Page 59 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

Hannah

He’s been at his computer for a while now, his glasses on, the screen casting shadows across his sharp jawline.

“Do you want me to change to a different show?” I ask. He probably hates watching the real estate reality show that’s more drama than actual house-selling. But I like watching renovation shows for how they stage rooms and make design choices, but mostly for the big reveal.

I glance over at him sitting in my dining chair, his posture stiff as he reads whatever’s on his screen.

His broad shoulders are tense, one hand gripping the mouse and the other on the table. I can’t see what he’s reading, only the silver back of his laptop, but his eyebrows are furrowed in concentration.

“No, I’m good here,” he replies, but his eyes stay fixed on the screen.

“What are you working on?” I’m curious about what he could be doing that would make him do that instead of relaxing. What does an orthopedic surgeon work on away from the hospital? I imagine most doctors would want to leave work at work, especially when they’re babysitting a clumsy reality star with a broken ankle.

He looks up slowly, pushing his glasses up his nose. His lips press together, and I don’t think he’ll answer, because that’s his pattern, but, surprisingly, his shoulders drop slightly. “A medical journal.”

“Sounds riveting,” I giggle, then quickly add when his expression darkens, “I don’t mean to be insulting; I just think I’d be bored out of my mind.” I shift on the sofa, my elevated ankle protesting slightly.

There’s a ghost of amusement playing at the corner of his mouth. “I think the same about your job.”

That has me leaning up defensively on my elbow to face him better, the sofa cushion shifting beneath me. My head throbs dully at the movement, a reminder of this morning’s spectacular faint. “Do you know much about my job?”

His frown softens, the harsh line between his eyebrows easing, and he nods toward the bedroom. “Read lines. Memorize blocking. Hit your marks while pretending you’re not in pain. Smile for the camera the whole time.”

“How do you—”

“They’re stacked on your nightstand.” His gaze flicks to mine, and for a moment, something passes between us—an awareness that he’s been in my bedroom, seen my private space. “Your script has tabs of notes in your handwriting.”

I smile, surprised he noticed the details. “Yes, a lot of lines.”

“And that sounds riveting to me.” He delivers it with a mock monotone that makes my smile widen.

“Touché.”

A comfortable silence settles between us, filled only with the TV host’s overly dramatic narration, and I’m glad I don’t act like that. I watch Zac’s profile as he returns to his laptop, noticing the way his grip white knuckles the mouse when he’s reading something that bothers him. His dark hair is slightly mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it.

“Did you want me to order some dinner?” I ask, breaking the silence. “I can’t drive, obviously, but I can order in.”

“I was planning to go to the store as soon as I’m done here.” He doesn’t look up, his fingers moving across the keyboard in quick movements.

“Are you going to cook for me again?” Excitement bubbles up in my chest. This reminds me of home. My parents cooking for me, the kitchen filled with warmth and the smell of something simmering on the stove. My life consists of buying pre-made meals from the grocery store or ordering takeout from whatever restaurant delivers to set. I love home-cooked meals, but my job is so unpredictable, I rarely stay home for a whole week. Most times, I’m lucky if I can sleep in my own bed three nights in a row. Cooking for one feels pointless, so I just… don’t.

“Yeah, well, I have to eat too. You know,” he says grumpily, his shoulders hunching slightly as he types. His ears are turning red, and I file that away—embarrassment makes his ears pink. It’s oddly endearing.

But I ignore the gruff tone. I’d be pissed if I were him. He’s already stuck here. Mr. Peltz’s orders, apparently, and on top of that, I don’t even have food in the house. My fridge contains complimentary drinks, almost empty cream, and some leftover takeout containers.

I settle back down into the sofa with nothing else to say, my gaze shifting back to the TV. But I’m hyperaware of him now, of the sound of his breathing, the quiet click of his keyboard. The apartment feels smaller somehow with him in it, the air charged with something I can’t quite name.

His phone buzzes on the side table, the vibration loud against the wood. I twist slightly to see him stare at the screen for a few seconds, dragging a hand down his face before he huffs like he’s dreading this. “Dr. Sterling.”

His voice changes when he answers, becomes cooler, more professional.

I bite back a giggle. It’s weird hearing him say that, since I can only see him as Zac now. Zac, who carried me to this sofa. Zac, who baked me cookies, Zac, who repositioned my pillows until my ankle was at the perfect angle. Zac, who made me tea…

“She’s good,” he mumbles into the phone, his free hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. His gaze slides to me briefly, then away, like he’s been caught.

I wonder who he’s talking to.

“Yep,” he hums back, doing it a few more times, his responses getting shorter, more clipped. “I will.”