“GPS delivered me here,” I say, keeping my tone casual. Mia strains at her leash, desperate to sniff every corner.
“Come in. I’ve got the dining table cleared—plenty of space for all our materials.”
I cross the threshold and immediately register the smell—fresh paint, new hardwood, and something citrusy from a candle burning somewhere. The entry opens into a spacious living area with high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows framing the ocean as sunset paints the water gold and pink. But what actually stops me isn’t the house’s architecture. It’s the details.
The charcoal sectional with rolled arms—identical to the one I showed him in a magazine five years ago when we used to wander furniture stores dreaming about hypothetical futures. The adjustable reading lamp beside it that I once mentioned would be perfect for late-night reading. The reclaimed wood coffee table that looks remarkably similar to one I admired at a craft fair.
“Your place is…” I search for a word that won’t betray too much. “Really nice.”
“Thanks.” He sounds slightly nervous, or maybe I’m projecting. “Kitchen’s through here. Want something to drink before we start?”
I follow him, Mia trotting beside me, her nails clicking rhythmically on hardwood. And then I see it—the kitchen island. White marble veined with delicate gray, exactly like the picture I ripped from a magazine when I was eighteen and dreaming about my future home. I’d shown it to him once, just once, at The Daily Grind. “Look at this,” I’d said. “Isn’t it perfect? Roomto make cookies on one side and still have someone sit with you on the other.”
My hand reaches out involuntarily to touch it. The marble feels cool and smooth beneath my palm.
“You remembered,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
His eyes find mine across the island. “I remember everything, Sophie.”
The air between us crackles with everything unspoken. Mia whines, breaking the moment, and I step back quickly.
“Can Mia explore your backyard? She’s been cooped up all day.”
“Of course.” He opens French doors onto a fenced yard with emerald grass and—my breath catches—a row of rosebushes planted along the fence line. “That’s why I prioritized getting a place with a proper yard. For dogs.”
He doesn’t specify “for your dog” or “for our dogs someday,” but I feel the implication hovering between us. I unclip Mia’s leash and she bolts out, immediately rolling ecstatically in the grass. She looks completely at home, like she belongs here.
Because she does. I know it somehow.
“This way,” Zayn says, guiding me through the kitchen to a dining area. I notice so many things as we pass—east-facing windows where morning sun would stream in (I once mentioned loving to wake with natural light). Built-in bookshelves lining one wall, packed with books—including what appears to be an entire shelf of romance novels that look genuinely read. A cushioned window seat that seems designed specifically for reading with tea.
This isn’t just a house. It’s like he extracted every casual comment I ever made about my ideal home and manifested it in physical form. Things I mentioned once or twice in passing, he remembered and recreated.
My knees weaken. “Zayn…”
“We should get started,” he says quickly, gesturing to the large table where his laptop sits open with documents already pulled up. “Cooper’s attorney called. They might be receptive to our proposal.”
I set down my bag and get my notes, grateful for the excuse to focus on work instead of the emotional implications surrounding me. We spread materials across the table, reviewing financial plans and loan terms. But I can’t stop cataloging details—the framed picture of Bellrose Harbor on the wall, the throw blanket in that sage green I love, the bookshelf section dedicated exclusively to my favorite authors.
Zayn indicates something on his laptop screen. “What’s your assessment of this clause?”
But I can’t concentrate.
“Why do you own all these romance novels?” I blurt out, pointing at his bookshelf.
He glances at the books, then back at me. “Research,” he says with a slight shrug.
“Research?” I repeat, eyebrow raised.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “I wanted to understand why you love them so much. Why you stay up until three a.m. reading them.”
Heat floods my face. “And? Did you solve the mystery?”
“I think so.” He turns to face me fully. “They’re about people who encounter obstacles but still choose each other. Who don’t surrender what they want. Who believe they can find happiness even after being hurt.”
My throat goes dry. This entire house is articulating what he won’t say aloud.
“How long have you been planning this?” I ask quietly.
