Page 41 of Finding Haven
Quinn
ThedinerZackbringsme to is on the outskirts of Haven Beach, away from the busy main streets. It’s one of those hole-in-the-wall places that seems to be in desperate need of some upgrades. The waitress looks as though she could be as old as the restaurant itself. Her salt-and-pepper hair is pulled up with a claw clip, a pencil tucked behind her ear as she shows us to a table in the back corner.
“What can I get you to drink?” The waitress asks, her voice directed at me.
“Just an ice water, please. Thank you,” I tell her, returning her smile.
She doesn’t bother to write it down and turns her attention to Zack. “Same thing as always, hon?”
He smiles when he catches my eyes widening. I mouth the word“hon”and give him a questioning look.
“Yeah, just a coffee with cream andsugar, please,” he tells her sweetly, throwing a little more emphasis than necessary on that last word.
Biting the inside of my bottom lip, I shake my head at him and cover my mouth with my hand, attempting to keep a laugh from bursting free. When she pats him on the shoulder and walks away, I drop my hand. “You’re terrible!” I laugh.
He folds his hands in front of him on the table and shrugs a shoulder, a smirk playing upon his lips. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Shaking my head at him, I reach across the table to take his hand in mine. He doesn’t hesitate to intertwine our fingers, his thumb stroking over the back of my hand. “So, you come here often?” I ask, wincing at the way that sounds like some kind of pick-up line.
He chuckles. “I’ve been here quite a few times, yeah. There have been a few, uh…” He pauses, his brows furrowing as he searches for the words. “Cases that have required a bit of research. I don’t often have the chance to work outside of my office, but when I do, I like to come here. Molly”—he tips his head in the direction of the older woman who took our drink order—“always lets me sit in the corner, away from everyone else. She’s the owner, and someone the um. . . ” He pauses again.
I squeeze his hand gently in encouragement. “It’s okay. I know you can’t tell me much.”
“She’s someone we rescued from a bad situation,” he finally says.
The idea of the sweet, older woman being in some kind of dangerous situation, one that required the help of some secret organization, churns up something deep and ugly in my stomach. It makes me think of the countless stories I’ve heard of women and children being stuck in deadly abusive relationships. Are they the kind of victims that Zack and the rest of the organization help? What happens to those people after their abusers have been…dealt with?
His thumb taps the back of my hand, pulling my attention back to him. “Where’s that pretty head of yours, Sugar?”
I glance around the cozy diner to make sure that there’s nobody within direct ear shot of us only to notice Molly walking back towardsour table. She sets the drinks down, her gaze darting between us as a warm smile brightens her face. “You two need another minute?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Zack says, returning her smile.
She scoffs. “One of these days, I’m gonna get you to stop calling me that. Just flag me down when you’re ready.”
Reaching for one of the laminated menus, I flip it open and immediately start looking over the list of waffles that Molly’s offers. This is the part I hate about going somewhere new. I don’t know the menu or the carb counts for things, and while I can make an educated guess or look up the average amount of carbs in a waffle, it all depends on ingredients.
If I’ve learned anything from working for Chelsea at Buttersweet Bakery, it’s that everyone has their own recipe for things. Even something as basic as a chocolate chip cookie can be made a hundred different ways with so many different ingredients, there’s no way to be sure exactly how much insulin I’ll need to dose without the proper nutritional information.
I could just stick with something like an omelet and a side of bacon, but waffles are my favorite. And from a place like this? I bet they’re delicious. Biting at the inside of my bottom lip, I run the numbers through my head.
Zack clears his throat, releasing my hand as he pulls a small slip of paper from the pocket of his jeans. “I, um,” he pauses, and I glance up to meet his gaze. “I called ahead and asked about the carb count in the waffles. I remember you saying they were your favorite, and I didn’t want you worrying about having to do the calculations.”
His words stun me. For a moment, I’m not sure I even heard him correctly. “You… Why would you do that?” I ask, tears rising to the surface. Aside from my parents when I was younger, no one has ever bothered to help me in this way.
“That night on the beach, when you told me what a mental stress it is to keep up with everything, all I could think about was how I wanted to help somehow. I asked you if you’d ever be willing to give up some of your control. I guess this is just my way of trying to help. I wish I could do more—”
For once, he’s the one rambling. I reach across the table, taking his hand back in mine. “Thank you. I can’t even tell you how much this means to me.”
He winces as though my words somehow cause him pain. “It was nothing.”
“It’severything,” I say, unable to fight back the overwhelming sense of gratitude any longer as a few tears slip free, wetting my cheeks.
“Yeah, well…” He clears his throat. “You’re mine,” he says, squeezing my hand as he reaches over the table with his other to wipe my tears away.
Zack’s more cautious with his words and his actions than I’ve ever known a man to be. Since that first night at the Elysian bar, he’s always looked at me with such careful consideration, like he’s waiting for something. Now, when his eyes search mine, I see so much more than what he shows the rest of the world. There’s a gentle warmth to him that he seems to reserve just for me. I don’t know the extent of what he has been through, but I know enough to assume that he’s been hurt in unimaginable ways, and I think he blames himself for some of it.
As much as I love the idea of him taking care of me and lifting some of the weight from my shoulders, I want to do the same for him. He deserves to be loved and cared for.
He pulls his hand from mine and sits back against the cushioned booth. I take the small slip of paper he gave me and stare at it for a moment. How do I tell him how much this one simple gesture means to me?
