Chapter 28
Zac
Our meatloaf is all consumed, and I’m full, but there’s always room for dessert. I lean back in the chair, one hand resting on my stomach. “Did you want some pie?”
Hannah’s eyes light up. She tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, a gesture I’m starting to recognize when she’s excited about something. “Yes. And I wouldn’t mind getting tea.”
“Let’s get you tea,” I say, waving down Julia.
She pauses, her eyebrow furrowing slightly as she fidgets with the edge of her napkin. “I thought there was somewhere specifically here for tea, but I haven’t been able to go there yet. I want to bring some back for my mom.”
I know exactly the one she’s talking about. The Pointed Kettle has been featured in magazines for its collection. It’s actually only a street away from Genevieve’s, squeezed between the hairdresser and the pharmacy on Stanton Street. “Well, let’s take the pies with us and head to there.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah, why not?” I shrug, trying to keep casual, even though my pulse picks up at the idea of extending our time together. “Let our meatloaf settle.”
She giggles, and something in my chest tightens. “Yeah, definitely.”
Julia arrives and we order the pies. After we receive the pie I rise, grabbing her crutches and handing them to her. We both reach for the bill, but she’s faster, her hand shooting out to snatch it from the table.
“You’re not supposed to be paying,” I say firmly.
“And neither are you.” She matches me head on, her expression setting in a way that tells me she’s prepared to dig in on this. The same stubborn streak that makes her push through, even when I can see the pain in her eyes.
I lean into her space, close enough that I catch the sweet scent of her shampoo, something like jasmine and vanilla. “You don’t pay,” I whisper, relishing how she leans in too.
Her breath is warm against my ear, and I have to force myself to focus on her words instead of how close we are.
“I know it’s not a date, but I can’t have you pay. It’s not how I was raised, and I would not feel comfortable with you paying.”
We stare at each other, neither backing down, the air between us charged with something I refuse to name.
Julia clears her throat, watching us. I shrug my shoulders, hoping she didn’t overhear, not that it matters.
We’re saying it’s not a date, so she can’t misconstrue it.
Besides, it’s all over the gossip site, thanks to Dr. Whisperer, who’s now informed everyone that I am looking after Hannah.
So, I’m pretty sure Julia is very much aware of why we’re squabbling over money.
But still, the question nags at me: How does this work?
Does the doctor pay? Does the patient pay?
These are the moments I didn’t think to clarify, details that maybe should’ve been ironed out with Mr. Peltz beforehand.
But there’s no way I can let her. No part of my caring for her includes her paying for whatever she needs—groceries, bills, meals, whatever.
Not only am I fortunate to be paid well for my job, but the Sterling fortune has never been something I’ve had to think twice about.
The Sterling name carries weight in the medical community.
My father made sure of that. So, this isn’t even scratching the surface of what I can afford.
I pay, sliding my card across the table before Hannah can protest further. She pretends to huff about it, but it’s really more like a playful pout, her lower lip jutting out just slightly, and when we exit the shop, she touches my arm, her fingers light on my bicep.
“Thank you,” she says softly, looking up at me.
I both hate and love the buzz that simple touch gives me. “It’s okay.”
But there’s something vulnerable in her eyes that makes me pause.
“Well,” she says as we start walking with her crutches, her gaze fixed on the sidewalk. “I’ve never been with somebody who’s looked after me so well.”
I glance at her profile. “Your ex never paid for anything?”
She shakes her head. “Billy.” She practically spits the name. “But you can’t believe all the gossip sites; they twist things.”
“But no, I was always the one having to pay in that relationship. Provide for everything. And not gonna lie, it’s kind of nice having somebody, you know…
” She trails off as she follows my steps toward the teahouse.
I’m walking quite slowly, adjusting my naturally long stride to match her pace, something I’ve learned to do automatically with her.
Part of me wants to know more, wants to understand what made her settle for so little.
A woman who’s supporting a man who contributed nothing.
“Don’t get me wrong.” She continues, firmly now. “I don’t need to be a princess or a celebrity, you know? Either I’m not, or not that we’re…” She stumbles over her words, a flush creeping up her cheeks, turning them pink.
“I agree,” I say, rescuing her from the awkward moment.
“You don’t seem like the typical celebrity.
” It’s not like Pulse Point has never had one before.
We’ve had our share of actors and musicians who’ve visited.
But no one has been as humble or as sweet and real as Hannah.
And I’ve never thought about what it means that someone hasn’t paid for her, hasn’t taken care of her.
Isn’t that part of being in a relationship?
Not to say you can’t split things, since there’s definitely a time and place for that, but for me?
I want to take care of the person I’m with.
And if occasionally they treat me, that’s fine, but if I’m out for dinner or getting food, it’s my responsibility.
That’s how my mom raised me, even if everything else about my father’s expectations has felt like a weight on my shoulders.
Hearing that she’s never had that before makes me want to do it all the time.
But that would be right, wouldn’t it? This one visit to Genevieve’s diner after work isn’t going to make many people raise their eyebrows.
Dr. Sterling taking his patient out for a meal after she absolutely crushed her day at work before heading to bed to do it all again tomorrow?
That’s just basic care… not whatever this tightness in my chest is.
We reach The Pointed Kettle, and I hold the door open for her.
The bell above the door chimes softly as we enter.
The shop is all exposed brick walls lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with tea tins and boxes in every color imaginable, their labels written in elegant scripts.
Vintage and modern teapots are displayed on shelves, and a long counter runs along the back.
Soft instrumental music plays through the speakers.
The scent hits me immediately… An overwhelming wave of grass, florals, honey, bergamot, hibiscus, and spices. It’s like a thousand different smells are smacking my senses at once, and I grimace, my hand going to my nose.
“Oh my God, this is amazing,” she gushes, her face lighting up as she inhales deeply, her eyes closing in what looks like bliss.
I grumble under my breath.
She glances at me, her expression immediately softening with concern, and gently nudges my shoulder with hers. “Come on, let’s just get the tea and get out of here. I can come back now that I know where it is.”
“No, take your time,” I say, even though my head is already starting to ache from the smell. I roll my shoulders, trying to release some tension. “I’m fine. I just need to get used to it.”
It’s not about trusting her to manage on her own.
She’s proved she can handle herself on crutches.
It’s just that the store is crowded, the floor is uneven in places, and crutches on a slick surface with people not watching where they’re going is a combination I’d rather supervise than hear about after the fact.
I suck it up, following her along the aisles, my hands shoved into my pockets.
She runs her fingers over different boxes of tea, then over to the teapots. Picking up a delicate white porcelain pot with hand-painted cherry blossoms, she sets it back down.
“My mom has a teapot kind of like this one,” she says, gesturing to a floral mosaic ceramic pot with gold trim.
“It was my grandmother’s. Before it was passed down to her.
I never met her; she passed when I was little, but Mom would always have tea with me and tell me stories about her and Dad.
” She smiles, her entire face softening.
“They’re the reason I believe in real love, you know?
Not the Hollywood version. The kind where someone still brings you tea in bed after years of marriage.
Where they know exactly how you take your tea without asking. ”
Something twists in my gut. Her ex-boyfriend was a bigger asshat than I originally thought. He clearly never remembered her tea order.
The genuine love she has for her parents has a question spilling out of me as I think about my dad. “Have you ever felt pressure to do your job because of them?”
Her hand pauses on a box of green tea. “No, actually.” She shakes her head, a fond look in her eyes.
“They wouldn’t care what the hell I did.
I could work anywhere, and they would be proud of me.
When I got cast in my first big role, you know what my dad said?
He said, ‘That’s wonderful, sweetheart, but are you happy?
’ Not ‘congratulations on the money’ or ‘you’re going to be famous.
’ Just… are you happy?” A small smile plays on her lips.
“I lucked out with my parents. They just want me to be okay. Especially after—” She gestures vaguely at her foot, at herself, and I know she means the accident, the aftermath, all of it.