Page 20 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

“When was the last time you lost a patient?”

“On the table?” He looks away, as if he needs a moment to compose himself. “A long time ago.”

But the way he mumbles it means he remembers it, and that it’s serious enough to upset him and has me wanting to push.

“You’re not going to tell me when?”

“I need you to trust me.” He clears his throat, and when he looks back, something has softened in his expression. “I mean, the whole team in there will take very good care of you.”

He pushes his black-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t meet my gaze again, keeping his eyes trained on the paperwork like it holds all the answers.

“I trust you,” I whisper.

The muscle in his jaw pulses, and his eyes flash wide as his gaze snaps to mine. For a second, we just stare at each other, and I see something flicker there… like surprise, but it’s gone before I confirm it.

“I have your consent form for me to operate on you.” His voice is back to business now, but there’s a slight roughness to it that wasn’t there before. “Please read it carefully. Then, if you agree, I need you to sign it. And if you have questions, you’re welcome to ask.”

He hands me the paper, and our fingers brush. The contact is brief but electric, and I pull back quickly, focusing on the words before my eyes.

“Will I have a scar?”

“I’ll try to keep it small, but I don’t know how you’ll heal since you’ve never had surgery before to tell me if you’re prone to keloid scarring. But I’ll use surgical tape and give you instructions to minimize its appearance.”

I nod, moving my eyes over the form, trying to ignore the noise of the operating room beyond the thin curtain. It’s loud with people calling out orders, monitors beeping, beds rolling past, alarms chiming. But I focus on the consent form. It’s straightforward enough. I take the pen from him, a plain black ballpoint that’s warm from his hand and sign my name in shaky letters.

He takes the form back, his eyes scanning my signature as he asks. “Are you ready?”

“No.” The word comes out on a breath. “But I want to get back to work, so yes.”

“I’ve got you.” The words are quiet but firm.

He reaches toward my hand, where it rests on the blanket, his fingers extending. For a moment, I think he’s actually going to take it. But then his fingers flex, curl into his palm, and he quickly pulls back. He rises from the chair and walks inside the operating room without glancing back.

I can’t read into it further because a nurse is already wheeling me in, and the lights above are so bright it makes me squint.

Dr. Cooper appears at my side, her face coming into focus above me. She whispers reassuringly as probes are stuck to my chest. The cold patches make me shiver. I feel calmer as she speaks in that mom-like voice, explaining each step.

But then I see him standing on my right, close enough that I can watch the subtle rise and fall of his chest, and my heart races. The monitor betrays me, broadcasting my accelerated heartbeat to everyone in the room.

Dr. Cooper places a mask on my face, and I breathe in the strange chemical smell. “Just count backward from ten for me, Hannah.”

“Ten… nine… eight… seven…”

Sterling is so close, his eyes on me, watching with an intensity I don’t understand, but it makes my chest ache. And then, just as the darkness edges close, his hand slides over mine. It’s the last thing I feel before I’m pulled under.

Chapter 9

Zac

I push through the doors into the recovery room, the familiar beeping of monitors and hushed voices welcoming me. My eyes find her immediately. Hannah Morgan, Bed One, vitals stable on the screen above her head.

Her eyes flutter open as I approach, glassy from the anesthesia.

“Can I go to work in the morning?” she slurs, but the determination behind her words is unmistakable.

I cross my arms, falling back into the professional manner that’s served me well for fifteen years. “You’ll be here until morning.”

She pouts, her bottom lip jutting out like a child. Behind me, I hear the nurses giggle, probably charmed by her. Most patients in recovery are either silent or weeping. Not Hannah Morgan.