Page 30 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

I hang up and glance at the time. Twenty-five minutes late. My hand curls, but I’m not sure if it’s with annoyance or concern. Probably both.

I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose and scoot the chair to the middle of the desk, away from the monitor.

The door opens, and Hannah comes into view. She looks incredible. I suck in slow, deep breaths, trying to control my thoughts as I get the full view of her outfit.

Her blazer is tailored, tapered in at her waist, and beneath it is a matching fitted gray vest with a deep V-neck that showcases the swell of her breasts. The material looks expensive, some kind of wool blend that hugs her curves. And the skirt. Fuck, the skirt. It’s gray, matching the set perfectly, but it’s short. Mid-thigh at best.

Her hair is out again, tumbling past her shoulders in soft waves. Her makeup is natural but polished, but her blue eyes, they sparkle under my office lights, framed by long, dark lashes.

As she crutches her way in, I’m relieved. She’s using them. Which means she listened to what I said.

“Where’s your scooter?”

“I left it on set.”

I get up and gesture toward the treatment room, my hand briefly touching her elbow. “This way.”

“I had no idea this was here.”

“That’s the point,” I say dryly. Hating how that came out, I clear my throat and try to be softer. “How are you coping with the crutches?”

I step to the side and slip on my white coat, as if it’s going to put a barrier between me and her. A reminder that I’m her treating doctor. That the way my heart is beating hard in my ears and the way my body temperature is rising is so inappropriate and forbidden.

“Not bad. Just my underarms are a little tender.”

“It’ll get easier.” I take the crutches from her, and she tries to hop toward the examination table. My heart jumps into my throat as I see her wobble, so I drop one crutch against the wall and grab her arm with my free hand. “Careful.”

My fingers wrap around her bicep, and the warmth of her skin spreads through the fabric of her blazer. She shifts her weight, and I guide her until she’s seated safely on the bed.

“You wore a heel?” I raise an eyebrow at her one black pump.

She shrugs. “They needed to shoot with my legs in the frame, so they did it from that side.”

And there’s the reminder that I need. This is the world she lives in. The glamorous, calculated, carefully curated world where everything is about appearance and perception.

And I don’t belong in that world. I shouldn’t want to belong in it.

The glamorous life. Fancy dinners, charity galas, arm candy for professional events.

I lift my gaze, and her blue eyes blaze into mine. There’s something in them—a challenge, maybe? Like she knows exactly what I’m thinking and finds it amusing. Her lips curve slightly, not quite a smile, but close. It makes my pulse spike.

I force myself to drop my gaze, tracking down over her vest to her injured foot, though I can’t help but notice her cleavage in my peripheral vision.

Fuck. I need her out of this room, and I need to go fishing.

Clear my mind.

After this appointment, I won’t see her for a few weeks. Thank fuck.

“Sorry for being late.” She sighs like something heavy is on her mind. I don’t have to wonder because she continues. “The director won’t accept a clip less than perfect.”

At least it’s not an excuse. That’s an explanation of the problem.

“What time did you start today?”

“Hair and makeup starts at five.”

“You’ve been at work since 5 a.m.?” I ask through clenched teeth. Why is the director making her work these hours, knowing she’s injured? Isn’t he concerned about her? I expected her to work less.