6.

Roman

The rideshare from my office at the hospital over to the first hotel on the list is quiet on an early Monday afternoon. Ava doesn’t think I’ll follow through. But I’ve cleared my afternoon to be at these venue meetings. I’ll do the work she requires. And I’ll show her she can depend on me. My mind is a whirlwind of details—capacities, amenities, contingency plans. But underlying it all is a simple truth. This isn’t about the fundraiser. It’s about her .

“Dr. Quinlan?” The concierge at Xenia Hotel Harbourfront greets me, pulling me from my thoughts.

“Good afternoon,” I reply.

“Dr. Winters is waiting for you in our conference room lobby,” he informs me, gesturing toward the elevators.

“Thank you.”

As the elevator ascends, I school my expression into something neutral. But the moment the doors slide open I see Ava—in jeans contoured to her like they’re painted on, a dark green sweater that makes her blue eyes pop, and high-heeled boots that add an authoritative click to her every step. I feel my composure slip. She’s formidable as ever, yet she doesn’t utter a word. Her silence is a barrier I’m determined to break.

“Hi,” I say, my voice betraying none of the anticipation churning within me.

“Roman.” It’s all she offers before turning on her heel, leading the way.

“Dr. Winters, Dr. Quinlan.” Emily Rhodes, who introduces herself as the head of catering and sales, steps forward, her handshake firm, businesslike. “So glad you could make it.”

“Thanks for having us,” Ava says, shaking her hand.

I follow suit, noting the spark in Emily’s eyes. “Look at this place,” I say, gesturing around the expansive lobby. Even after all these years, Vancouver’s beauty still gets to me.

“Very impressive,” Ava murmurs, but her gaze isn’t on the architecture. It’s drilling into Emily Rhodes’ back as she leads us towards the elevators. The event planner is practically bouncing, unlike Ava’s cool detachment.

“All right, let’s take you up to the rooftop terrace first!” Emily pushes the elevator button, and we all turn to face the door.

We ascend in the glass elevator, the cityscape shrinking beneath us, turning into a toy-sized world. Ava’s arms are folded across her chest, tension in her jaw. She’s in doctor mode—sharp, analyzing, and alert—and it makes me want to see her smile.

“Here we are!” Emily announces as the elevator doors glide open at the rooftop.

Sunlight spills across the terrace, glinting off the glass railings and casting long shadows over the deck. The harbor view is a postcard come to life, boats drifting lazily, mountains standing guard in the distance, and float planes cascading across the water as they land. It’s breathtaking, but there’s no grass underfoot, no scent of flowers in the air.

“Imagine your guests mingling here, sipping cocktails as the sun sets behind the mountains,” Emily gestures grandly.

“Can’t deny the view,” I say, leaning on the railing next to Ava, who nods reluctantly.

“Stunning,” she admits, “but not what Dr. Johns specified.”

“True,” I concede. “He wanted an outdoor option, didn’t he?” Suddenly, I’m grateful for the cool wind coming off the water. It helps temper the heat Ava’s proximity evokes in me.

“Let’s keep looking,” Ava says, already heading back to the elevator.

Emily hustles to catch up, her high heels clicking on the tile. “You’re going to love the revolving venue. It’s truly one of a kind!”

“Rotating views might compensate for the lack of an outdoor element,” I muse, watching Ava’s reaction closely.

“Perhaps,” Ava says, her tone noncommittal as we descend to the lower floors.

The revolving space is like stepping onto a carousel. The floor moves almost imperceptibly, but over time, it offers a 360-degree sweep of the city skyline. Ava’s eyes widen just a fraction, her professional fa?ade cracking with wonder, and I feel myself grin in response.

“Think of the auction here,” I suggest, trying to tap into her vision. “With every turn, a new item to bid on, keeping the guests engaged.”

Ava looks around, her mind clearly racing through the possibilities before she turns to me. “It’s…intriguing,” she acknowledges, and I feel a small victory.

“Great acoustics too,” Emily adds, clapping her hands to demonstrate.

“Acoustics are important,” I agree, my eyes on Ava.

“Thank you, Emily,” Ava finally says. “We’ll discuss it and get back to you.”

“Of course! I have a film crew also looking at the space for a wrap party,” Emily notes before leaving us alone in the slowly spinning room.

“Revolving venue has potential…” I say again.

“Potential,” Ava agrees, but then she shrugs. “It’s still not grass or flowers.”

“Dr. Johns might be flexible after he sees this place,” I offer.

“Or not,” Ava counters, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“Let’s step outside, get some fresh air?” I suggest, needing to escape the confined space that suddenly feels too intimate.

“Fine,” Ava says, and we return to the ground floor and move to the exit, the daylight outside promising clarity.

As we stand on the sidewalk waiting for our rideshare, I can’t shake the feeling that it’s Ava and me revolving around each other, caught in an orbit of what-ifs and maybes. And as much as I want to win her over on the Xenia, I know the real challenge lies in winning back her trust.

“How is your family?” Ava asks, apparently trying to fill the void with small talk.

“Everyone is doing well. My sister just got into law school at UBC.”

“She must be thrilled. UBC has a great program.”

“Yes. We’re all very happy for her.”

Ava looks up, her blue eyes catching the light. “I imagine your mom is proud. Two doctors and a lawyer in the family.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, though she’d trade all our degrees for a grandchild.” I instantly regret that I brought up children. That was once our plan.

“Or two,” Ava adds dryly.

I wince inwardly. “And how’s your family?” I ask.

“Same as ever,” she answers politely, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The conversation stalls again, and we’re left to the sounds of the harbor—the lapping of waves against the docks and the distant hum of a float plane.

“Ready to check out Stanley Park Pavilion?” I suggest when our rideshare finally appears.

“Let’s go,” Ava replies, gathering her things.

Sitting in the cramped backseat of the tiny car, I find myself both drawn to and anxious around her. Her perfume has a way of enticing me, but my mind is at war with my body’s reaction. I want to lean closer, but also create distance. It’s a conflicting mix.

Thankfully the ride is short, and as we break free of the high-rises and gray of the City, Stanley Park Pavilion emerges like a scene from an old-world fairy tale—elegant and serene. As we exit the car, Sofia Chang greets us with a warmth that softens even Ava’s guarded demeanor. She leads us through the venue, pointing out the nuances of the architecture and the panoramic views that surround it.

“Imagine your guests mingling here,” Sofia says, gesturing toward the expansive windows that frame the lush gardens outside. “It’s a unique experience, being close to nature and the City’s heart.”

“Beautiful,” Ava murmurs, her professional fa?ade slipping just enough to reveal genuine appreciation.

“Up to three hundred guests,” Sofia continues. “You mentioned you were interested in an indoor—and weather-permitting—outdoor event. The gardens are free to wander, and we could set up a photographer outside if the weather is clear or inside if it’s too hot.”

As we conclude the tour, Sofia hands us brochures and extends an invitation. “If you’re interested, I can arrange a tasting for you both. Our chef is quite extraordinary. But don’t wait too long to make your decision. I have a last-minute sweet sixteen party looking at the space.”

“Thank you. We’ll let you know,” Ava responds, tucking the brochure into her binder.

“Shall we discuss the venue options over coffee after our next stop?” I venture as we again wait for our rideshare.

“Maybe another time,” Ava declines, her gaze flickering over the brochure. She’s already mentally ticking boxes, calculating, planning. Her dedication is one thing I’ve always admired about her, even if it currently stands as a barrier between us.

“All right then.” But as we leave the pavilion behind, I’m acutely aware of the growing divide, the unresolved tension that still lingers between us.

Next stop is the library. They rent public space, and they have epic parties here. This is our last stop of the day.

We spend quite a while touring, and the sky above Vancouver Public Library blushes with streaks of sunset as Chad Lott ushers us out into the rooftop garden. “This is quite the gem,” he beams, waving his hand over the manicured greens and sleek benches. The North Shore Mountains rise in the distance, a majestic backdrop.

“Stunning,” I admit, unable to resist the pull of the view.

“However,” Chad interjects, perhaps reading the concern on Ava’s brow, “you’d have to bring in your own caterers. And if it rains like it still can in June…” He trails off, looking to the open sky above.

“Could we set up tents with misters?” Ava asks, practical as always.

“Absolutely,” Chad confirms. “We’ve done that before.”

“Okay. Thanks, Chad,” Ava says. We shake hands and make our departure, descending to the library’s entrance.

“Roman, the threat of rain is too high,” Ava states, her arms crossed as we stop on the sidewalk outside the library. “With no indoor option, we can’t gamble on tents being enough.”

“Agreed,” I say, though a part of me is disappointed. On the right day, the space would be lovely.

“Let’s review then.” She flips open her binder, the meticulous notes catching the light of the streetlamp. “Xenia Hotel at Harbourfront…”

“New and trendy,” I cut in, trying to sway her. “It has all the facilities we need.”

“But Stanley Park Pavilion offers that mix of indoor-outdoor Dr. Johns wants,” she counters, her argument solid. “And those gardens…”

“Too traditional,” I argue, but my heart isn’t in it. Ava’s passion for the pavilion is clear, and part of me yearns to simply agree with her, to see her eyes light up at getting what she wants. But this is business, and compromise isn’t just about giving in.

“Neither of us is sold on the venue,” she concludes, her mouth a thin line.

“Doesn’t seem like it.” I shove my hands into my pockets, frustration simmering just below the surface. This was supposed to be a chance to reconnect, not reinforce old barriers.

“We can look at VanDusen tomorrow,” she suggests. “But finding an open space this late is going to become more and more difficult.”

“Look,” I say, nearly pleading now, “I know you’re not thrilled with the idea, but VanDusen has other spots we haven’t even considered. There’s this corner of the garden that—”

“Roman,” Ava cuts me off as she turns to face me under the glow of the streetlamp. “Dr. Johns wants new. Fresh. Not a repeat of last year’s scenery.”

“But it’s not a repeat if it’s a different part,” I insist, my voice rising in frustration.

“Even so, it’s VanDusen. It’ll feel like déjà vu to the donors.” Her arms cross over her chest, forming a solid and impenetrable wall. The tension in her body is palpable, as if she’s trying to physically separate herself from me. “We need something that screams innovation, not comfort zone.”

“Comfort zone?” I scoff, throwing my hands up before they find their way back into the pockets of my jeans. “What’s wrong with giving people a touch of familiarity? They loved it there!”

“Exactly, they loved it—past tense.” Her eyes are unyielding, reflecting the stubbornness I remember all too well. “We can’t afford to bank on nostalgia.”

“Fine.” I lean against the cold concrete of a nearby building, trying to collect my thoughts. My jaw clenches as I watch her, her hair gently tousled by the breeze—a visual contradiction to the rigid lines of her posture.

“Fine?” She raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised by my concession.

“We’ll scratch VanDusen off the list.” My words are measured, betraying none of the turmoil inside. In truth, I’m scrambling for a solution that pleases her.

“Good.” Ava nods curtly, her gaze flicking to mine for a moment, and in that brief glance, I see a flicker of… Is it regret? Or just the city lights playing tricks on me?

“Let’s meet tomorrow, and we can brainstorm some other ideas and see what we come up with.” My peace offering. Nothing has been perfect, but we’re down to less than five months. We can’t do much until we have a location.

“Tomorrow will be too late,” Ava says, snapping her binder shut. She looks at me and steels herself. “We’ll go with the Xenia.”

Inside, I’m jumping up and down, but wouldn’t it have been better if I’d let her have this? She did all the work to get us here. “If you really want the Stanley Park Pavilion, let’s go with there.”

She looks down at the sidewalk. “No, I think the Xenia will make for a splashy event, and I like what you said about the silent auction. Let’s book it.”

Her rideshare pulls up. “I’ll call and get the contract, and we can meet tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” I confirm, watching her ride away. Ugh . Working with Ava is going to be anything but easy. Every interaction is a dance of two steps forward, one step back. Yet here I am, drawn in by the challenge, by her. Despite everything, Ava is worth every moment of frustration.

And it’s just like her to leave me here, standing on the edge of possibility, yet barred from crossing over. She’s a riddle wrapped in defiance, and for all our history, I realize we’re strangers at this point.

“Impossible,” I mutter to myself, shaking my head at how difficult she is, yet I can’t walk away. My heart is caught in the crossfire of wanting to prove her wrong and wanting to win her over.

Tomorrow is now both a promise and a prelude to another round of sparring. But beneath it all, the real battle lies in untangling the intricate web of what was, what could be, and the healing that needs to happen between us. If only we could find a way to weave those frayed threads into something stronger.