends one cup toward me. “Vanilla latte, extra shot, almond milk,” he recites like it’s the most natural thing.
I accept the cup carefully, ensuring our fingers don’t connect. “Thanks.” The warmth feels comforting. “So what’s this about saving the building?”
He leads me into his office, which is now a complet mess. Documents everywhere. Law books stacked around. Sticky notes plastered around his computer. The small lighthouse model I noticed before still sits on the shelf, catching morning sunlight.
“I couldn’t sleep last night, so I kept researching,” he says, clearing folders off a chair for me. “The building isn’t just old. It was designed by Marcus Collins, who created several significant coastal structures.”
I settle into the chair and watch him sort through documents with that expression I remember so well. He’d get this way during finals—completely focused, unstoppable.
“I’ve compiled everything I could find,” he continues, spreading materials across his desk. “Tax records, architectural photographs, newspaper archives. We need to organize it chronologically, build a timeline.”
“Where should we start?” I lean forward, coffee warming my hands.
Just like that, we dive in. He tackles legal documents while I arrange photographs by date. The original building when it opened in 1932. The east wing addition in the ‘50s. Images from the storm of ‘73 when it served as emergency shelter. Occasionally he slides something across the desk—“Look at this!”—and our fingers nearly brush, sending electricity up my arm that I try to ignore.
His phone rings around noon, then again shortly after. He glances at the caller ID but doesn’t answer.
“You can take those if you need to,” I say, aligning photographs. “I honestly don’t mind.”
He switches his phone to silent and sets it face-down. “It can wait.”
Warmth blooms in my chest. He’s dedicating his entire Saturday to this—to me—when he could be billing actual paying clients.
“What are you trying to accomplish?” The words escape before I can stop them. “The fundraiser, the daily coffee, now this? You don’t have to save the clinic to?—”
“To what?” He meets my gaze directly.
I shrug, suddenly finding a 1962 photograph fascinating. “To make amends for leaving.”
He remains silent so long I’m forced to look up. His expression is completely open, stripped of his professional mask.
“I’m doing this because I have legal expertise that can help something you deeply care about,” he says finally. “That makes it really important to me.”
His straightforward honesty knocks the breath from my lungs. I can’t formulate a response, so I nod and return to the photographs, feeling heat creep up my neck.
