<em>The illustrious life of a Hollywood celebrity</em>, Hannah thought to herself, slumped in a folding chair and thumbing through her text messages.  She had spent the last 20 minutes waiting for anything to happen and eyeing the last raspberry danish on the craft services table.  Several times she had decided to go grab it and each time changed her mind.  It was only a couple of weeks ago that some Hollywood blog had run a quote from someone on the set about how much she ate on set and of course theorizing she must be pregnant.  She had no idea who it was running their mouth but she couldn't stand the idea of feeding them more material, no matter how good the danish looked.<em>Hannah Tate: Eating Her Pain Away</em>.  She could see it now.<br/><br/>Hannah forgot the danish, frowning at her phone as she saw the text from an unknown number.  That wasn't something that happened on her phone, whose number was locked down tight.  She opened the text with some trepidation, unsure what to expect.<br/><br/>At first Hannah simply stared at the message, trying to piece through all of the people it could be from.  Who didn't have a project around here?  Teddy's screenplay?  That web short Anne always went on about?  But Hannah didn't know anyone that lived in that area of LA.  She didn't think she'd ever even been there.<br/><br/>When it hit Hannah it was like she had gone in freefall.  She could feel her heart suddenly pounding but felt like she had no breath.  She closed the message instinctively, looking up and staring around as if everybody here knew what had just happened in her head.  then, realizing no one was paying attention, and wanting to see it again, Hannah opened the message again and read it.<br/><br/>She had finally managed to put that man out of her head.  Well, maybe at night she still thought about him, and his table, and his machine.  But during the day life went on and she chatted and no longer had sudden cold sweats when walking near the props department.  She had watched carefully for him those first few days, half out of interest, half out of worry he was going to blab.  He hadn't blabbed, as far as she could tell, and he hadn't pursued her.  She couldn't really have asked for more.<br/><br/>Except for this.  A discreet invitation, far from her home and prying eyes.  But one with just the right air of menace to send a shiver down her spine.  Hannah closed the message again, glanced around with guilty eyes, and then tried to return to business.<br/><br/>***********************************************<br/><br/>She hadn't returned his text.  She hadn't messaged him and it was already 7 pm.  She hadn't messaged him but she had spent the last three hours going through her wardrobe and showering and going through her wardrobe again.  What did you wear for this?  What didn't you wear?  And what would the paparazzi make out of whatever she wore.  They were out there, of course, lounging around the end of her driveway, and she'd have to get past them all.  Would anyone follow her?  Could Jon have even tipped them off?  Could she trust him?  Could she trust anyone?<br/><br/><em>I can't even eat an extra bagel without someone noticing</em>, Hannah told herself, wiping off the makeup she had just applied and staring at her nearly bare face instead.<em>And yet I think I can get away with this</em>.<br/><br/>It was stupid.  Yet stupidly or not Hannah drove out of her driveway at 7:30 and finally sent a message to that number.<strong>On my way.  You better watch my back.</strong>It was dumb, sure, but whatever was on his mind right now she wasn't sure it was all that she had to worry about.  Waving placidly at the photographers who nearly ran into her car rushing out to get a glimpse through the window.  Just hoping she would be boring enough that they wouldn't follow or run a story or make her friends or the world wonder where Hannah Tate was going tonight.  Hoping that Jon the props guy wasn't about to make her sorry she had trusted him.