Chapter 9 Rose Festival
Rose Festival
“Sophie! Over here!” Mrs. Peterson’s voice carries across the community center, and I can’t help but smile.
The Spring Rose Festival planning meeting—my favorite night of the month.
I weave through the crowd toward my saved seat, grateful for something that hasn’t changed.
Everything else in my life feels like it’s spinning out of control, but this? This I can manage.
The familiar scent of dusty chairs and floor cleaner wraps around me like a comfort blanket.
Faded posters from previous festivals line the walls, and cheerful paper flowers decorate the sign-in table.
I’ve been part of this committee for three years now, and even with everything happening at the clinic and Zayn suddenly back in town, I’ve been looking forward to tonight.
“How’s that sweet dog of yours?” Mrs. Peterson asks as I settle in beside her by the window. She’s pushing eighty but never forgets a single pet.
“She’s great,” I tell her, pulling out my notebook.
Sunlight warms my three-ring binder—the same one I’ve used since I started volunteering.
I labeled it myself: “Spring Rose Festival,” with color-coded tabs for vendor contracts, entertainment schedules, timeline checklists, and permit requirements.
Everything organized. Everything in its place.
“Still chasing seagulls on the beach even though she’s never caught one. ”
“Persistent,” she chuckles, patting my hand with her papery-thin fingers. “Just like you with this festival. Always keeping everything running smoothly.”
I beam at the compliment. This is why I love festival planning—it’s the one place where being obsessively organized is actually a good thing. Unlike dating, where guys get spooked when they discover I alphabetize the spices and sort my clothes by color.
The room gradually fills with the usual crowd—florists debating which rose varieties to feature, teenagers hunting for community service hours, local business owners hoping the festival will boost their sales. The space buzzes with that familiar energy I’ve come to love every spring in Bellrose.
Carol, our committee chair, taps her microphone. “Testing, one-two. Can everyone hear me?” A horrible squeal comes out through the speakers, and we all collectively cringe. “Sorry about that! Welcome to our first planning meeting for the 27th Annual Spring Rose Festival!”
I flip my binder to a fresh page and uncap my favorite purple pen with my teeth, writing the date at the top.
“Before we dive into our regular agenda,” Carol continues, practically glowing with excitement, “I want to introduce a wonderful new volunteer who’s generously offered to handle all our legal permits and compliance issues this year.
He recently relocated back to Bellrose and is already making such valuable contributions to our community! ”
My pen freezes mid-stroke. Ice water floods my veins. No. No way. It can’t be.
“Please give a warm welcome to Zayn Blackwell from Hargrove & Associates!”
The pen slips from my fingers and clatters loudly against the linoleum. I make a strangled sound, but it’s drowned out by enthusiastic applause. My body flashes hot, then cold, then hot again.
Seriously? SERIOUSLY?! First the clinic, then dinner at The Pearl, and now this?
The universe must be actively conspiring against me.
I’m trapped in one of those romance novels where the heroine keeps accidentally running into her ex-boyfriend at every single event until they’re forced back together.
The back door swings open and in he walks. Zayn looks unfairly good in dark jeans and a button-down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing those tattooed arms. He smiles and nods graciously to the room, acting like this is completely normal, like he didn’t just invade my sanctuary.
Carol keeps gushing. “Zayn has kindly agreed to provide all his services pro bono. With the festival expanding every year, having professional legal counsel is just invaluable!”
I sink lower in my chair, wishing I could physically disappear beneath it.
Of course he’s offering free legal services.
Of course he’s playing the role of generous community hero.
Of course everyone’s looking at him like he hung the moon while I’m sitting here feeling like my heart might explode through my ribcage.
His gaze sweeps the room until it lands on me.
Immediately, everything else blurs into background noise.
It’s that same look from that night at The Pearl—like I’m the only person he can see.
I force myself to stare down at my notebook, but I can still feel his eyes on me, a physical weight against my skin.
“And now for committee assignments!” Carol chirps, oblivious to my internal meltdown. She shuffles through her papers. “We’ll maintain most team configurations from last year, with a few adjustments.”
I take a steadying breath. It’s fine. It’s a massive festival. Dozens of committees. Tons of volunteers. Zayn will probably handle permits independently, far away from my vendor area.
“Sophie Whitmore,” Carol calls, and my head snaps up. “You’ll be heading the pet adoption booth again, with some exciting expansions this year! We’re doubling the space and adding a mobile microchipping station.”
I nod, trying to appear composed while my fingers anxiously worry the edge of my notebook. At least this is familiar territory. The pet adoption booth has been my domain for three years running.
“And since this expanded booth requires significantly more permitting and documentation, I’m pairing you with our new legal volunteer.” Carol beams at Zayn, then at me. “Zayn, you’ll be working directly with Sophie on the pet adoption booth!”
The room continues moving around me, people keep talking, but I’ve gone completely still. My face burns so hot I’m surprised my hair doesn’t combust. Why did she have to pair us together out of literally everyone here?
I force a smile that makes my cheeks ache. I can’t object without explaining why to the entire committee, and I’m absolutely not airing our history in front of Mrs. Peterson and the flower shop group.
“You two will make an excellent team!” Carol announces cheerfully, and someone actually laughs. They have no idea.
The meeting drags on forever. I nod and scribble notes I won’t be able to decipher later, and try desperately to ignore the fact that Zayn is sitting three rows behind me. I swear I can feel his presence like heat against my back.
When Carol finally ends the meeting, I shove everything into my bag so frantically I tear a page in my notebook. I need to escape before—
“Sophie.”
Too late. His voice stops me cold, the same voice that promised me “you’ll be okay” at his office. I turn slowly, clutching my binder like a shield.
Zayn stands there, hands casually in his pockets, looking completely calm while I’m internally combusting. “Looks like we’re partners,” he says.
I straighten my spine and lift my chin. Stay professional. You can handle this. “I’ll email you last year’s vendor contacts,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “The pet booth is pretty simple.”
He nods, studying me carefully. “I enjoyed dinner with you,” he says, lowering his voice. “I think we work well together.”
My stomach flips as memories flash—sharing crème br?lée, that charged moment under the harbor lights. “That was strictly about saving the clinic,” I say firmly. “This is different.”
“Is it?” His eyes don’t leave mine.
“I need to go,” I say, dodging his question entirely. “Emergency at the clinic.” Complete lie. But I can’t stand here pretending we’re just professional colleagues when my pulse is racing so wildly I’m certain he can hear it.
I push through the doors into bright sunshine. My legs feel unsteady as I hurry toward my car, keys jangling in my hands.
Bellrose feels smaller every single day. Every corner I turn, every event I attend, every committee I volunteer for—he’s there. And what’s worse? Part of me, the part I absolutely cannot trust, is starting to anticipate seeing him. Maybe even hope for it.
I am in so much trouble.
The Daily Grind buzzes with the afternoon crowd as I collapse into the worn leather chair across from Sara.
My vanilla latte arrives in my favorite oversized pink mug, steam curling upward in lazy spirals.
I wrap both hands around it, craving the warmth even though it’s not actually cold outside.
Tremors still run through my hands from the festival meeting, and my face feels flushed.
Sara watches me with those calm blue eyes, waiting for me to completely lose it. Which I do, right on time.
“This is insane,” I hiss, leaning forward so the college students at the next table can’t hear me spiraling. “First the clinic, then dinner at The Pearl, and now the Spring Rose Festival? I literally cannot escape him.”
Sara sips her herbal tea, serene and unbothered while I’m practically vibrating out of my chair. The coffee shop smells like fresh-ground beans and cinnamon rolls, which normally soothes me but today does absolutely nothing.
“It’s like the universe is playing some cosmic joke on me,” I say, tracing my finger around the rim of my mug. “Or I’m trapped in one of those small-town romance novels where the heroine keeps accidentally running into her ex until she falls for him again.”
“Is that what’s happening?” Sara asks gently.
“What? No!” I practically yelp, making the guy with the laptop beside us glance up. I lower my voice to an urgent whisper. “I’m not falling for him again. It’s just frustrating. And awkward. And…” I trail off, not wanting to admit scary out loud.
Sara tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Have you considered that maybe these aren’t coincidences?”
“You think he’s stalking me?” I grip my mug so hard my knuckles go white.