Page 4 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

I might have to head to the store today and pick up some regular clothes. A few pairs of jeans that don’t cost three hundred dollars.

The car pulls up to the curb of a white house with white shutters and a wraparound porch, and I get out, my legs stiff from sitting. The place is exactly what the photos promised… small yet inviting. I’m excited to finally arrive.

My phone slips from my hand, and I fumble to catch it before shoving it into my bag. Adjusting the strap on my shoulder, I head toward the Airbnb, when the driver hollers.

“Miss, did you want me to carry this inside? It’s a little heavy.”

I’d forgotten about my toes the whole ride until he said that, and now a throb reawakens. “If you don’t mind.” I sift through my purse to find money and hand over a generous amount… probably too much for a tip, but whatever. His face lights up as he looks at the cash, then to my face, his mouth opening and closing.

He clears his throat. “Are you sure, miss?”

I nod, offering a small smile, worried I’ve done something wrong.

“If you need a ride anywhere, please call me. Candace assigned me as your driver.” He digs in his pocket, fishing out a card and handing it over. It’s slightly worn, the edges bent, but I can read his name clearly.

“Thanks, Channing. Have a nice day.”

“You too, Miss Morgan.” He tips his head, and something in his expression tells me he might know who I am, but he’s being polite about it. And as I appreciate the recognition, I can’t help but be worried it’s going to cause a problem later.

I make my way up the front walk, and Channing follows with my suitcase, setting it down as I fumble with the key. My hands shake from adrenaline, but the lock clicks, and I push the door open.

“Just leave it there, thank you,” I tell him, gesturing to the entryway. He nods and heads back to the car.

I push the door open, pulling the case behind me and finally getting me and my stuff inside before I close the door and take in my space for the next few months. It smells of fresh flowers, lavender, and something else… something sweet. I spot purple blooms in a white vase on the small table by the window. The walls are white, the furniture a mix of vintage and new. A cream sofa with not enough throw pillows. A kitchen with open shelving and a farmhouse sink.

I leave the case by the door and walk around the house, taking it all in.

It’s not big, so it doesn’t take very long.

I drag my suitcase to the bedroom and spend the next hour unpacking. Hanging my dresses in the closet, lining up my shoes, arranging my skincare and makeup on the bathroom counter.

After I’ve unpacked everything, I’m still antsy, so I decide to go explore the town for a bit.

I stand with my hands on my hips in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom, debating how to get there. It wasn’t far, maybe half a mile. I change into activewear—black leggings, a tank, and a matching zip up jacket—and throw on a cap before heading out, tucking my hair up underneath it. I walk, taking in the tree-lined street, the houses with their perfect lawns and large porches. When I’ve gone a few minutes, I spot the row of shops we passed coming in, including a small diner. Something about the old-town charm and coziness calls to me. I push the door, and I’m hit with the smell of pastries and coffee. Inside, the walls are lined with vintage framed photos.

A few people are scattered around. An old man reading a newspaper, not scrolling on a phone, two women talking over cups of coffee. If this were LA, there would be a lot more people, everyone on their phones or laptops, no one making eye contact. I tug the brim of my hat down as I order my drink at the counter, not wanting to be caught in a photo, all sweaty and red.

“One iced tea with honey,” I order from the waitress, her name tag reading ‘Barbara’. She has kind eyes, crow’s feet at the corners.

While I wait, I watch Barbara move around, including chatting to the man with the newspaper about the weather.

Once my drink is ready, Barbara slides the cup across the counter to me. I smile and head out, taking a sip. I enjoy the real, rich honey and floral-hinted tea, snapping a photo of the drink in front of the cute diner window which I send to my mom.

Before I head back home, I walk to where I’ll begin work tomorrow. Nestled in trees off a side track are a few homes, trucks, scaffolding, piles of lumber, and it all looks set up. I stare at the site, my heart beating faster. This is really happening.

If this show is a success, it means I’ll get more offers, or when I audition for this network, I’ll have more of a chance of getting the role. Better projects. Maybe even a recurring series.

I make my way back to the house, wanting to get prepared by going over my lines and facts about the contestants. Their names, their stories, what they’re hoping to achieve. I want to be over-prepared, to step on set tomorrow and nail every take. The day starts at 4 a.m., so it’s an early night for me. But at 2 a.m., I’m still staring at the ceiling.

All my life, I’ve been chasing this. The role. That I’m good enough. And tomorrow, I finally get it.

So why do I feel like I’m about to lose something I didn’t even know I had?

The thought terrifies me. I push it away and close my eyes, wishing sleep to come. In a few hours, I’ll become the person I’ve always wanted to be. I hope it’s enough. I hope I’m enough.

Chapter 2

Zac