Page 1 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

Chapter 1

Hannah

Stepping out of first class in Murmur Bay, I walk through the airport with security, my heels clicking against the polished tile. I keep my head down, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind my ear as I follow the new bodyguard to the awaiting car. I usually don’t get my own luggage, but there isn’t a swarm of photographers here. The airport feels almost empty, quiet in a way that makes my shoulders drop from around my ears. I straighten up and tell the guard I’m going to get my own bag.

He gives me a look, one dark eyebrow raised, his hand already moving toward the baggage claim. “You sure, miss?”

“It’s Hannah.” I smile, the corners of my mouth lifting genuinely for the first time in weeks. “Yes. I’m sure.”

His expression softens as he nods in understanding. I want to bask in the glory of not having people following me everywhere, cameras flashing, waiting for another stumble. I’m sick of being a clumsy headline. But it’s also a privilege, as this was a dream of mine since I was young. Exiting through security, I make my way to the carousel and wait for my bag, bouncing slightly on my toes. As I glance around at the few people nearby, seeing an elderly couple hold hands, a mom with a baby on her hip, a stupid grin breaks across my face.

This place is different. I take in the soft country music playing through the speakers and the roll of suitcase wheels—the only sound breaking through the silence. No announcements blaring every thirty seconds. No crowds pushing past. The bodyguard clears his throat and taps my shoulder, refocusing me.

“Miss, your bag.”

“Right.” I giggle, lightness filling me as I walk to the carousel and reach for my suitcase… a pink oversized hardshell. Shit, this is heavy. My fingers wrap around the handle, and I tug. Nothing. I didn’t think about that when I decided to grab it myself. I know he’s behind me, waiting to help, but I can’t ask now. With a heavy grunt and a count to three, I lift it and drop it… right onto my foot.

Pain explodes through my big toe.

I tug my foot out from underneath, wiggling my toes—thank God they all move—and grab the handle, avoiding eye contact with the guard to avoid his judgement.

There’s only one exit, so it’s not hard to spot. A driver waits outside, holding a board with my name: Hannah Morgan.

I do a double-take. He’s older and wearing jeans and a polo shirt. Very different from the young black-suit drivers in LA. The car is equally unexpected: a mid-sized sedan, not a black Mercedes or other luxury vehicle.

When the bodyguard takes my bag, I let him load it into the car. There’s no way I can lift it that high. Next time, I should pack less. It can’t be good for anyone to lift this thing. I wave goodbye to the guard, and he gives me a nod. The driver holds open the car door, so I smile and slip into the sedan, the cold leather feeling nice against my back through my thin dress.

I live in Los Angeles, with my parents around the corner. We’ve always been close, but for the next eight weeks, I’ll be filming a renovation show where I’m the host. It still doesn’t feel real when I say it, even in my head.

The driver takes off, pulling onto a highway lined with trees. Having an hour and a half to kill, I’m already reaching for my phone. I need to hear my mom’s voice.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

“Hey, Mom.”

“How was the flight?”

“Pretty good. I slept most of the way.”

“What’s your plan for the rest of today?” she asks, and I can picture her sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea, her reading glasses perched on her nose.

“I’ll settle into the Airbnb. Maybe go for a walk around town.” I trace a finger along the window, watching the scenery blur, the long stretches of road that will look so pretty next month when everything’s fully green and blooming. I’m excited to be spending time in Pulse Point in the spring. Online, the photos looked cute, showing a quiet, quirky town with brick storefronts and hanging flower baskets. The last few years have been audition after audition, so it’ll be nice having some time here in one place.

“Take lots of photos and give me a call tonight.”

I know she worries, and instead of dismissing her, I indulge her as her only child. “I will. I’ll have to let you know what the tea is like.” My love of tea came from her.

“I bet the honey is proper honey,” she hums, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “I’ll bring you a jar home.”

“If you don’t mind, but if you can’t, that’s okay.”

“I’ll have it shipped. I won’t make you wait eight weeks.”

Eight weeks suddenly feels a while away. I’ve been here three hours, and already I’m working out how many weekends I could go home. But I can’t do that. I have to stay focused. This is what I wanted.

“Hannah’s on the phone,” Mom says to Dad. I hear his muffled response in the background. “Did you want to say hello?”

My heart beats faster as I watch the tree branches sway.