Author's note: Hi everyone! So, this is the first one shot of Take A Chance from Zoey's POV. Obviously it's not going to make much sense unless you read that first, haha. I started off here because I wanted people to understand why she was willing to not only give her secret admirer a chance, but also reached out how and when she did, after Hank gave her flowers.

This won't be an actual story, more just a collection of one shots for those of us (like me!) who aren't ready to let go of Hank and Zoey yet. Thanks for giving this a shot, and thank you to all of my readers who stuck by me through Take A Chance!

A Sign

"No charge for you today. Your drink's already been paid for," my godfather told me one Tuesday afternoon in April 1968.

My hand froze in the act of reaching for my money. I stared at him incredulously, taking in the way his eyes were twinkling with mischief- a direct contrast to the serious tone in his voice.

"What?"

"I said, your mocha has already been paid for," Billy explained, trying not to smile.

"You don't have to do that, Billy," I argued reasonably. "You know I have no problems paying here."

I owned thirty percent of Marceline's Cafe and Bookstore by virtue of my inheritance, but I didn't want special treatment for it. Considering the amount of mochas I went through, if my godparents stopped charging me for them they'd go bankrupt before year's end.

And I liked coming here too much to risk that.

It was peaceful and quiet, the perfect place for me to research my thesis. Being near Billy and Marceline, my godparents and owners of this shop, also provided me with some of the comfort I'd desperately needed over the past nine months.

My life had turned upside down when my father died in July, a week after I turned eighteen. It was almost as if the universe said, "congratulations! You're an adult now. You don't technically need your dad anymore, do you? Good."

Sometimes I could go for hours without thinking of him and feel almost like my old self. Not exactly carefree, but... less depressed than before. Other days it was a struggle just to soldier on and not fall apart from missing him.

But being here, around the people who were basically my aunt and uncle- the people who knew my dad and understood the ache I felt whenever I thought about him- helped me quite a bit.

"It wasn't me," Billy replied mischievously. He looked much too pleased with himself. "Someone else paid for it."

I blinked. "Who?"

"Can't tell you. He swore me to secrecy."

"'He?'" I repeated, completely awestruck.

Billy nodded, grinning widely.

I turned from the counter, glancing around the cafe.

There were six other customers in the shop. Two were women, and four were men. Three of the males I'd seen frequently at the cafe, so I assumed they were the most plausible candidates for whoever bought my mocha for me. One was in his mid-thirties, and another was likely in his late twenties.

The last man, who seemed to be in his late teens or early twenties... I'd actually spoken to him once, weeks ago. I thought he was quite handsome- soulful blue eyes behind black-rimmed glasses, short brown hair, quirky eyebrows and a kind face. Tall and slim, with a bookish air about him that I could certainly relate to.

But shy.

So very shy that he could barely look me in the eye as we talked briefly, before he'd gotten too tongue-tied and I took pity on him by excusing myself. He carried himself stiffly, cautiously- almost like he was afraid of frightening me when he kindly approached to help take a book I couldn't reach off the top shelf.

His tentative, bashful smile when I thanked him had given me butterflies.

Was he the mystery mocha buyer?

I studied him, willing him to look up and see me. Surely whoever bought my drink for me would at least glance up to see how his gesture was being received?

But to no avail.

The man was focused on the book he was reading- A Room with a View, my favorite novel of all time. I remembered telling him it was good when we talked and it looked like he took me up on the suggestion.

I want it to be him.

The longing behind the thought surprised me. Though the other candidates for my "secret admirer" weren't horrible, and I was flattered no matter who'd done such a thing for me, I wanted it to be him. The sweet boy with the beautiful eyes who didn't let his crippling shyness stop him from doing something nice for a vertically-challenged girl trying to reach a book.

I sighed, because there wasn't really a way to tell who it was.

"Do you know why he bought this for me?" I asked Billy.

"He didn't say," he replied. "But I think he likes your smile."

"Keep this for a tip, then," I told him. "And please tell whoever it was 'thank you,' if you happen to see him around."

I felt the heat rise to my cheeks as I took my seat, trying to fight off a flattered smile.

The worst part about being a redhead- aside from being so sensitive to the sun that at times I felt like a vampire- was the way I blushed at the slightest things.

But this time it felt justified.

I, Zoey Dubois, the nerdy, borderline-crazy cat woman, had a secret admirer. The girl who spent so much time at school and work that her only real friend was her secretary. The girl whose own brother-in-law claimed would be a spinster for the rest of her life.

Someone thought I was worthy of a random gesture of admiration.

Of course I was blushing like crazy.

My secret admirer continued to buy my drinks for a month.

No matter how hard I tried, I could never figure out who it was. Occasionally I felt someone's eyes on me- a non-threatening, wistful gaze- but whenever I glanced up there was no one looking at me.

Eventually he also started buying the new books I got once a week in honor of my father, too. It was both highly flattering and incredibly perplexing, to have a stranger doing such nice things for me.

Why was he doing this? Did he ever plan to come forward and take credit for the kind gestures?

My imagination ran away from me sometimes, picturing my "secret admirer" declaring himself as such. Maybe I'd walk into the cafe one day and find him sitting at my usual table holding my mocha and wearing a shy smile, his blue eyes shining with hope.

And then we could get to know each other, and he wouldn't be at all intimidated (the way my brother-in-law, Nick, claimed any self-respecting man would be) that I was only eighteen and almost finished with a Ph.D., and was also the CEO of a relatively successful business. Maybe one day I could even tell my admirer my deepest secret, the one only Billy, Marceline, Olivia, and Gwen knew about me now that Daddy was dead-

But for all my daydreams, as time passed I started to realize why my secret admirer didn't reveal himself. It was mainly due to the evolution of my own feelings on the matter.

I started to feel... optimistic, for the first time in what felt like forever, after he bought that first mocha. It was mostly thanks to the imaginary scenarios that ran through my head almost daily after that. The endless possibilities that today could be the day buoyed me up, made me look towards the future with hope instead of wallowing in the past and in my grief. And even if my admirer didn't come forward today, there was always tomorrow!

It was the possibility, the mystery of it all, really.

Because what if he revealed himself, and we ended up hating each other? If my secret proved too much, and he became afraid of me? That dream of a happily ever after would be utterly destroyed. The first thing to cheer me up since my dad died would be gone.

If my admirer was coming from a similar place, I could completely understand why he didn't want to tell me who he was.

Until the day he got me flowers.

It was a Thursday- new book day- so I went straight to my table to set my things down before heading off towards the bookshelves for that week's purchase.

There was a small bouquet of blue primroses sitting there, clearly meant for me.

Blue primroses.

I grew up listening to my father tell me the story of how he met my mother. How he fell in love with her from across the square in Saint-Evroult-Notre-Dame-du-Bois as his company marched through and then searched her out that night to talk to her. How he spent the next week or so romancing Maman, saving all of his chocolate rations to give to her and scavenging through bombed out fields for wildflowers that refused to let a silly thing like WWII stop them from showing their faces to the sun.

Blue primroses were her favorite. One of the only memories I had of my mother was of her smiling beautifully at Daddy as he brought her home a bouquet "just because" after a long day at work.

Their fairy tale romance had long ago formed my opinions of love. That and too many Jane Austen novels, I suppose.

"He said they made him 'think of you,'" Billy explained, leaning on the shop's counter next to me as I stood there, frozen, staring at the bouquet.

Made him think of me...

I picked it up gently, cradling the blooms carefully. "They're my favorite flower," I told him quietly. "I wonder how he knew?"

"I'm pretty sure it was a lucky guess," Billy replied. I could hear the smile in his voice.

"Yeah," I murmured, holding the flowers to my nose for a moment before I set them down. "Lucky."

But in my heart I knew luck had nothing to do with this. That little bouquet was like a sign- from the heavens, the universe, fate, whatever. A tap on the shoulder telling me that maybe, just maybe, my daydreams could come true, if only I was bold enough to take a chance.

I turned towards Billy. "Tell him thank you, please?"

"Will do."

My admirer had already paid for my new book, so after a small exchange with Billy about my upcoming thesis presentation I took my seat and tried to study.

But the primroses kept catching my eye, and every time I looked at them I couldn't help smiling over the rush of nervous excitement I felt.

Because I had an idea, prompted by the sign I saw in those primroses.

I was going to write my admirer a letter. Reach out to him, to see what would happen. And the vague futures that I'd been content to merely contemplate could now be actual possibilities, if he replied.

I felt a great swell of hope, even as I considered the possible negative outcomes of my overture along with the positive. It could certainly end badly, yes, but... how would I ever know, unless I tried?