Chapter 27
Hannah
We enter the diner without a single paparazzi.
It’s like the initial buzz of my arrival is calming down.
Inside is exactly what I expected from a mid-town diner.
Cozy, warm, and homey. I scan the room out of habit, checking for phones pointed my way, anyone who might recognize me.
The few people scattered throughout barely look up.
A young couple finishing their meal, an older couple talking over cups, a family in a booth, sharing pie.
This was a good idea.
Zac moves alongside me, and I wonder why he didn’t wait to be seated, but assuming he knows how this place works, I just follow him.
I navigate the crutches between the tables, his body angling slightly toward mine, rather than ahead.
He keeps his head down, his broad shoulders slightly hunched, his stride quick, like he’s trying to be invisible.
He weaves between empty tables without making eye contact with the few people scattered throughout.
We take seats across from each other at the corner table, and just a few seconds later, a young waitress appears.
She’s maybe late twenties, with dark hair pulled into a ponytail and a name tag that reads “Julia.” She smiles brightly, though her eyes linger on Zac with obvious interest before she catches herself.
“What can I get you guys to drink?” she asks, sliding laminated menus across the table.
“Diet Coke, please,” I say, forcing a smile while ignoring the confusion twisting inside me.
“Just water for me,” Zac adds, his eyes still not meeting anyone’s.
“Great. So, we’ve got some specials today. A chilli soup with cornbread, a pot roast that Genevieve’s been cooking since this morning, and the fried fish is always a popular dish.” She rattles them off easily, her pen and notepad ready.
“Thanks, we’ll take a look,” I say, and she nods before heading back toward the kitchen, glancing over her shoulder at Zac once more.
We’re left alone, and I lower my menu almost immediately, already knowing I want the meatloaf that Zac mentioned earlier. The one that’s supposedly legendary, and then pie for dessert with green tea. Because after the day I’ve had, I deserve pie.
But I can’t let this go. Can’t sit here pretending everything’s normal when he’s practically radiating discomfort.
“We didn’t have to come if you didn’t want to,” I say.
He stops scanning his menu and drops it to the table. His eyes meet mine, eyebrows pinching together in confusion. “When did I say that?”
“You practically ran to the back corner with your head down like you were being chased.” I gesture to our secluded spot, tucked away from the windows and the main dining area.
He sits back in his chair, and his face softens, the tension in his jaw easing. His shoulders relax, dropping from where they’d been hunched near his ears. There’s a small lift at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, but close.
“Hannah.” He says my name like he’s trying to explain something simple to a child, but there’s no condescension in it, just patience.
“This place can be filled with the whole town on a Friday evening. People know everyone’s business here.
It’s how mid-towns work. I just figured you’ve had a big day and might want to sit quietly for a moment without every person who walks through the door coming over to say hello or asking questions or for photos. ”
Oh.
I take a moment to actually think about what he said, rolling it around in my mind, examining it from different angles.
Do I want to make small talk with strangers right now, answering questions about the show and my ankle and whatever else they’d ask?
Absolutely not. Do I want to sit alone with just Zac, in our own little bubble, away from prying eyes and expectations?
Yes. God, yes. I want to get to know him… the real him, not just Dr. Sterling, the doctor who’s been monitoring my ankle, but Zac, the man who carries me without being asked, who notices when I’m in pain before I say anything, who looks at me like I’m the only person in the room.
“Okay. I didn’t realize,” I admit, feeling foolish now for jumping to conclusions, for letting my insecurities show. “I’m sorry for assuming.”
“Don’t be.” He rests his forearms on the table. “We aren’t doing anything wrong, Hannah. We’re just getting you dinner before you go home and sleep. That’s all this has to be.”
That’s all this has to be. But not all it is.
The kiss is sitting right there between us on this table, unacknowledged, neither of us talking about it.
“True,” I say, rubbing my hands together.
Before either of us can say more, another woman approaches our table; this one older, wearing a red apron over a blue blouse. Her smile is big and genuine as she looks at me. Across the table, I catch Zac sit up slightly, his expression shifting from relaxed to alert.
“I’ve been waiting for you to come in!” she exclaims, her hands clasped together in front of her chest.
I smile back. The warmth in her voice shocks me. “You have?”
“Of course. When I heard the TV show was filming here in Pulse Point, I hoped you’d stop by. I’m Genevieve. I own this place.” She gestures around the diner.
“Oh, well, I’m very excited to meet you. I’ve heard great things about your food.”
“You did? From who?” Her gaze flicks between me and Zac, like she’s seeing more than we’re saying.
“Yes, Zac here speaks highly of it.” I gesture toward him with a tilt of my head, unable to resist dragging him into the conversation.
He mumbles under his breath, “Fuck my life,” but his ears are definitely turning red, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. There’s something quietly satisfying about cracking that composed exterior of his, even just a little.
“Well, what can I get you two?” Genevieve asks, pulling out a small notepad, her eyes still glimmering as she looks at Zac, who’s suddenly very interested in the menu like he wants to go back to being unnoticed.
Julia sets down my Diet Coke in front of me and a glass with ice. “Thank you,” I say before she turns to greet new customers.
“I’ll have the meatloaf, please.” I close my menu and hand it to her.
“Make that two,” Zac adds quickly, pushing his menu toward her without looking up.
“Anything else? Appetizers? Sides? I’ve got fresh-made beet salad, and the mac and cheese is always good.
” She’s still focused on me, like she’s trying to take care of me.
Like it has nothing to do with being star-struck, but more maternal, like she just wants to make sure I’m properly fed.
It tugs at my heartstrings as it reminds me of my mom.
“No, thank you. This is perfect,” I assure her.
She asks for a quick picture with me before wandering off toward the kitchen, saying, “Alright, I’ll have this out to you soon. You two enjoy yourselves now.” As she looks at Zac, her smile widens.
The moment she’s gone, Zac sits forward, his fingers tapping on the table.
“Do you want to leave?” I ask, concerned now. Maybe I was right before. Maybe he doesn’t want to be here.
“No. Why? Do you?” His eyes snap to mine, almost panicked at the thought.
“No,” I laugh. “You just look so uncomfortable. Like you’re waiting for something bad to happen.”
He stops tapping his fingers immediately. His hands go still, pressed flat against the table.
“I just keep thinking…” He trails off, his gaze dropping.
I wait, giving him space, but when the silence stretches for too long, curiosity gets the better of me. I shift so I match his posture, bringing myself closer across the small table. “You’re thinking what?”
His gaze locks with mine, and the intensity in his eyes makes my breath catch. There’s something vulnerable there, something raw and honest that I haven’t seen before. “I wish you saw yourself the way I see you.”
I stare at him, completely thrown. Of all the things I expected him to say—that this was a mistake; we should maintain professional boundaries—that wasn’t on the list.
“I…” I start, but I don’t know where to go with it.
“You’re good at what you do.” He continues, his words coming out faster, as if he’s been holding them back and they are finally breaking free. “The hosting, the camera work, connecting with people… you’re naturally gifted at all of it. But I think you’re meant for more than that.”
A lump forms in my throat because I know what he’s about to say before he says it. Because it’s in my heart too, has been for months, maybe longer. The dream I’ve been too scared to voice, too afraid to reach for because what if I fail? What if I’m not good enough?
“You should be directing.” We talked about this once, briefly, and I’d deflected it then. He didn’t forget. There it is, spoken aloud, made real by his words. “Dain’s a dick. No one likes him, Hannah. No one respects him.”
“And they like me?” I need to hear the answer, knowing he’ll tell me the truth. He doesn’t say what people want to hear. If he tells me yes, I’ll believe it.
“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “Everyone lights up around you. Even Genevieve. People genuinely like you, Hannah. You can see it in how they interact with you. The way they listen when you talk, the way they ask for your opinion, and even the whole energy of the set changes when you’re there. Anyone can see that.”
“You can see it,” I say, trying to lighten the moment, because my heart is beating so hard against my ribs, I’m sure he can hear it. This is beyond one compliment. This is him seeing me, really seeing me, in a way no man has… except my dad.
“Yes, I can see it,” he admits. “But you’re respected by the whole crew, Hannah. Not just liked… respected. Have you thought about applying for a director role? Actually putting yourself out there for it?”
“I need more experience first,” I say automatically. It’s the excuse I’ve been telling myself for over a year.
“Says who?” he presses, his eyes challenging.
“Me. I don’t know.” I shake my head, frustration bubbling up.
At myself, at my fear, at all the reasons I’ve been holding back.
“Everyone already has an opinion about me before I open my mouth. I was a contestant. I won a reality show. That’s the box they put me in, and I’ve been trying to climb out of it ever since.
” I look at the wood, and then back up at him.
“This hosting role was supposed to be the thing that changed that.”
“Is that what you want?” he asks skeptically, like he already knows the answer, and he’s just waiting for me to admit it.
The sincere way he’s looking at me… the intensity, the genuine interest, his blue eyes locked on mine like my answer is the most important thing right now—it makes me reach deep into myself and tell him my deepest desire.
“I want to direct,” I whisper, and saying it aloud feels terrifying and exhilarating at once.
He smirks.
Then it turns into a smile.
A real smile that transforms his face, making him look younger, and my stomach somersaults.
“Is that a smile, Zac?” I taunt, unable to help myself, my own lips pulling up in response. “An actual smile?”
“Honey, it can be whatever you want it to be,” he says playfully.
Surprise and something warm and fluttery blooms in my chest. “Honey?”
The word hangs between us, and I watch as realization slams into him. His eyes widen slightly, then he shakes his head, looking flustered. This normally composed man who never seems rattled by anything.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I didn’t mean it like… I guess I’m hangry,” he says, running his hand over his temple to his forehead, rubbing like he can physically erase the last thirty seconds.
“That’s not how that works.” I fight back a smile. “Hangry means you’re angry because you’re hungry. You’re not angry.”
“Well, I don’t know what I am then,” he mutters, and he looks genuinely confused by himself, which is endearing.
Plates being lowered to the table interrupts us, and relief settles on his face as Genevieve appears with our food. The meatloaf looks mouthwatering. Thick-cut slices covered with gravy, mashed potatoes, and green beans on the side, steam rising from everything.
“Here you go, two meatloaf specials. Best in the country, if I do say so myself,” Genevieve says proudly. “You two need anything else, you just let me know, okay?”
“Thank you. This looks amazing,” I say sincerely.
She beams at me and pats Zac’s shoulder. He tenses immediately, but she doesn’t seem to notice and heads back to check on her other customers.
I sit with the “honey” comment while I pick up my fork.
I’ve been called “honey” plenty of times.
By condescending directors, by older crew members who didn’t respect me, by men who used it like a weapon to diminish me, to put me in my place.
It always felt slimy, patronizing, like they were patting me on the head and telling me to run along while the adults talked.
But with Zac, it slipped out accidentally, washed over me with the sweetest intention, like he couldn’t help himself. Like it was the most natural thing in the world to call me something affectionate, something tender.
The same way kissing me felt natural. Right up until he pulled back and told me it couldn’t happen again.
And God help me, I want to hear it again.
I take a bite of meatloaf. It’s perfectly seasoned, moist, with just the right amount of richness from the gravy. “Oh my God,” I moan around the bite, my eyes closing.
When I open them, Zac’s staring at me, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth, his expression unreadable, but intense, and I know that look now. I’ve seen it in the laundry room, right before his control broke. It’s the look he gets when he’s losing the argument he’s having with himself.
There’s something heated in his eyes that makes my skin flush hot. “What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
“Nothing,” he says and takes a bite of his own food, breaking eye contact.
But I saw it. I know what it means now in a way I didn’t before he kissed me.
Before I kissed him back. Before we stood in that tiny laundry room afterwards, breathing the same air, neither of us willing to be the first to move.
I wonder if he’s thinking about it too. The kiss.
If it replays for him the way it does for me.
He’s tense because he’s trying to be the professional, he told me he needed to be, trying to put the line back where it was, trying to sit across from me in a diner and eat meatloaf like he hasn’t had his hands in my hair and his forehead pressed against mine.
The butterflies in my stomach multiply, fluttering wildly because this is not a doctor taking his patient to dinner. We both know it. And the harder he tries to pretend otherwise, the more certain I become.