Chapter 11 #2
When Zayn pivots to our fundraiser, I seamlessly join in.
I describe our therapy dog reading program—how shelter dogs sit patiently while nervous children practice reading aloud.
I explain our senior citizen assistance fund that helps elderly residents afford veterinary care on fixed incomes.
Mr. Grayson’s entire demeanor brightens.
“I could donate several signed first editions,” he offers enthusiastically. “And perhaps we could host one of those reading sessions right here in the store?”
Outside, I check Lighthouse Books off our list. We’ve just secured books worth approximately three hundred dollars plus a potential new venue for our reading program. I feel almost giddy.
“We make a good team,” Zayn observes.
The words land heavily because he’s absolutely right. His professional legal approach opens doors, and my animal stories seal the commitment. I’ve been working so hard to maintain distance that I forgot how well we complement each other. Like old times.
“I guess we do,” I admit, focusing intently on my clipboard.
By the time we reach The Salty Dog Bakery, my shoulders have finally dropped from my ears. The shop smells intoxicatingly of sugar cookies and fresh cake. My stomach growls audibly—I’d skipped breakfast to avoid the break room when Zayn arrived this morning.
“Mia still goes crazy for those pumpkin treats,” I tell Emma behind the counter.
“Just made a fresh batch this morning,” Emma grins. “How’s your girl doing?”
I pull up photos of Mia romping on the beach on my phone. Zayn leans in to look, and his arm brushes against mine. I don’t jerk away like I would have earlier.
Emma offers more than just baked goods—she proposes a “Treat of the Month Club” package so the winner returns to her bakery throughout the year.
We brainstorm logistics together. I share animal stories while Zayn takes detailed notes and asks insightful questions.
It feels effortless working alongside him. And that terrifies me.
Zayn holds the door as we exit with promises of complimentary event pastries plus the gift certificate. Sunlight illuminates his face, highlighting his cheekbones and the slight scruff along his jaw. My stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.
Our final stop is The Pearl—the most upscale restaurant in Bellrose.
The owner, Marco, approaches to greet us personally.
The dining room sits nearly empty this early, but soft lighting and the gentle clink of servers prepping for dinner service create an intimate atmosphere.
The air carries scents of fresh-baked bread and herbs from the kitchen.
“Of course I’ll donate a gift certificate,” Marco says, refilling our water glasses. “How about an exclusive chef’s tasting menu? Seven courses with wine pairings?”
Zayn whistles appreciatively. “That’s incredibly generous, Marco.”
Marco waves dismissively. “The clinic saved my daughter’s cat last year after emergency surgery.
Worth every penny.” He drums his fingers on the pristine tablecloth thoughtfully.
“Actually, you know what? I’ll also provide discounted catering for the event itself.
Some appetizers, perhaps a signature cocktail for the cause. ”
I nearly knock over my water glass. “Seriously? That would be amazing.”
Marco smiles warmly at us both. “You two make quite the team, don’t you? How long have you been dating?”
Marco’s question freezes everything. Heat floods my face. Zayn and I make brief eye contact before simultaneously looking away.
“We’re not—” I start but can’t finish the sentence.
“Just working together,” Zayn adds, but it sounds unconvincing even to my ears.
“Ah,” Marco says, clearly skeptical. “My apologies.”
I shift in my chair, suddenly hyperaware of Zayn’s proximity. Our elbows nearly touch on the narrow table.
Zayn clears his throat. “The donation form,” he says, taking a document from his folder. “If you could just complete this…”
We both study the form intently while Marco fills it out, carefully avoiding each other’s gaze.
The silence between us feels weighted with everything unspoken.
Five years of separation compressed into this tiny space between our chairs.
The pen scratches across paper. Someone in the kitchen drops a dish.
I count slowly in my head, trying to regulate my racing pulse.
“All finished,” Marco announces, returning the form.
Zayn murmurs thanks, still not quite meeting my eyes. I smile, but my face feels stiff. We leave with Marco’s generous commitments and the lingering weight of his mistaken assumption hanging between us, neither of us knowing what to say.
The staff room looks like a gift shop exploded.
Baskets wrapped in cellophane gleam under fluorescent lights.
Framed artwork leans against every available wall surface.
Gift certificates in elegant envelopes sit arranged in stacks across Dr. Martinez’s desk.
My lower back aches from hauling everything in from Zayn’s car, but satisfaction swells as I survey our week’s work displayed like treasure.
We canvassed every business and boutique in Bellrose, and we collected enough to fill the entire room.
I suppose people in this town genuinely care about our veterinary clinic.
Or maybe they can’t refuse when Zayn deploys his attorney charm and unwavering confidence.
Or maybe—and I try not to dwell on this—we’re genuinely effective as a team.
“Where do you want these restaurant certificates?” Zayn holds up a glossy envelope from The Crab Shack.
“Food and beverage category, by the window,” I say without looking up from my laptop. “Keep them separate from retail gift cards.”
The clinic smells different after hours—less antiseptic-heavy, more like the lavender plug-in Jen activates before locking up.
Outside, streetlights have just flickered on against the darkening sky.
My empty coffee cup sits beside a turkey sandwich I barely touched.
My eyes burn from staring at spreadsheets too long.
I gesture toward the chef’s tasting menu from The Pearl. “Can you believe this? A thousand-dollar dinner experience? That’s going to be our star auction item.”
Zayn glances up from sorting gift cards. “This town loves the clinic,” he says simply. “You just had to give them a reason to show it.”
I almost deflect—want to point out that he conceived this entire fundraiser strategy—but I’m too exhausted to argue. I nod and continue typing.
We work seamlessly together—him organizing physical items, me cataloging everything digitally. It feels disturbingly familiar, reminiscent of late-night study sessions back when we… I stop that thought cold. I shouldn’t reminisce about those days.
“We should set the spa basket minimum higher,” I say, redirecting my thoughts. “Those products retail for serious money.”
Zayn adjusts the tag. “Two hundred instead of one-fifty?”
“Perfect.”
The door swings open and Dr. Martinez enters carrying a coffee carafe. Her eyes widen when she takes in our collected donations. “Dios mío! This is incredible!”
“Sophie deserves the credit,” Zayn says, accepting coffee. “People in this town would do anything for her.”
I roll my eyes, but warmth creeps up my neck. “That’s not true. Bellrose residents are just generous by nature.”
Dr. Martinez glances between us with that subtle smile she’s worn all week—like she’s privy to something I’m missing. “Well, whatever magic you two are working, it’s effective. Three more people called today asking how they can contribute.”
Zayn’s phone vibrates. He checks the screen and his expression shifts. “I need to take this. Client emergency. Be right back.” He steps into the hallway, his voice fading as the door closes behind him.
Dr. Martinez settles into the chair beside me, cradling her coffee mug. “He’s been such an asset through all of this,” she says quietly.
I nod, keeping my eyes fixed on my spreadsheet. “He knows a lot of people in town.”
“You know,” she says, her voice dropping lower, “he specifically requested you as his fundraising partner.”
My fingers freeze on the keyboard. “What?”
She nods, wearing that same knowing expression. “When we were organizing this, I suggested Sara since she’s good with people. But he insisted it had to be you.” She briefly touches my forearm. “He told me, ‘No one else cares about this place as much as she does.’”
I can’t formulate words. I stare at her, eyes wide. He asked for me? Me specifically? My mind scrambles, searching for any explanation that doesn’t involve… us.
Dr. Martinez stands. “I thought you should know that,” she says gently. “Sometimes we think we understand how someone truly feels, but we miss what matters most.”
She moves toward the door, leaving me sitting there speechless. Through the small window, I can see Zayn pacing in the hallway, phone pressed to his ear, his free hand gesturing as he speaks. Cold floods through me while simultaneously my stomach fills with butterflies.
No one else cares about this place as much as she does.
I turn back to my laptop, but the numbers blur into meaninglessness.
Harper rifles through my closet and wrinkles her nose. “When did you last organize in here? I’m pretty sure something just moved in the back.”
“Hilarious.” I sit cross-legged on my bed, watching her go through my wardrobe. My room still smells like the cucumber face masks we applied earlier. “I don’t need anything fancy. It’s just a fundraiser.”
“Just a fundraiser,” Harper echoes mockingly. She holds up a blue shift dress I’d completely forgotten about. “Where you’ll be standing beside Hot Tattooed Lawyer all night with the entire town watching.”
My stomach does that annoying flip. “We’re simply working together to save the clinic. That’s it.”
“Mm-hmm.” Harper holds the dress against herself, frowns critically, and tosses it onto the growing rejection pile on my floor. “And I’m just helping you look presentable for absolutely no reason whatsoever.”
I launch my pillow at her, but she ducks and it smacks my lamp instead. The thud makes Mia’s head pop up from her bed, ears alert.
“It’s fine, girl,” I reassure her. “Harper’s just being annoying.”
Harper rolls her eyes dramatically. “I’m being honest and you know it,” she says, pulling out a black cocktail dress. “You wore this to Sara’s birthday party. It looked great on you.”
Hangers scrape and click as she pushes through clothes I never wear. My room looks like a boutique exploded—dresses draped across my chair, shoes scattered everywhere, jewelry spread across my dresser like a ransacked jewelry box.
“What about this one?” Harper holds up a deep burgundy wrap dress.
I tilt my head, considering. “Maybe. Let me see it with those black heels?”
Harper grins triumphantly. “See? You absolutely care how you look tomorrow night.”
“I don’t want to embarrass Dr. Martinez in front of major donors,” I say, but it sounds unconvincing even to my own ears. “We need those wealthy patrons to open their wallets. Professional appearance matters.”
“Professional, sexy, whatever you want to call it.” Harper keeps looking through my clothes. “If you genuinely didn’t care, you’d wear literally anything. But you’ve already rejected six dresses for being too short or too long or too bright or too boring.”
She’s infuriatingly correct. I’ve been obsessing about this all week—browsing outfits online during lunch breaks, wondering what would complement my hair or make my eyes pop. Not because of Zayn, obviously. Just to look… nice.
I pick at a loose thread on my comforter. “Just because I’m working alongside him doesn’t mean anything. I’d want to look good regardless of who my fundraising partner was.”
Harper makes an undignified snorting sound. “Sure, Jan.” She shoves hangers aside, then suddenly freezes. “Oh. My. God. This is it.”
She pulls out a dress I’d completely forgotten owning—emerald green silk that catches light like water. I’d purchased it for a wedding two years ago, but the couple split before the ceremony, so it’s been hanging untouched ever since.
“This,” Harper announces, holding it up reverently, “is the one. It’s the exact shade of your eyes.”
My pulse quickens as I study it. The dress strikes that perfect balance—fitted bodice with a flowing skirt that would hit above my knees. Not too revealing, not too boring. Just… perfect.
“Try it on,” Harper urges, eyes gleaming.
“I’m not sure…” But I’m already reaching for it. The silk feels cool and impossibly smooth against my fingertips.
Harper smirks knowingly. “For professional reasons, right?”
I roll my eyes but can’t suppress a small smile. “Obviously.”
But as I accept the dress, I know what we’re both actually thinking—tomorrow night isn’t just about the clinic.
It’s about Zayn and me, standing together under everyone’s scrutiny.
And despite my constant denials, part of me wants him to see me in this dress and remember exactly what he walked away from five years ago.
I run my thumb across the silky fabric, imagining the expression on his face when he sees it.
“Fine,” I concede. “I’ll try it on. For the fundraiser. For the clinic.”
Harper’s smile widens victoriously. “Absolutely. For the clinic.”
The dress slides from its hanger into my hands, green like sunlight filtering through forest leaves, matching my eyes perfectly.