Page 51 of Stranger to Love

“Well, as I said. I wasn’t.” She straightened herself as she usually did. “Goodnight Alex. If you need anything, my room is just across the hallway.”

I nodded. "Thank you, again.”

She just nodded in response, and as the door clicked shut behind her, I let out a long breath because fuck, why did I lose all my banter around her? I fucking tried, but something about her made me nervous, and it was so fucking jarring.

***

I woke slowly, emerging from a heavy, dreamless sleep. My first thought was a dull throb behind my right eye—a definite reminder that I had, in fact, incurred a concussion and not just hallucinated the past twenty-four hours. My second thought was: Jesus, this bed is incredible. It felt like sinking into warm, supportive clouds.

I stretched, the silk pyjamas soft against my skin, and sat up. I was in a strange room, flooded with bright, cold November sunlight streaming through a large window. I looked around the immaculate guest room, and the reality of where I was slammed into me. Dr. Carter's house.

Fuck.

I immediately reached for the side of my head. The lump was still prominent, but the dull ache was nothing compared to the violent throbbing of the previous night. I found the paracetamol bottle and my empty water bottle on the nightstand.

I threw off the duvet and padded over to the window. Outside was a huge, manicured garden encased by high walls, offering total privacy. No neighbours were visible. This place was seriously another fucking world.

I headed into the ensuite. The bathroom was all polished stone and minimalist design, reflecting a taste that screamed ‘successful, powerful, and utterly solitary.’ I looked in the mirror. My hair was a mess, but the wound on the side of my head was clean, just a dark, tender knot.

Then I looked at my neck. The hickey was still a deep, bruised purple—a perfect thumbprint, visible even in the harsh morning light. It was an undeniable marker of Dr. Carter’s possessiveness. The previous night, she had looked at it with an expression I couldn't read, but she hadn’t denied it or apologised. She simply acknowledged her claim before taking care of my injury.

I pressed my fingers to the mark. It was a disaster, but the surge of heat that rushed through my stomach was proof I was a mess. I should have been terrified; I should have been running. Instead, I was buzzing with a mixture of confusion and intense anticipation. She had threatened me, called me brat, and then meticulously cleaned my head wound and given me her bed. This woman was a psychological wrecking ball, and I was standing right in the path of the destruction.

I changed out of the silk pyjamas and back into my jeans and flannel shirt I had worn the day before, glad I had changed at work, meaning I had them in my bag. I checked my phone. It was 9:15 a.m. I had texted my parents the previous night so they didn't panic about me not getting home; my Dad had sent a thumbs up and my Mum had told me to have a good time. I had told them I was staying out with Mia to celebrate my birthday.

I cautiously opened the bedroom door, taking a deep breath of that expensive-smelling air. The hallway was silent. I listened for any sounds but heard nothing. Was she awake?

I crept across the hallway to the wide, sweeping stairs, clutching the doorframe for a second to steady my head. Downstairs, the open living room on the left was still dark, but I followed the path we had taken the previous night to the kitchen.

As I stepped into the bright, silent kitchen, my gaze landed on the island. Dr. Carter was sitting exactly where she had put me the previous night, but the stool was facing her laptop, which was open. She was wearing a fitted charcoal grey sweater and smart trousers, the professional composure fully back in place. Her dark brown hair was neatly styled, and she was drinking from a large, elegant mug. She looked immaculate, intimidating, and completely in control.

She didn't jump or even look up immediately. She took a sip of her drink, then lowered the mug, finally lifting her eyes to me. There was no surprise, only a cool, assessing gaze.

“Good morning, Alex. How is your head?” she asked, her voice crisp, cutting through the silence of the large room.

The familiarity, the lack of formality now that we were in her kitchen, threw me. I stumbled over my reply.

“Better. Yeah, much better. Thanks.”

She simply nodded and gestured to the island. On the counter was a glass of water, and a plate holding what looked like a perfectly toasted bagel.

“Sit. You need to eat.”

I swallowed. I was, apparently, still taking orders. Of course I fucking was. I walked over and sat on the stool, feeling an internal flutter I had come to get used to around her.

“Dr. Carter, I should really—”

She cut me off with a raised, glacial eyebrow. “Not until I’ve had a proper look at that concussion, darling. Now, eat your breakfast.”

Darling. Fuck me, I was not used to those butterflies.

I sat as instructed, because of course I did. The bagel looked incredible—not like a basic one thrown in a toaster with a bit of butter, but it looked like some bagel you’d spend a fortune on in some posh cafe.

She didn’t look at me as she stood and walked over to the coffee machine, her now empty mug in hand. “Would you like a coffee?”

“Yes, please,” I answered honestly; I could do with the caffeine.

She nodded and grabbed another mug as I took my first bite. The bagel was packed with some fancy meat and cheeses and a sauce that was a bit tangy but delicious. “Fuck me,” I couldn't help but say as I chewed. This was fucking delicious.