Chapter 12
One Dance
My hands won’t stop trembling as Harper pulls up to Town Square.
My emerald dress keeps snagging on my fingernails as I fidget with the hem.
Through the car window, I can see the string lights glowing against the darkening sky.
The entire square looks enchanted, like something from a movie where the protagonist makes a grand entrance and everyone stops to stare.
I genuinely hope that doesn’t happen to me.
“Stop picking at your dress,” Sara says from the back seat, reaching forward to squeeze my shoulder. “You look stunning.”
Harper cuts the engine and turns to face me. “If he doesn’t physically stop breathing when he sees you, something’s wrong with his vision.”
“This isn’t about him,” I say, but even I can hear how unconvincing I sound. “It’s about saving the clinic.”
“Right,” Harper deadpans, rolling her eyes. “That’s why you agonized over four different pairs of earrings.”
I can’t argue because she’s absolutely correct.
So I simply step out into the cool evening air.
It smells like fresh-cut grass and night-blooming jasmine—probably the new plantings they added near the gazebo last week.
Music drifts from somewhere nearby, acoustic guitar and piano creating an almost dreamlike atmosphere.
Harper’s eyes widen as we approach. “Holy shit. This place looks incredible.”
She’s not wrong. Town Square has been completely transformed.
String lights crisscross overhead, bathing everything in warm golden light.
Auction tables line the perimeter, each adorned with flickering candles in mason jars.
Near the gazebo, a dance floor reflects the glow where the band is doing sound check.
Paper lanterns sway gently in the trees, casting dancing shadows.
It’s exactly how I imagined when Zayn and I planned every detail.
That realization unsettles me slightly. How did he know exactly what I wanted?
We’ve barely entered when Dr. Martinez rushes over. She’s wearing an elegant navy dress I’ve never seen, and it takes years off her appearance.
“Mija!” She pulls me into a tight embrace, and I catch the scent of her perfume. “It’s perfect! We’ve already collected eight thousand dollars from early bids!”
My pulse races. Eight thousand. This might actually work.
“Did you see the auction display?” I start. “We organized everything by category—”
But my words die completely when I spot him across the square, deep in conversation with the mayor.
He looks devastatingly handsome in a dark gray suit that makes his blue-gray eyes even more striking.
His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, exposing the intricate tattoos winding up his forearms. My stomach plummets like I’m cresting the peak of a roller coaster.
He laughs at something the mayor says, head tilting back, revealing the edge of his neck tattoo above his collar. Unfair. He looks even better than before, while I feel like I can barely breathe properly in this dress.
“Found him pretty quickly,” Sara murmurs beside me.
I jerk my gaze away, heat flooding my cheeks. “I wasn’t looking for him.”
“Sure you weren’t,” she says, transparently disbelieving.
Harper returns with beverages—just water for me since I’m technically working—and follows my previous line of sight. “He cleans up well,” she admits. “Still don’t trust him though.”
I accept the glass gratefully, needing something to occupy my hands. “He’s contributed significantly to making this happen,” I say, attempting nonchalance. Like I’m not acutely aware of his every movement across the square.
“Maybe,” Harper says, her protective instincts flaring. “But helping now doesn’t erase what he did before.”
She’s right. I don’t argue. I sip my water and scan the growing crowd. It’s only seven-thirty and the place is already packed. I recognize most faces but there are unfamiliar well-dressed strangers too. Probably connections from Zayn’s law firm.
Sara grabs my arm suddenly. “Oh my god,” she whispers urgently. “Isn’t that the luxury hotel developer from the coast?”
I follow her gaze. A distinguished man with silver hair and an impeccably fitted suit stands examining the auction catalog. Zayn is beside him, pointing out specific items.
“Wow,” I breathe. “Zayn must have serious connections.”
“Or he’s just exceptionally good at getting what he wants,” Sara says with a knowing smile that makes me want to dump my water over her head.
We navigate through the crowd toward our clinic information table. I’m carrying the poster board displaying before-and-after photos of animals we’ve rescued. Sara has set up her laptop with a slideshow. People keep intercepting us—mostly grateful pet owners asking about specific cases.
But I always know exactly where Zayn is. I can’t help it. I’m aware when he moves from the hotel developer back to the mayor’s group. I hear his distinctive laugh even over the music. I notice how he keep his distance, not crowding my space, yet his eyes find me repeatedly across the square.
“He’s really trying not to hover,” Sara observes, apparently reading my thoughts. “It’s actually sweet.”
Harper makes a skeptical noise. “Or it’s strategic.”
“Can we please discuss something else?” I plead. “Like our fundraising totals or—”
“Fine,” Sara relents, squeezing my arm. “But he’s been watching you since we arrived.”
My heart rate accelerates. I try to dismiss it, but I can’t ignore that warm, fluttering sensation whenever I catch him looking. I hate that he still affects me like this after everything.
The band transitions into smooth jazz, and couples drift toward the dance floor.
The night air feels perfect—not cold enough for a wrap but cool enough to raise goosebumps.
Glasses clink in toasts. Laughter ripples through the crowd.
Paper lanterns sway in the breeze, creating shifting patterns of light and shadow on the ground.
I watch Zayn work the room, moving seamlessly from one potential donor to another, utterly confident and charming. He knows exactly how to make people feel valued, how to capture their interest, how to inspire generosity for our cause. It’s impressive. And frustrating. And deeply confusing.
He didn’t need to do any of this. A simple cease-and-desist letter would have sufficed.
Instead, he organized this entire fundraiser, recruited wealthy donors, and stayed up late with me finalizing every detail.
Every morning, there’s coffee waiting on my desk.
He remembered about cherry croissants. He planted those roses at our cliff spot.
That’s what terrifies me most. I’m not afraid he’ll leave again. I’m afraid he genuinely means it this time. What if the umbrella, the coffee, tonight—what if they’re exactly what they appear to be? What if he’s truly trying to prove he’s changed?
Dr. Martinez appears at our table, smiling as she looks around at all the people.
“You two have created something truly special here,” she says, gesturing toward the crowd clustered around one of the auction tables.
I glance over and spot a woman with silver hair and diamond earrings writing down a bid that makes my breath catch.
Dr. Martinez leans closer and lowers her voice.
“He’s been working tirelessly on this for weeks. ”
I know exactly who “he” is. I busy myself flipping through the auction catalog, pretending to study the listings. “Everyone contributed,” I say, aiming for casual. Like my pulse isn’t racing.
“Sophie.” The way she says just my name makes me stop mid-page.
“That hotel developer? Zayn called him daily for nearly two weeks to secure his attendance. And those luxury spa packages? He drove to Coastal Bliss three separate times to negotiate those donations.” She watches him across the square with an expression of genuine admiration.
“Nearly every major donor here tonight is his client or personal connection.”
I don’t know how to respond. Should I admit I’ve noticed? That I’ve been tracking his movements all evening, watching him charm everyone from Mrs. Peterson to the mayor? That every time someone writes a substantial bid on our auction sheets, I feel simultaneously grateful and terrified?
Dr. Martinez pats my arm gently. “I thought you should know. People show us who they truly are through their actions, not their words.”
The band transitions songs. The upbeat tempo fades and something slow and achingly romantic begins.
Couples drift toward the dance floor, drawing close.
The string lights overhead glow like suspended stars.
It looks like a scene from a film, not something happening in my actual life here in Bellrose.
“I think we’ll exceed our fundraising goal,” I say, desperately changing subjects. “Maybe even significantly.”
Dr. Martinez smiles knowingly. “I never doubted it.” She glances over my shoulder and her smile widens. “I should go check on the silent auction closing time.”
She vanishes before I can protest, and I already know who’s standing behind me. I can sense his presence. The fine hairs on my arms stand up before I even turn around.
Zayn. His beautiful eyes—the ones that still haunt my dreams sometimes—lock onto mine with an intensity that steals my breath.
He extends his hand. “One dance,” he says. Not a question, not a demand. Just an invitation hanging in the air between us.
I should refuse. I’ve rehearsed declining him countless times in my head since he returned to Bellrose. But what emerges is, “Just one.”
I stare at his outstretched hand. At the tattoos that wraps around his hand. At those fingers I once knew intimately. Taking his hand feels like crossing a line I drew for myself, but I reach out anyway.