Page 81 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

“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.