I stumble forward, nearly knocking into a chair in my desperation to reach the counter. I almost drop the cup when the barista hands it to me.
“Thanks,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
I clutch my coffee like a lifeline and turn toward the exit. But Zayn is there, standing directly in my path to freedom. I have to walk past him to escape. There’s no back door, no alternate route, nowhere to hide. I fix my eyes on the door behind him, tighten my grip on my cup until the cardboard crinkles, and force my feet to move.
One step. Then another. Breathe. Don’t look at him. Just get outside.
I’m almost past him when he says it.
“Sophie.”
Just my name. Nothing else. But his voice is deeper now, rougher around the edges, textured with something I can’t identify. It sends shivers racing down my spine even though the coffee cup is burning my palms.
I don’t stop. I don’t look up. I push past him and burst through the door into the fog-thick morning air.
The cool dampness hits my overheated face but I barely register it. All I can feel is my heart trying to jackhammer its way out of my chest and the flush burning across my cheeks. I make it maybe three steps from the door before my legs give out and I have to lean against The Daily Grind’s window, fighting to catch my breath.
In. Out. In. Out. Like those breathing exercises Sara keeps keeps telling me to try.
Coffee sloshes over the rim and splashes across my scrubs. The hot liquid soaks through immediately, scalding my skin, but I barely feel it. All I can process is how Zayn said my name. How he looked at me. How surreal it is seeing him in the flesh after five years of pretending he was a character from my past, not a real person who could walk back into my present.
I stare down at the brown stain spreading across my blue scrubs. Fantastic. Now I look like I’m completely falling apart, which—let’s be honest—I am. Dr. Martinez is definitely going to notice this disaster. But focusing on the coffee stain is easier than thinking about what happened. About who I just saw.
I press my back against the cool glass, feeling the condensation seep through my top. The coffee aroma mingles with the salty scent of ocean that perpetually hangs in Bellrose’s air. People stream past on the sidewalk, probably wondering why some woman is plastered against a coffee shop window clutching a dripping cup with trembling hands.
Blood rushes so loudly in my ears that I can’t hear anything else. Not the cars rolling past. Not the shops cranking upmetal shutters. Not even the seagulls that are always screaming overhead like the world’s most obnoxious alarm clocks. All I can hear is Zayn saying my name like it still matters to him. All I can see is the way he looked at me—like I’m still someone important.
Which is insane. Completely insane. He left me. He chose a job in Seattle over building a life with me here. His promise of “always” came with an expiration date that hit five years ago.
So why am I standing here shaking, feeling like someone just knocked my whole world upside down?
I peel myself off the window. Force my feet to move. One foot, then the other, heading toward the clinic. I’ll be late if I don’t hustle. And I’m never late.
Except today. The one day Zayn Blackwell decides to walk into The Daily Grind at the exact moment I’m there. In my romance novels, they’d call that fate, destiny reaching out with both hands. In real life, it’s bad timing.
My phone buzzes against my hip. I juggle my coffee to fish it out—a text from Sara lighting up the screen.
Hope you're having a good morning! Let me know if you need anything. Love you!
I stuff my phone back in my pocket without responding. I can’t handle Sara’s sweetness right now. Can’t explain how seeing Zayn for half a minute broke apart five years of holding myself together.
Coffee continues dripping onto my shoes as I walk faster, my sneakers squeaking against the damp sidewalk. I should toss the cup—it’s lukewarm now and half-empty anyway—but I keep gripping it. The cup in my hand is real. The coffee stain on my scrubs is real. My job waiting for me is real.
Zayn Blackwell standing in that coffee shop, looking at me like he still knows me, like he has any right to say my name?
That feels like a fever dream. A nightmare. I’m still not sure which.
CHAPTER 4
Avoiding Forever
I duck into the treatment room and press my back against the cold metal cabinet. My fingers shake I can barely type coherently on my phone, autocorrect fixing every third word. Harper needs to know. Someone has to know that my life just imploded in a coffee shop. The sharp antiseptic smell burns my nostrils, grounding me in the present—I’m at work, surrounded by medical equipment and animal supplies. But all I can hear is his voice saying my name, playing on repeat in my head like a song I can’t turn off.
OMG Harper. I saw him. At The Daily Grind. Zayn. He was THERE. He SAW me. He said my name. I can't breathe.
The message sends with a soft whoosh. Three dots appear immediately. Harper’s at the gym, probably between training clients. She knows it’s serious if she’s responding this fast.
WHAT HAPPENED??? Are you okay??? Do you need me to come there??
