7.

Ava

The hum of the hospital cafeteria surrounds me, a symphony of hushed conversations that can’t disguise the weariness that seeps out of every white coat and scrubs. I sit across from Roman, his disarming blue eyes focused on the contract laid between us, but my gaze keeps drifting to the curve of his jaw. We’re going through our accomplishments in the first week and our plan before we meet with Charles Johns.

“Looks like everything’s in order,” I say, tapping a finger on the last page. The mundane task can’t fully anchor my fluttering thoughts, not when Roman is this close, smelling faintly of antiseptic and something woodsy that I remember all too well.

“Good work,” he replies. “You always had an eye for detail.”

“Comes with the territory,” I quip, trying to ignore the warmth in his compliment.

As we feast on our moderately decent lunch—a surprising step up from the usual hospital fare—a nurse approaches our table. She’s all smiles, her gaze fixed on Roman as if I’m invisible, or worse, inconsequential.

“Dr. Quinlan, I saw your name on the emergency department roster next week. Looking forward to working with you,” she purrs.

Roman shifts uncomfortably, casting a glance in my direction. A surge of unexpected jealousy courses through me, fierce and hot, making my mouth go dry. Who does this woman think she is? I swallow the lump in my throat, refusing to acknowledge her attempts to mark territory.

“Thanks,” Roman says. “I’m sure it will be a good day.”

I swear she winks at him. I can’t even watch.

“Ava?” My name on his lips snaps me back to attention, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the linoleum floor.

The nurse looks me up and down, her appraisal short and dismissive before she flounces away.

“Ready to go?” I ask Roman, my tone brisk. I need to escape, to put distance between myself and this unexpected flare of possessiveness. It’s ridiculous. I shouldn’t care who flirts with him. But I do, and it terrifies me.

“Let’s do this.” Roman stands, gathering the papers with a decisive motion. His presence is grounding, even if my emotions are anything but steady.

We walk side by side, dropping the remains of our lunch in the trash as we exit. I focus on the beat of my heart, willing it to slow so I can be as composed as Roman appears when we meet with Dr. Johns.

The stairwell to Dr. Johns’s office wraps upward, and as we crest the final stretch, I’m out of breath. Why didn’t we take the elevator? Because I was mad and needed to work it out before I make a fool of myself.

“Are you thinking about the silent auction again?” Roman asks, his voice cutting through the spiral of my thoughts.

I grip the railing a little tighter. “What if Dr. Johns wants details we haven’t hammered out yet? Or worse, what if he hates our choice?” The questions tumble out, betraying my calm fa?ade.

“Look at me,” Roman says, halting on the landing.

I turn to face him, the weight of his gaze steadying me. He reaches for my arm, and his touch spreads warmth through my nerves. “We’ve got this.”

Do we? Doubt is a persistent shadow.

“If he asks how other things are going, we can tell him they’re being worked on now that the location is settled.”

“Always the voice of reason,” I murmur, a smile threatening to break through. In school, Roman had this same effect on me—a human talisman against chaos.

“Someone has to be,” he quips, releasing my arm and leading the way up the remaining steps. The gratitude I feel in this moment is a bittersweet reminder of our past, a tangle of frustration and fondness.

“Still, I can’t believe Dr. Johns will just go along with it—”

“Hey,” he interrupts, spinning on his heel to face me again, “we picked a great place. It’s unique. It’ll make our event stand out. They need to trust us.”

Us , not me . I appreciate the inclusiveness and nod, letting his assurance chip away at the wall of worry I’ve built. Together, we reach the top step, our footsteps in sync. My pulse has settled into a determined rhythm.

“Ready?” Roman asks, his hand hovering over the door handle.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply, and when he opens the door, I step through the threshold.

Dr. Johns’s assistant shows us into his office, a flurry of controlled chaos, papers strewn across his desk like fall leaves. He’s the kind of man who embodies the hospital’s relentless pace—always moving, always thinking three steps ahead. When he glances up from his laptop, the quick nod he gives us feels like an invitation and a time limit all at once.

“Sit.” He motions to the chairs.

“We made a decision,” I announce as Roman hands him the contract with all the marketing materials. “It’s a little different than last year, but we think it will be fun.”

“Ah, the Xenia Hotel,” he says almost absentmindedly. “Isn’t that the place with the spinning top?”

I catch Roman’s eye, a silent communication passing between us. Here goes nothing. “Yes, it’s quite the landmark. Do you think that will be an issue for the fundraiser?”

“Not at all,” Dr. Johns replies, flipping through the pages. “It’s great. It’s thinking outside the box.” The briefest smile plays on his lips. He signs the contract and hands it to Roman, dismissing us.

I exhale slowly as we walk back out of his office, relief washing over me. I turn to find Roman watching me, his eyes alight with that spark that used to infuriate and intrigue me in equal measure.

“Looks like we’re moving forward then,” he says, a hint of satisfaction in his tone.

“Seems so.” I tuck my hair behind my ear, suddenly conscious of the way his gaze lingers.

“About the rest—invitations, volunteers, getting the word out on silent auction items… We should meet. Go through everything. Figure out what we want to take on and what we’ll farm out to volunteers.”

“Sure,” I say, thumbing through my planner. “How’s your schedule?”

“Tonight? Zeffirelli’s on Robson?”

His suggestion catches me off guard. The place is cozy, intimate. We were regulars there when we were dating. I haven’t been back since we broke up. “Zeffirelli’s it is,” I agree. The thought of sitting across from him, planning what feels like our future—even if it’s just for this event—sends a thrill through me.

“Perfect. It’s a date. Well, not a date,” he corrects, the corner of his mouth ticking up.

“Right. Not a date,” I echo, hoping my smile doesn’t betray the fluttering in my stomach. Date or not, tonight is a second chance I hadn’t realized I wanted until now.

The rideshare’s brakes moan as it pulls up to Zeffirelli’s. My heart hammers beneath the fabric of my blouse as I exit the vehicle, a beat that matches the click of my heels against the pavement. I hesitate at the entrance, inhaling deeply, trying to calm the swarm of butterflies in my stomach.

“Here goes nothing,” I murmur, pushing the door open.

The warm glow of the restaurant envelops me, the scent of garlic and rosemary wafting through the air. It hasn’t changed since the last time I was here. Except why is it so crowded? Then it hits me—Valentine’s Day. Internally I groan. The worst night of the year to go out on a non-date. But it’s too late to back out now, even though this spot is cozy, and particularly with the extra Valentine décor, almost too intimate for what is decidedly not a date. I scan the room and there he is—Roman, in all his infuriatingly handsome glory. He’s slouched casually in his chair, one arm draped over the back, but it’s the attire that halts me mid-step—jeans that fit just right, a black cashmere sweater hugging his broad shoulders, and his hair a tousled mess that screams of a carelessness I’ve never seen in him before.

“Hey,” I call.

“Hey.” Roman stands with a smile, and something about that look sends a jolt through me.

“Sorry. Were you waiting long?” I ask as I approach.

“Only a minute or two,” he replies, pulling out a chair for me. “You look…great.”

“Thanks.” I run my hands down the front of my jeans, self-conscious under his gaze. “You look different.”

“Different good or different bad?” His eyebrow arches playfully.

“Good,” I admit, more to my water glass than to him. “Unexpectedly good.”

“Unexpected can be good, right?” He picks up the menu, scanning it briefly before setting it aside. “So, invitations. We should decide on a design tonight.”

“Right, the invitations.” I pull out my tablet, grateful for the distraction. “I was thinking something elegant, but not overly formal. We want people to be excited, not intimidated.”

“Agreed.” He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table. “Any thoughts on volunteers? We’ll need extra hands.”

“Already have a list of potentials. We should probably bring them together soon so we can get them started.” I can’t help but notice the warmth radiating from him, so near yet still so far. “We should divide and conquer—reach out to them this week.”

“Efficient as always, Dr. Winters.”

I glance up, and our eyes lock. There’s an understanding there, a shared history we’re both tiptoeing around.

“Only way to get things done.” I clear my throat, looking away to break the connection. “And the silent-auction items… We need to get the word out. Maybe leverage social media?”

“Good idea.” He nods. “We could use some help on that front. You still good with all those techy things?”

“Better than good.” I smile. “I’ll handle that part.”

“Perfect.”

“Okay then. I’ll send you the volunteer list tomorrow.”

“Looking forward to it.” He picks up the menu again.

“Me too,” I say. Despite everything, I’m suddenly looking forward to working with Roman again. I’m starting to remember what once sparked between us.