Page 64 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

Me: I’m fine. See you tomorrow.

Channing: See you then.

I set my phone down and look toward the kitchen, where Zac is now standing at the counter, studying something on his phone.

“Thanks for getting everything,” I call out.

He looks up, his expression unreadable. “No problem.”

But I can’t stop thinking about the article. About whatever happened four months ago that put that haunted look in his eyes when Mr. Peltz called.

Whatever he’s running from, whatever he’s carrying… he’s here now. In my kitchen, about to cook me dinner.

In spite of the ethics, the boundaries, the complications, I can’t quite bring myself to wish he were anywhere else.

Chapter 23

Hannah

Zac has been buzzing around in the kitchen cooking dinner for the past twenty minutes. I’ve asked a few times if I could help, but every time, he shut me down, telling me he had it sorted and there wasn’t anything I could do. His mouth was set in that stubborn, protective way that’s become familiar since my injury: the way that reminds me that he’s my doctor.

I get up to go to the bathroom, and before I’ve completely straightened, he’s asking, “Where are you going?”

I meet his gaze, refusing to be intimidated by his tone. “To the bathroom.”

He freezes mid-motion, dish towel clutched in one hand, and I can see the wheels turning in his mind, like he’s fighting some internal battle between his medical obligation to monitor my recovery and his need to give me space. But thankfully, he just nods, his shoulders dropping slightly, and continues cleaning up.

I head to the bathroom on my crutches, which is still hurting my arms, and then decide to put the load of laundry in while I’m up. The laundry room is cramped with just a cupboard, sink, and a washer with the dryer hanging above. I can’t fit the crutches inside, so I leave them outside the door and hop in, grabbing onto the wall for balance. My ankle still twinges with each hop, but it’s manageable. Zac would probably tell me to elevate it after this, in that professionally concerned voice he uses when he’s trying to maintain boundaries.

There’s a small floral rug on the floor, and I carefully position myself in the middle of it. Sorting through the hamper, I separate the whites from colors, deciding to start with the darks. I load them into the machine, close the door, and fiddle with the settings. Hopefully, I’m using it correctly. It’s the first time I’m using this particular washer, and there are too many buttons.

I hop over to the cupboard, clutching the wall to steady myself as I swing the door open, searching for the detergent and softener. I forgot to tell Zac to grab some at the store but figured there should be some here for at least a few washes. When I spot the bottle tucked in the back, relief floods through me. They actually supplied a full-size container. You wouldn’t get that kind of luxury in LA Airbnbs.

I’m hopping back toward the washer, bottle clutched in hand, when his voice behind me makes me jump. “What are you doing?”

The sudden shock of his voice throws me off balance. My foot clips the edge of the rug, and I fall forward. Time seems to slow as I reach out desperately, aiming to grab the washer to save myself.

But Zac is there. He catches me mid-fall, and lifts me effortlessly. In one smooth motion, he sets me on the countertop that sits between the washer and sink, his grip firm on my waist. Those doctor’s hands that aren’t supposed to make my skin feel like it’s on fire… but they do.

“I thought you were going to the bathroom.”

“I did, and then I decided to put some laundry in.” I try to act casual and not like my heart is thundering against my ribs.

“It looks like you want another injury.” His eyes bore intensely into mine, and there’s something raw in them that makes my breath catch. “You’re supposed to be resting that ankle, not hopping around on rugs.”

There it is… the reminder. He’s the doctor. I’m the patient. Boundaries that exist for a reason.

He’s standing between my parted legs now, and in this position, with me perched on the counter, his face is near my eye level. He’s still taller, but this added height brings me closer to him. Closer to his face, enough that I can see the muscle jumping in his cheek, the way his pupils are dilated under the overhead light.

“You scared me as I was hopping to the machine.” I hold up the bottle of laundry detergent defensively, like it’s evidence of my innocence. “And the rug was in my way.”

He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me with those piercing blue eyes, the same eyes that examined my ankle with professional detachment and are now looking at me like I’m something else entirely. The silence stretches between us, and I can’t help it; I laugh. It bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest.

I’m sure he thinks I’m crazy, but if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry. My doctor is standing between my legs in a laundry room, looking at me like he wants to devour me, and I’m supposed to pretend I don’t feel this pull between us.

“What’s so funny?” His eyebrows draw together, confusion flickering across his features.

“How you make me so… frighty.” The word comes out wrong before I can correct myself.