Chapter 13
Legal Precedents and Longing
“Hello?” My voice sounds scratchy from sleep.
“Sophie.” He sounds completely awake and energized. “I’m sorry for calling so early, but I found something. Something potentially game-changing.”
I push myself upright, shoving hair out of my face. Mia lifts her head from the foot of my bed, regarding me with sleepy confusion. “What did you find?”
“It’s about the clinic building.” He’s talking fast, excited in a way I haven’t heard in years. “I think we can get it designated as a historic landmark.”
“Historic?” My brain struggles through lingering fog. “It’s old, but is it that old?”
“It’s not about age. It’s about cultural significance to the community.
” I hear rapid keyboard clicking in the background.
“The building was Bellrose’s first medical facility back in 1932.
If we can document its historical importance, the new owners can’t demolish it or make substantial alterations. ”
I sit up straighter, suddenly fully awake. “So they can’t evict us? Or impose that rent increase?”
“Not without navigating through a lot of hoops. The building would be protected under preservation statutes.” His voice drops lower, more intense. “It might not work, but it’s absolutely worth pursuing. I need your help reviewing historical documentation. Can you come to my office in an hour?”
An hour? I glance down at my ratty sleep shirt with the mysterious coffee stain and touch my tangled bedhead. “Make it two.”
“Two hours,” he agrees, then adds in a softer tone, “It was really good seeing you last night, Sophie.”
Heat floods me remembering how his hand felt on my waist, how intoxicating he smelled, those words that kept me awake for hours. “Yeah,” is all I can manage. “See you soon.”
Driving to his office, I keep insisting to myself this is purely professional.
We’re trying to save a building. It has nothing to do with dancing together or near-touches or words that shouldn’t still matter after five years.
But my heart isn’t cooperating—it does this erratic, fluttery thing the closer I get.
I check my reflection before exiting the car. My hair cooperated today, falling in soft waves. I’m wearing dark jeans and an emerald sweater—nothing fancy, but flattering. I definitely didn’t spend nearly an hour selecting this outfit.
Zayn’s waiting when the elevator doors open, holding two coffee cups. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, exposing his tattoos, and he’s wearing jeans instead of his typical suit. He looks more relaxed than I’ve seen him since returning to Bellrose.
He extends one cup toward me. “Vanilla latte, extra shot, almond milk,” he recites like it’s the most natural thing.
I accept the cup carefully, ensuring our fingers don’t connect. “Thanks.” The warmth feels comforting. “So what’s this about saving the building?”
He leads me into his office, which is now a complet mess. Documents everywhere. Law books stacked around. Sticky notes plastered around his computer. The small lighthouse model I noticed before still sits on the shelf, catching morning sunlight.
“I couldn’t sleep last night, so I kept researching,” he says, clearing folders off a chair for me. “The building isn’t just old. It was designed by Marcus Collins, who created several significant coastal structures.”
I settle into the chair and watch him sort through documents with that expression I remember so well. He’d get this way during finals—completely focused, unstoppable.
“I’ve compiled everything I could find,” he continues, spreading materials across his desk. “Tax records, architectural photographs, newspaper archives. We need to organize it chronologically, build a timeline.”
“Where should we start?” I lean forward, coffee warming my hands.
Just like that, we dive in. He tackles legal documents while I arrange photographs by date.
The original building when it opened in 1932.
The east wing addition in the ‘50s. Images from the storm of ‘73 when it served as emergency shelter.
Occasionally he slides something across the desk—“Look at this!”—and our fingers nearly brush, sending electricity up my arm that I try to ignore.
His phone rings around noon, then again shortly after. He glances at the caller ID but doesn’t answer.
“You can take those if you need to,” I say, aligning photographs. “I honestly don’t mind.”
He switches his phone to silent and sets it face-down. “It can wait.”
Warmth blooms in my chest. He’s dedicating his entire Saturday to this—to me—when he could be billing actual paying clients.
“What are you trying to accomplish?” The words escape before I can stop them. “The fundraiser, the daily coffee, now this? You don’t have to save the clinic to—”
“To what?” He meets my gaze directly.
I shrug, suddenly finding a 1962 photograph fascinating. “To make amends for leaving.”
He remains silent so long I’m forced to look up. His expression is completely open, stripped of his professional mask.
“I’m doing this because I have legal expertise that can help something you deeply care about,” he says finally. “That makes it really important to me.”
His straightforward honesty knocks the breath from my lungs. I can’t formulate a response, so I nod and return to the photographs, feeling heat creep up my neck.
We work through lunch, the sandwiches he ordered sitting abandoned in the corner. Zayn pushes his aside to examine a document—evidence showing how the building served as a triage center during a flu outbreak in the 1930s.
“This could be significant,” he says, sliding it across. “Demonstrates the building’s importance beyond architectural merit.”
The light in his office shifts as hours pass, morning brightness transforming to golden afternoon glow. We establish a rhythm—I identify critical dates, he connects them to laws that could help us.
“Did you know the building treated wounded soldiers during World War II?” I slide a yellowed newspaper clipping toward him, trying not to fixate on how my fingers tingle where they accidentally brushed his.
He accepts the article, scanning rapidly. “This is excellent. Shows the building has consistently served the entire community.”
I watch him making notes, his handwriting clean and easy to read. I notice how his brow furrows when he’s concentrating. The way his hair curls slightly at the ends where it needs trimming. All these small details I used to know so well and tried desperately to forget.
It catches me off guard how natural this feels. How seamlessly we still collaborate when working toward a shared goal. Like two puzzle pieces that still interlock despite being slightly worn around the edges.
“I think we have a legitimate case,” he says, looking up with a smile that reaches his eyes. The world narrows—that smile that used to belong exclusively to me.
I nod because I don’t trust my voice. Working alongside him like this feels too good, too familiar, like finding a favorite sweater I thought was lost forever.
The sun’s sinking low outside Zayn’s windows, painting everything in deepening shadows.
My eyes hurts from reading tiny print all day, and my back is stiff from hunching over his desk for hours.
But we’ve made real progress. Our “keep” pile of documentation now towers over our “maybe” pile.
I stretch, hearing my shoulders crack audibly.
Our coffee cups sit empty, our sandwiches barely touched.
I haven’t concentrated this intensely on anything in forever, except maybe on emergency surgeries.
“God, we’ve been sitting forever,” I say, massaging my neck. “My legs might have forgotten how to properly function.”
Zayn leans back and runs his hand through his hair, disheveling it in that way that makes him look more like the old Zayn, less like the fancy lawyer version.
“But look at what we’ve compiled. Photographs from the ‘60s, ‘80s, and ‘90s documenting community significance. Documentation of the building’s role during the storm. That newspaper feature about it becoming the county’s first dedicated veterinary facility.”
I feel a warm spark of pride. “It’s more than just some old building. It’s part of Bellrose’s identity.”
“Exactly,” he says, his expression brightening. “That’s what we need to make the committee understand.”
The sunset stretches long shadows across the room, softening everything. It feels safer to talk now, with all these papers between us and the day nearly finished.
The words slip out before I can stop them. “Want to know why I love the clinic so much? It’s not just the animals, though they’re obviously the best part.”
He sets down his pen and focuses completely on me. My stomach flips when he gives me that undivided attention. “Why?” he asks simply.
“After you left…” I pause, not wanting to weaponize this, but there’s no way around it.
“I was a complete mess. Some days I couldn’t even get out of bed except for classes.
Then Dr. Martinez offered me the job three years ago.
Suddenly I had somewhere to be. Animals that needed me even when I felt completely broken inside. ”
His jaw tightens, but he maintains eye contact. “Tell me about them.”
I tell him about the three-legged tabby that hissed at everyone but me. The blind poodle that navigated so confidently you’d never know she couldn’t see.
“Months ago, this woman brought in the tiniest Chihuahua—skinny, bald patches on his back, shaking constantly.” My hands start moving as I talk.
“Poor little guy had been trapped in a garage for years. Terrified of everything. I spent two weeks of lunch breaks just sitting near his kennel, talking softly. On day fifteen, he crawled into my lap and fell asleep.”
Zayn looks at me with such tenderness it makes my chest ache. “What happened to him?”
“Mrs. Peterson adopted him.” I smile at the memory. “Now he rides around in her purse like royalty. She sends me photos weekly.”
“You know how to heal broken things,” he says quietly.
The room suddenly feels weighted, like we’re both thinking things we won’t say aloud. I look down at our paperwork, nearly complete now.
“We should finish this,” I say, my voice slightly rough. “It’s getting late.”
He nods and shifts back into attorney mode as we finalize the application. Our evidence is stacked neatly—photographs, newspaper clippings, letters from longtime residents, and documentation of historical significance.
“This looks really solid,” I say, surprised by how hopeful I sound.
“It does.” Zayn nods, reviewing our work.
“The committee would have to seriously consider—” His phone rings, interrupting mid-sentence.
He checks the screen and frowns. “I need to take this. It’s Harold Cooper—the building’s new owner.
” He gives me an apologetic look before answering. “Blackwell speaking.”
I can hear the man on the other end immediately—loud, aggressive, shouting. Zayn’s expression goes professionally blank, but his knuckles turn white gripping the phone.
“Mr. Cooper, if you’d allow me to explain—” Zayn attempts, but the angry voice steamrolls over him.
The man is yelling loud enough that I hear him clearly from across the desk. “You think you’re clever with this historic landmark nonsense? My attorney just informed me what you filed! I paid good money for that property, and I’ll develop it however I see fit!”
Zayn stands and turns partially away from me, but his voice remains steady. “The building holds significant historical value to Bellrose. We’re simply following proper preservation procedures to—”
“Cut the lawyer talk,” Cooper interrupt him off. “I know exactly what you’re doing. You’re trying to stop my development plans. You think some small-town attorney can beat me? I have resources, Blackwell. Serious resources.”
Tension coils in my gut as I watch Zayn. His face looks calm and professional but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches like he’s grinding his teeth.
“Everyone has rights in this situation, Mr. Cooper,” Zayn says calmly. “Including the clinic and this community.”
“You’ve made a big mistake going against me.” Cooper’s voice drops lower, which somehow sounds more menacing. “I’m bringing in real legal power. Attorneys who actually know what they’re doing. Does the name Walsh sounds familiar? Your little stalling tactic won’t work.”
The call abruptly disconnects. Zayn lowers the phone, stares at it for a moment, then slowly sets it on his desk. He runs his hand through his hair, disheveling it further, then meets my eyes with genuine concern.
I try to sound casual, but bile creeps up my throat. “That didn’t sound encouraging.”
“It’s not.” Zayn sinks into his chair. “Cooper’s furious about our filing.
He wants to knock down the clinic and build luxury apartments instead.
” He pauses, looking uncertain in a way I haven’t seen since his return.
“This just got significantly more complicated, Sophie. He’s hiring attorneys from Seattle. ”
Something in his expression makes my heart stutter. “So what? He has lawyers. You’re a lawyer too.”
“Not just any attorneys.” Zayn looks directly at me, his eyes holding an honesty that makes shivers run through me. “The people I used to work with. From Callahan & Price.”
The name lands like a physical blow. Callahan & Price. The prestigious Seattle firm that offered him that position five years ago. The reason he packed his bags and left Bellrose. Left me behind.
“Your old firm,” I whisper.
He nods, maintaining eye contact. “The same place I left town for. The same place I left you for.”
And just like that, our past materializes between us. We’ve been carefully sidestepping it for weeks, but now it’s impossible to ignore. What’s cruelly ironic is that the very thing that destroyed us is now threatening to destroy the place that helped me heal.
My hands begin trembling slightly. “What do we do now?”
“I honestly don’t know,” he admits. “They know all my strategies. They’ve witnessed how I build cases.
” He pauses, and his expression transforms—uncertainty shifting into something fiercer, more determined.
“But they have absolutely no idea what this place means to you. To us. That’s what they’re really up against.”
Us. Two letters that hit me like a freight train. Does he mean everyone at the clinic, or something more personal? I’m not brave enough to ask right now.
Outside, the sun disappears completely, plunging his office into darkness. This morning felt so full of possibility. Now everything feels harder, more complicated. The past I tried desperately to forget just crashed back into the present without warning.