The Key to His Heart
Zayn’s house blazes with light as I pull into the driveway, warm glow spilling from every window. My stomach flutters with nerves and anticipation that has nothing to do with my new partnership and everything to do with the man waiting inside. I grab the champagne from my passenger seat, check my reflection in the rearview mirror, and take a deep breath that doesn’t really help.
I barely reach the front porch before the door swings open. Zayn fills the doorway, tall and solid against the golden light from inside, sleeves rolled to his elbows exposing the tattoos winding up his arms. My heart does that familiar skip it always does when I see him.
“Perfect timing,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss me quickly but with promise. When he pulls back, the corners of his blue-gray eyes crinkle with his smile. “Everyone’s already here.”
“I’m shocked,” I laugh, handing him the bottle. “Sara’s never late for anything, and Harper probably arrived early to interrogate you about the menu.”
“She did.” His mouth quirks. “Currently checking all the appetizers. Quality control, she claims.”
Voices and laughter drift from inside, and I relax a little. Just dinner with friends. Friends in the house Zayn built thinking of me, with east-facing windows because I once mentioned loving morning sunlight. No big deal. Right.
I follow him through the entryway, noticing things I’ve seen on my visits here: hooks on the wall perfect for Mia’s leashes, a bench for shoes, warm neutral colors that feel like home rather than a showroom.
“There she is!” Sara calls from the kitchen, rushing over to envelope me in a hug, blonde hair bouncing. “The woman of the hour! Dr. Whitmore, official partner at Bellrose Veterinary Clinic.”
“Not a doctor yet, just a partner,” I say, though I can’t suppress my grin. “The actual veterinarians still outrank me.”
“But now you can boss around all the other techs,” Harper declares, raising her wine glass in salute. Her red hair is piled in a messy topknot, and she looks completely at ease against the kitchen counter in ripped jeans and a vintage band tee. “Living the dream.”
Reed drapes an arm around my shoulders, squeezing gently. “Proud of you, Soph. Dad would be absolutely thrilled.”
My throat gets tight all of a sudden. “Thanks, Reed.”
The kitchen smells incredible—garlic and fresh herbs and something rich simmering on the stove. Zayn moves around like he belongs there, stirring pots, checking the oven, refilling wine glasses. It’s surreal watching him like this. The intimidating attorney with tattoos covering his neck and hands, wearing an apron and chopping vegetables like he’s done it a thousand times.
“I had no idea you could cook like this,” I tell him, snagging a piece of bread from the platter on the island.
Zayn raises an eyebrow. “Five years in Seattle living alone, I had to learn.” His voice drops slightly. “Plus I took some classes.”
Of course he did. Zayn never never does anything halfway.
The kitchen island overflows with appetizers—cured meats and artisan cheeses, olives, crusty bread, some kind of dip that Harper can’t stop eating. Wine glasses cluster at one end, and through the open floor plan I can see Sara has already set the dining table. It all feels so grown-up. Like we’re playing house, except this is actually real life.
I’m suddenly struck by all those romance novels where the brooding hero reveals his softer side through domestic gestures. It’s a trope for a good reason, apparently, because watching Zayn work confidently in his kitchen is doing things to me that have nothing to do with hunger. Well, not hunger for food anyway.
Harper snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Hello? Red or white?”
“Oh! Um, red.”
She pours me a glass with a knowing smile. “You were staring,” she whispers, leaning close so only I can hear.
Heat floods my face, but I can’t deny it. Harper has been fiercely protective of me since Zayn returned. She practically growled at him during their first few encounters. But after months of him delivering coffee every morning, providing pro bono legal services to save the clinic, and never pressuring me for more than I was ready to give—even Harper has started to soften up.
“This food is legitimately excellent,” she announces loudly, gesturing with her fork. “Like, genuinely impressive. I’m shocked.”
Zayn continues stirring the pot but I catch his subtle smile. “Appreciate that, Harper. Coming from you, it means something.”
“It should,” she says with a slight head toss. “I don’t praise just anyone’s cooking.”
It’s the kindest thing she’s said to him since his return, and everyone goes quiet for a heartbeat until Reed intervenes.
“So does this mean I can invite you both to poker night without you two starting World War Three?” he asks, glancing between Harper and Zayn.
“Don’t push your luck,” Harper warns, but she’s almost smiling.
Sara lifts her glass, blue eyes bright. “I think we should toast.” She waits until we’re all holding our glasses. “To Sophie, who works harder than anyone I know and deserves this partnership more than words can express. You genuinely care about every animal and person who walks through those clinic doors, and that’s what makes you extraordinary at what you do. The clinic is incredibly fortunate to have you as a partner.”
