Page 53 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

The questions from the two guys come rapid-fire from both directions:

“Why were you in the hospital?”

“Did you have surgery again?”

“Will you be flying back to LA?”

And so many more questions, all overlapping and insistent.

The orderly pushes a little faster, and I’m grateful for his urgency. We arrive at a black car, a nice, expensive sedan that gleams under the morning sun. The orderly opens the passenger door, and I slip inside. Sterling puts my crutches away in the trunk before climbing into the driver’s seat.

His gaze stays on the reporters as he settles in, his mouth tight. Fingers whitening, he grips the wheel, navigating his way out with controlled precision. He drives slowly, carefully, despite the obvious tension radiating from him.

“How do you deal with that?” His question is quiet but loaded with something that sounds like anger on my behalf.

I shrug, waving at the reporters through the dark-tinted windows, unsure if they can even see me anymore. “It’s part of the job.”

“I don’t believe harassment is part of the job.”

“It’s not harassment.”

“You don’t—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head.

“No. They have a job to do. They have families to support.” I’ve made peace with this aspect of fame a long time ago. It’s easier than fighting it.

He shakes his head again, more emphatically this time, his grip on the wheel tightening more.

“What?” I ask, hating when he does that: makes judgements but doesn’t speak them. I can’t read his mind, and the silence feels heavy with unspoken opinions.

“You’re too nice.” It’s almost accusatory, like being nice is a character flaw.

I laugh, surprised and oddly pleased despite the criticism. “I wasn’t expecting a compliment.”

He doesn’t respond to that. I don’t want to sit in silence, so I reach over before I catch myself. It’s his car, not mine. I fold my hands back in my lap.

“You’ll have to direct me.”

“Oh… right.” I pull out my phone and open Maps, typing in my address. “I’ll just use GPS.”

He nods, and I take the opportunity to take in his dark features from the side profile, my eyes tracing the lines of his face with shameless appreciation. Sloped nose, deep lines next to his eyes that suggest he smiles more than I’ve ever seen, dark bushy eyebrows, freshly shaved jaw, and perfectly styled hair. It’s nice he put some effort in to pick me up, but it makes me feel gross for smelling awful. The contrast between us—him freshly showered and put together, me in borrowed scrubs and day-old sweat… makes me want to sink into the leather seat and disappear.

It’ll be the first thing I do when I get inside. Shower until I feel human again.

I continue giving him directions as I look around his clean car. Immaculate, actually. Not a speck of dust, no random receipts or coffee cups. He takes care of it, which makes me think of the other side to him... the fisherman he mentioned. I try to picture him on a boat, his hands working with nets or fishing rods. The image is surprisingly appealing.

“I thought you’d be a truck guy?” The question comes out before I can think better of it.

“Who’s to say I don’t have one?”

I roll my eyes and shift my gaze to the window, looking out at the unfamiliar streets. “Of course you’d have two.”

“Most people here do.” He says it like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Spotting my porch, I point to it. “The house on the left.”

He pulls it into the driveway and parks, shutting off the engine. “Wait here while I unlock your door.”

“I’m not that incompetent.”