Page 32 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

“No. Channing can. He’s waiting out here for me.”

Who the fuck is Channing?

I stare at her before giving a small dip of my chin for her to elaborate.

“My driver.”

“Right.” Relief washes through me. “Let him know you’ll be another thirty minutes or so. Then I’ll see you in six weeks for the final check-up.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you then.”

She moves toward the door, and I follow, my hand reaching for the door handle. I hold it open for her, stepping slightly behind it, and I tell myself it’s just politeness. But I want to see this Channing, to confirm he’s just a driver and not something else.

I catch a glimpse of the older man with graying hair, probably in his sixties, waiting in the hallway, and I feel stupidly relieved. It changes nothing, because Hannah is still my patient. Still off-limits. Someone I have no business feeling this way about. But I feel the relief anyway, and I hate myself for it because I need to remember I’m on probation with Peltz.

As Hannah passes through the doorway, she pauses, turning back slightly. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She reaches out, and her fingers brush against my forearm… the barest touch, feather-light, as she steadies herself on the crutches. “Thank you. Really. For squeezing me in on your day off.”

Her touch sends electricity up my arm, every hair standing on end like I’ve been shocked. It’s there and gone in a second, but I feel it everywhere.

“Of course,” I manage.

She smiles again, and then she’s moving down the hallway, with Channing at her side.

I watch her leave, forcing my eyes to stay trained on the back of her head, on the glossy waves of hair, and not on her legs or the way her hips move even with the crutches. How does she make crutches look so fucking sexy?

I’ve never been turned on by a patient.

I’m semihard so I stay behind the door, my body angled to keep the wood between us from the waist down, and I don’t move until I can’t see her anymore.

Only then do I step back into my office and shut the door.

I lean against it for a moment, head back, eyes closed.

Then I push off and head to the treatment room, stripping off my white coat. I clean up quickly, disposing of the old bandage, wiping down the exam bed, all while trying to ignore the uncomfortable tightness in my pants.

Back at my desk, I slide into my chair and put my glasses back on, pulling up her file.

Patient presents for follow-up. Incision site clean, healing well. No signs of infection. Bruising minimal. Patient referred directly to physical therapy. Boot fitting arranged. Next appointment in six weeks for final assessment.

I don’t mention the way my hands lingered on her skin, or the way her smile made my chest tight, or the fact that I’m sitting here half-hard and furious with myself about it.

I’m just glad I don’t have to see her for weeks. The more time I’m with her, the worse my body reacts. I need distance. I need to get my head on straight. I need to go fucking fishing.

Half an hour later, I pull into the parking lot of the local seafood place in Pulse Point and text the group chat.

Me: Picking up food and driving there now. See you soon.

Jameson: Grab more beers. We’re low.

Me: I’m only an hour late.

Jameson: The beers are going down too easy tonight. It’s been a week.

I know what he means. It’s been a hell of a week for me too.

Me: I’ll get more beer.

Lifting the takeout bag from the counter, I head toward the car. But as I step around the corner, I nearly collide into…Yolanda.