“I want to believe you,” I admit quietly.
“I know.” He keeps his hands carefully to himself, not pressuring me. “And I’ll keep proving it to you, Sophie. For as long as it takes.”
The clock chimes midnight, breaking the moment between us. I stand and begin gathering my stuff, suddenly needing physical and emotional space to process. I return Mrs. Patterson’s irreplaceable Underground Railroad documents to their protective folder.
“We should continue tomorrow,” I say, attempting to sound more composed than I feel. “After the county records office.”
He nods, giving me the distance I need. “I’ll be there.”
Those three simple words linger in the air as we pack up our materials. They seem to promise both his presence tomorrow and something bigger that I’m still too frightened to trust completely. My fingers brush the antique map showing escape routes to freedom, where desperate people risked everything for a chance at something better. Something real.
CHAPTER 16
Dream House
I flip the lights on in the staff lounge and they flicker twice before steadying, casting everything in harsh fluorescent white. God, my palms are already slick with sweat. I spread my research notes across the table, rearranging them to look organized. Like I’m a complete professional who’s fine meeting her ex-boyfriend alone after dark, not someone who changed outfits three times before driving here.
The front door chimes, and there goes my stomach—that stupid flip it does whenever he’s near. His footsteps echo down the hallway in a steady rhythm. Meanwhile, I’m wiping my damp palms on my jeans and breathing in that distinctive clinic smell of antiseptic layered over the faint musk of wet dog from our last appointment.
Zayn appears in the doorway. “Hey.” Still in work clothes—black button-down with sleeves rolled, gray slacks, and an expensive watch he definitely didn’t own five years ago. His hair’s disheveled, like he’s been running his hands through it all day.
“Thanks for meeting me here,” he adds.
I gesture to the chair opposite mine. “Dr. Martinez mentioned you had a proposal.” Thank God my voice is steady.
He settles into the seat and sets his leather portfolio on the table. His cologne reaches me and makes my head swim despite my best efforts to ignore it.
“So I’ve been thinking,” he says, pulling out documents. “The historic designation is solid, especially with the Underground Railroad documentation, but the approval process will take months.”
“And Cooper’s not exactly the patient type,” I finish.
“Exactly.” Our eyes meet briefly, and heat prickles across my skin before I force my attention back to my notes. “But I’ve got another plan we could try at the same time. Might work faster.”
I spin my pen between my fingers—my perpetual nervous tell. “I’m listening.”
“We approach Cooper directly.” Zayn spreads out several documents. “Present the historic designation as leverage. Make him understand he’s facing months of expensive legal battles when he could accept a reasonable offer right now.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “An offer? From whom?”
“Dr. Martinez.” His eyes brighten with that particular spark he gets when he’s solved a complex problem. “She could purchase the building outright—use the fundraiser money as down payment and secure a small business loan for the remainder.”
I stare at him. “That’s… ambitious.”
“It’s doable.” He slides a spreadsheet across the table. The paper makes a soft scratching sound against the wood. “We raised sixty-three thousand at the fundraiser. The building’s currently assessed at four-twenty, but Cooper only paid three-eighty at auction. If we can negotiate a sale at four hundred even…”
“Dr. Martinez becomes the owner instead of a tenant,” I finish, my brain processing the mathematics. “But that’s still a massive financial commitment for a small-town clinic.”
“She’d actually pay less monthly than what Cooper was demanding in rent,” Zayn explains, tapping the spreadsheet with his index finger. “PPlus she’d be building equity instead of just throwing money away in someone else’s pocket.”
I chew my bottom lip, scanning his numbers. They make sense, but anxiety still coils in my gut. This feels too perfect, too convenient—like watching a movie where the hero suddenly produces the perfect solution nobody else considered.
“This is very… lawyer-y of you,” I observe, gesturing at the paperwork spread between us. “Using legal threats to force someone into a deal.”
One corner of his mouth lifts in that half-smile I used to dream about. “Is that a compliment or criticism?”
I tuck hair behind my ear. “Just an observation.” It feels dangerously easy, this rhythm between us. Like muscle memory. Him presenting the big strategies, me identifying potential problems, both of us collaborating toward solutions. Exactly like before.
“But seriously, why would Cooper agree to this? He was fixated on those luxury apartments.”
