Chapter 22
Hannah
He’s been at his computer for a while now, his glasses on, the screen casting shadows across his sharp jawline.
“Do you want me to change to a different show?” I ask. He probably hates watching the real estate reality show that’s more drama than actual house-selling. But I like watching renovation shows for how they stage rooms and make design choices, but mostly for the big reveal.
I glance over at him sitting in my dining chair, his posture stiff as he reads whatever’s on his screen.
His broad shoulders are tense, one hand gripping the mouse and the other on the table. I can’t see what he’s reading, only the silver back of his laptop, but his eyebrows are furrowed in concentration.
“No, I’m good here,” he replies, but his eyes stay fixed on the screen.
“What are you working on?” I’m curious about what he could be doing that would make him do that instead of relaxing.
What does an orthopedic surgeon work on away from the hospital?
I imagine most doctors would want to leave work at work, especially when they’re babysitting a clumsy reality star with a broken ankle.
He looks up slowly, pushing his glasses up his nose. His lips press together, and I don’t think he’ll answer, because that’s his pattern, but, surprisingly, his shoulders drop slightly. “A medical journal.”
“Sounds riveting,” I giggle, then quickly add when his expression darkens, “I don’t mean to be insulting; I just think I’d be bored out of my mind.” I shift on the sofa, my elevated ankle protesting slightly.
There’s a ghost of amusement playing at the corner of his mouth. “I think the same about your job.”
That has me leaning up defensively on my elbow to face him better, the sofa cushion shifting beneath me. My head throbs dully at the movement, a reminder of this morning’s spectacular faint. “Do you know much about my job?”
His frown softens, the harsh line between his eyebrows easing, and he nods toward the bedroom. “Read lines. Memorize blocking. Hit your marks while pretending you’re not in pain. Smile for the camera the whole time.”
“How do you—”
“They’re stacked on your nightstand.” His gaze flicks to mine, and for a moment, something passes between us—an awareness that he’s been in my bedroom, seen my private space. “Your script has tabs of notes in your handwriting.”
I smile, surprised he noticed the details. “Yes, a lot of lines.”
“And that sounds riveting to me.” He delivers it with a mock monotone that makes my smile widen.
“Touché.”
A comfortable silence settles between us, filled only with the TV host’s overly dramatic narration, and I’m glad I don’t act like that.
I watch Zac’s profile as he returns to his laptop, noticing the way his grip white knuckles the mouse when he’s reading something that bothers him.
His dark hair is slightly mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it.
“Did you want me to order some dinner?” I ask, breaking the silence. “I can’t drive, obviously, but I can order in.”
“I was planning to go to the store as soon as I’m done here.” He doesn’t look up, his fingers moving across the keyboard in quick movements.
“Are you going to cook for me again?” Excitement bubbles up in my chest. This reminds me of home.
My parents cooking for me, the kitchen filled with warmth and the smell of something simmering on the stove.
My life consists of buying pre-made meals from the grocery store or ordering takeout from whatever restaurant delivers to set.
I love home-cooked meals, but my job is so unpredictable, I rarely stay home for a whole week.
Most times, I’m lucky if I can sleep in my own bed three nights in a row.
Cooking for one feels pointless, so I just… don’t.
“Yeah, well, I have to eat too. You know,” he says grumpily, his shoulders hunching slightly as he types. His ears are turning red, and I file that away—embarrassment makes his ears pink. It’s oddly endearing.
But I ignore the gruff tone. I’d be pissed if I were him. He’s already stuck here. Mr. Peltz’s orders, apparently, and on top of that, I don’t even have food in the house. My fridge contains complimentary drinks, almost empty cream, and some leftover takeout containers.
I settle back down into the sofa with nothing else to say, my gaze shifting back to the TV. But I’m hyperaware of him now, of the sound of his breathing, the quiet click of his keyboard. The apartment feels smaller somehow with him in it, the air charged with something I can’t quite name.
His phone buzzes on the side table, the vibration loud against the wood. I twist slightly to see him stare at the screen for a few seconds, dragging a hand down his face before he huffs like he’s dreading this. “Dr. Sterling.”
His voice changes when he answers, becomes cooler, more professional.
I bite back a giggle. It’s weird hearing him say that, since I can only see him as Zac now. Zac, who carried me to this sofa. Zac, who baked me cookies, Zac, who repositioned my pillows until my ankle was at the perfect angle. Zac, who made me tea…
“She’s good,” he mumbles into the phone, his free hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. His gaze slides to me briefly, then away, like he’s been caught.
I wonder who he’s talking to.
“Yep,” he hums back, doing it a few more times, his responses getting shorter, more clipped. “I will.”
He ends the call and drops the phone to the table with more force than necessary. His hand immediately goes to squeeze the bridge of his nose as his eyes close, and his chest rises with a deep breath that he holds for a second before releasing.
Concern tightens my chest at watching him. “Who was that?” I ask.
His hand falls away from his face slowly, and his gaze meets mine. His eyes are darker now, frustrated. “Mr. Peltz.”
“Checking up on me?”
“Probably making sure I haven’t left you.”
“Because you’d do that?”
His mouth lifts slightly on one side… barely a movement, just the corner twitching upward. “Don’t tempt me.”
“You can leave, and I’ll cover for you.” And I mean it. I push myself up slightly, ignoring the twinge in my ankle. “You could go fishing. Or… I don’t know, whatever you’d rather be doing. Reading medical journals in your own home, probably.”
He snorts, and the sound is so unexpected, so genuine, that it makes my chest warm. “No chance. You fainted, remember?” His eyes drop to my ankle, then back to my face. “Plus, I’ve never met someone so clumsy before.”
The words should sting, but his tone is almost… fond? Teasing?
“I don’t mean to be.” And I don’t. It’s not like I wake up thinking, today. I’m going to see a raccoon and trip upstairs.
He holds my gaze, something softer flickering in his eyes, a warmth that wasn’t there a moment ago. “I never said you were.”
Suddenly, the air between us feels thicker.
“Then why don’t you go?” I press, wanting to know the real reason he won’t leave. “I’m fine. I can manage for a few hours before bed.”
“I can’t.” His gaze drops to the wood of the table, turning completely ice cold.
“Why?”
“I can’t go against Mr. Peltz’s orders.” The words come out controlled. There’s something underneath them, something he’s not saying.
“Why not?” I lean forward, despite my ankle’s protest. “Zac, what’s going on? Why would Mr. Peltz order you to stay with me? I’m not dying. It’s a broken ankle.”
He removes his glasses, rises from his chair abruptly, and closes his laptop shut with a snap. “I’m heading to the store. Tell me what you need.”
He’s shutting down, building walls so fast I can practically see them going up. His shoulders are rigid again, his lips pressed into a flat line.
I could push… I want to push, but I don’t get the feeling he’ll open up.
He’s the type to pull away more when cornered, to retreat behind that professional mask.
Instead, giving him space and letting him come to me in his own time seems better.
I’ve worked with enough difficult personalities to understand people, to know when to advance and when to wait.
“You don’t need to do a full shop for me,” I say gently, backing off. “Really, I can order—”
“I need a week’s worth,” he cuts me off. “I don’t like going every day.”
A week. A reminder that he’s here every day for weeks. My stomach flips at that thought.
He moves to my kitchen, his tall frame filling the small space. He looks through the drawers, like he’s done this before, like he’s used to being in control, knowing exactly what he needs.
“What are you looking for?”
“Paper and pen.”
I remember seeing it when I toured the place.
“Left drawer. Bottom one.” I point from across the sofa, not that he’s looking at me. His focus is entirely on the task now, shutting me out. And I hate how his doing that. I wish he could trust me and talk to me.
He finds what he’s looking for, then starts scribbling things down as he moves to the fridge, opening it to assess the empty shelves. He shakes his head slightly, and I feel embarrassed, like he’s judging my inability to adult properly.
“Okay, um…” I start listing items, my mind scrambling. “Cream, bagels, cream cheese, rice, ground turkey… and bacon.”
He writes them down—in his neat, precise handwriting, I bet—then continues without looking at me. “Pasta, tuna, steak, potatoes, onions, garlic.”
We go back and forth, his list growing longer. He adds things I didn’t mention: vegetables, fruit, staples. Things a real kitchen should have.
Before we finish, I remember. “Don’t forget to buy more ingredients for the cookies.”
He pauses, his pen hovering over the paper. His head tilts slightly, and when he looks at me, there’s something in his expression I can’t read. “I won’t.”
He writes down a few more things before straightening.
“All right, did you need anything else before I go?” Slipping the list into his pocket, he walks toward me. “Another tea? Food? Medication?” His eyes drop to my ankle again, professional assessment taking over.
I shake my head, not wanting him to leave. Which is ridiculous. “No, thanks.”