Page 61 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

“Okay, um…” I start listing items, my mind scrambling. “Cream, bagels, cream cheese, rice, ground turkey… and bacon.”

He writes them down—in his neat, precise handwriting, I bet—then continues without looking at me. “Pasta, tuna, steak, potatoes, onions, garlic.”

We go back and forth, his list growing longer. He adds things I didn’t mention: vegetables, fruit, staples. Things a real kitchen should have.

Before we finish, I remember. “Don’t forget to buy more ingredients for the cookies.”

He pauses, his pen hovering over the paper. His head tilts slightly, and when he looks at me, there’s something in his expression I can’t read. “I won’t.”

He writes down a few more things before straightening.

“All right, did you need anything else before I go?” Slipping the list into his pocket, he walks toward me. “Another tea? Food? Medication?” His eyes drop to my ankle again, professional assessment taking over.

I shake my head, not wanting him to leave. Which is ridiculous. “No, thanks.”

He scratches his temple, his fingers dragging through his hair, messing it up further. “I guess we should exchange numbers. Just in case.”

I bite back a laugh. He looks so uncomfortable, like asking for a phone number is more stressful than performing surgery. His weight shifts from foot to foot, and he won’t quite meet my eyes. I don’t understand. It’s a simple exchange, a practical necessity.

“Good idea. I might have a sudden craving for ice cream. Or pickles. Isn’t that what injured people do? Have weird cravings?” I’m being silly, knowing this is wrong.

“You’re thinking of pregnancy,” he says dryly, but I catch it. The tension leaves his shoulders, his stance relaxing slightly. My lightness disarms him, makes him more human. It’s such a small thing, but after him shutting me out, this feels like a small win.

He nods, and I rattle off my phone number, watching his long fingers move across his screen. He’s got nice hands. Strong, with prominent veins and clean, short nails. Surgeon’s hands? Or Zac’s hands?

My phone chimes a moment later, buzzing against the sofa cushion.

“Now you’ve got mine,” he says.

“Thanks.”

“I’ll be back soon.” He grabs his jacket from the back of the chair, shrugging it on. The movement makes his shoulders look even broader.

“Take your time.” I mean it, thinking he might need space from me. “I’m fine here.”

He pauses at the door and looks back at me. Our eyes meet and hold for longer than necessary. Then he nods once and leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.

I wait, listening for the sound of the car to start, and then only when he’s really gone do I grab my phone, save him as a contact, and pull up Brooke’s number.

She answers straight away. “Hey!”

“He’s gone to the store, so I have time to talk.”

“How’s it going? Is Sexy Sterling still being a grump?”

I close my eyes briefly, and the memory floods back. Stepping out of the bathroom, and everything going black. Then strong arms catching me, lifting me. The solid warmth of his chest against my cheek, the steady thud of his heartbeat underneath my ear.

“Well,” I say, unable to keep the smile out of my voice, “I fainted, and he caught me.”

She gasps, then claps. “Good stuff. Please tell me you snuggled into his arms.”

“Brooke. I didn’t plan that.” Though I can’t deny it had felt… nice. His arms had been solid and warm, and for a moment before panic set in, I’d felt completely secure.

“Oh, I thought it was staged. You know, to get close to him.”

“And when have I ever done that?” I shake my head, even though she can’t see me. “I’m not some scheming—”

“Listen, a hot guy alone in your house for who knows how long…” She draws out the words suggestively.