Chapter 1
Hannah
Stepping out of first class in Murmur Bay, I walk through the airport with security, my heels clicking against the polished tile.
I keep my head down, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind my ear as I follow the new bodyguard to the awaiting car.
I usually don’t get my own luggage, but there isn’t a swarm of photographers here.
The airport feels almost empty, quiet in a way that makes my shoulders drop from around my ears.
I straighten up and tell the guard I’m going to get my own bag.
He gives me a look, one dark eyebrow raised, his hand already moving toward the baggage claim. “You sure, miss?”
“It’s Hannah.” I smile, the corners of my mouth lifting genuinely for the first time in weeks. “Yes. I’m sure.”
His expression softens as he nods in understanding.
I want to bask in the glory of not having people following me everywhere, cameras flashing, waiting for another stumble.
I’m sick of being a clumsy headline. But it’s also a privilege, as this was a dream of mine since I was young.
Exiting through security, I make my way to the carousel and wait for my bag, bouncing slightly on my toes.
As I glance around at the few people nearby, seeing an elderly couple hold hands, a mom with a baby on her hip, a stupid grin breaks across my face.
This place is different. I take in the soft country music playing through the speakers and the roll of suitcase wheels—the only sound breaking through the silence.
No announcements blaring every thirty seconds.
No crowds pushing past. The bodyguard clears his throat and taps my shoulder, refocusing me.
“Miss, your bag.”
“Right.” I giggle, lightness filling me as I walk to the carousel and reach for my suitcase…
a pink oversized hardshell. Shit, this is heavy.
My fingers wrap around the handle, and I tug.
Nothing. I didn’t think about that when I decided to grab it myself.
I know he’s behind me, waiting to help, but I can’t ask now.
With a heavy grunt and a count to three, I lift it and drop it… right onto my foot.
Pain explodes through my big toe.
I tug my foot out from underneath, wiggling my toes—thank God they all move—and grab the handle, avoiding eye contact with the guard to avoid his judgement.
There’s only one exit, so it’s not hard to spot. A driver waits outside, holding a board with my name: Hannah Morgan.
I do a double-take. He’s older and wearing jeans and a polo shirt. Very different from the young black-suit drivers in LA. The car is equally unexpected: a mid-sized sedan, not a black Mercedes or other luxury vehicle.
When the bodyguard takes my bag, I let him load it into the car.
There’s no way I can lift it that high. Next time, I should pack less.
It can’t be good for anyone to lift this thing.
I wave goodbye to the guard, and he gives me a nod.
The driver holds open the car door, so I smile and slip into the sedan, the cold leather feeling nice against my back through my thin dress.
I live in Los Angeles, with my parents around the corner. We’ve always been close, but for the next eight weeks, I’ll be filming a renovation show where I’m the host. It still doesn’t feel real when I say it, even in my head.
The driver takes off, pulling onto a highway lined with trees. Having an hour and a half to kill, I’m already reaching for my phone. I need to hear my mom’s voice.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
“Hey, Mom.”
“How was the flight?”
“Pretty good. I slept most of the way.”
“What’s your plan for the rest of today?” she asks, and I can picture her sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea, her reading glasses perched on her nose.
“I’ll settle into the Airbnb. Maybe go for a walk around town.
” I trace a finger along the window, watching the scenery blur, the long stretches of road that will look so pretty next month when everything’s fully green and blooming.
I’m excited to be spending time in Pulse Point in the spring.
Online, the photos looked cute, showing a quiet, quirky town with brick storefronts and hanging flower baskets.
The last few years have been audition after audition, so it’ll be nice having some time here in one place.
“Take lots of photos and give me a call tonight.”
I know she worries, and instead of dismissing her, I indulge her as her only child. “I will. I’ll have to let you know what the tea is like.” My love of tea came from her.
“I bet the honey is proper honey,” she hums, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “I’ll bring you a jar home.”
“If you don’t mind, but if you can’t, that’s okay.”
“I’ll have it shipped. I won’t make you wait eight weeks.”
Eight weeks suddenly feels a while away. I’ve been here three hours, and already I’m working out how many weekends I could go home. But I can’t do that. I have to stay focused. This is what I wanted.
“Hannah’s on the phone,” Mom says to Dad. I hear his muffled response in the background. “Did you want to say hello?”
My heart beats faster as I watch the tree branches sway.
“Hello?” Dad’s voice booms, sparking a new smile across my face. I’m not afraid to admit I’m a daddy’s girl, and my standards for guys exist because of him. Which makes it near impossible to find someone worth my time… between my busy schedule and my expectations.
“Hey, Dad. What are you doing?”
“I just got in from a hike.” Which means he’s about to shower, then lie on the recliner and nap for at least an hour.
“It was a hot one today.” He’s breathing heavier than usual, and I bet he’s kicking off his hiking boots.
I remember hearing the news about this week’s heatwave in LA. I’m wearing a dress, but I have a denim jacket to throw over my floral maxi if it gets cool. I don’t know what to expect in Pulse Point… The weather app showed everything from sixty to seventy-five degrees this week.
“It was meant to be over one hundred, right?”
“Yeah. It’s definitely going to reach that today, so I’ll hang out at home with your mom before work tomorrow.” He lets out a contented sigh. “You enjoy yourself. I’m proud of you. The show is going to be a success.” His voice gets that hitch when he’s emotional.
My throat tightens. “Thanks, Dad. But we won’t be able to watch it for a while. They haven’t told me the release date yet.”
That’s how show business works. Which is frustrating because they film things months to years before they’re shown on TV.
“That’s okay. I know with you, it’s going to be great.”
I press my hand to my chest where my heartbeat is slowing. His faith in me means a lot; he’s been like that throughout the years. But I don’t dwell on it, not when I’m about to walk into the biggest opportunity of my life. I need to stay focused.
“Tell Mom I’ll call later.”
“Will do. Love you, kiddo.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
Their support is why I am where I am. When I’d come home from audition after audition with rejections, mascara smudged, I’d ring them, and they’d tell me to dust myself off and go again.
And with their support, it was easy to do just that.
I’ve been a contestant on a show, and I’ve built a following since, but I want to host. It’s a career.
It’s not just a role I land and then move on from. It’s becoming the face of something.
When I got the callback from the network, I was beside myself with joy. I’d screamed so loud my neighbor knocked on the wall and told me to shut up.
I scroll for my best friend’s name. Brooke answers on the second ring.
“Are you there?” She sounds sleepy.
I wince slightly for waking her up, but I’m too wired.
“No, I’m in the car on my way to the Airbnb.”
“I hope it doesn’t end up being a hole. You know the ones online where they edit it so it looks better than it is, and you end up with bedbugs.” She makes a gagging sound.
I scrunch up my nose at the thought of bugs in my bed, my skin already crawling.
“This isn’t a dating app.”
She sighs loudly. “That’s worse. I’m sick of the manipulation of the photos, or the fact that they use old pictures. Like, man, you are not over 6’1”, and where did all your hair go?”
Remembering my own profile, I bite my lip. “I think we all do that.”
“I thought you deleted it?” Her voice rises excitedly.
“Oh, I did, and I have no plans to ever reopen it.”
I’d rather wait for someone who finds me in the real world, who wants me for reasons that have nothing to do with my follower count or my face on their social media.
“Have you tried the one with the celebs only?”
“That sounds worse. I’m still getting over that guy who had me take a photo of him every place we went to put on his social media.” I shudder at the memory. My place, his place, cars, coffee shop, restaurants. You name it… the list is endless.
“The one from the sitcom? You went on one date.”
“One and done.”
“They aren’t all like that.”
I can hear the concern threaded through her words. She’s worried about me being isolated in a new town for eight weeks with no one to talk to and no distractions from the pressure of the show. She probably thinks dating would be good for me.
“Well, I’m out of state, so I can’t go back on the app. I won’t even have time to message.”
I know that’s a lie, but I just can’t think of anything worse right now than talking to someone and having that awkward getting to know you conversation. What do you do? Oh, you’ve been a reality show contestant? Which one? It’s exhausting.
“I’m still mad at you for leaving me.”
I roll my eyes, even though I know she can’t see me. “It’s only a few months. I’m sure you’ll be too busy working to notice.”
“Weekends after work, though. Not having you as my wingwoman.”
I snort. “You mean entertainment.”
“That too.” She laughs.
“I’m sure it will be worse for me.”
“Why’s that?” she asks, and I realize I was supposed to respond to her, not myself.
I shake my head
“You’ll be bored. Or alone.” I can hear her genuine worry through her teasing.