Page 83 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

“Nothing,” he says and takes a bite of his own food, breaking eye contact.

But I saw it. I know what it means now in a way I didn’t before he kissed me. Before I kissed him back. Before we stood in that tiny laundry room afterwards, breathing the same air, neither of us willing to be the first to move. I wonder if he’s thinking about it too. The kiss. If it replays for him the way it does for me.

He’s tense because he’s trying to be the professional, he told me he needed to be, trying to put the line back where it was, trying to sit across from me in a diner and eat meatloaf like he hasn’t had his hands in my hair and his forehead pressed against mine.

The butterflies in my stomach multiply, fluttering wildly because this is not a doctor taking his patient to dinner. We both know it. And the harder he tries to pretend otherwise, the more certain I become.

Chapter 28

Zac

Our meatloaf is all consumed, and I’m full, but there’s always room for dessert. I lean back in the chair, one hand resting on my stomach. “Did you want some pie?”

Hannah’s eyes light up. She tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, a gesture I’m starting to recognize when she’s excited about something. “Yes. And I wouldn’t mind getting tea.”

“Let’s get you tea,” I say, waving down Julia.

She pauses, her eyebrow furrowing slightly as she fidgets with the edge of her napkin. “I thought there was somewhere specifically here for tea, but I haven’t been able to go there yet. I want to bring some back for my mom.”

I know exactly the one she’s talking about. The Pointed Kettle has been featured in magazines for its collection. It’s actually only a street away from Genevieve’s, squeezed between the hairdresser and the pharmacy on Stanton Street. “Well, let’s take the pies with us and head to there.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, why not?” I shrug, trying to keep casual, even though my pulse picks up at the idea of extending our time together. “Let our meatloaf settle.”

She giggles, and something in my chest tightens. “Yeah, definitely.”

Julia arrives and we order the pies. After we receive the pie I rise, grabbing her crutches and handing them to her. We both reach for the bill, but she’s faster, her hand shooting out to snatch it from the table.

“You’re not supposed to be paying,” I say firmly.

“And neither are you.” She matches me head on, her expression setting in a way that tells me she’s prepared to dig in on this. The same stubborn streak that makes her push through, even when I can see the pain in her eyes.

I lean into her space, close enough that I catch the sweet scent of her shampoo, something like jasmine and vanilla. “You don’t pay,” I whisper, relishing how she leans in too.

Her breath is warm against my ear, and I have to force myself to focus on her words instead of how close we are.

“I know it’s not a date, but I can’t have you pay. It’s not how I was raised, and I would not feel comfortable with you paying.”

We stare at each other, neither backing down, the air between us charged with something I refuse to name.

Julia clears her throat, watching us. I shrug my shoulders, hoping she didn’t overhear, not that it matters. We’re saying it’s not a date, so she can’t misconstrue it. Besides, it’s all over the gossip site, thanks to Dr. Whisperer, who’s now informed everyone that I am looking after Hannah. So, I’m pretty sure Julia is very much aware of why we’re squabbling over money.

But still, the question nags at me: How does this work? Does the doctor pay? Does the patient pay? These are the moments I didn’t think to clarify, details that maybe should’ve been ironed out with Mr. Peltz beforehand. But there’s no way I can let her. No part of my caring for her includes her paying for whatever she needs—groceries, bills, meals, whatever. Not only am I fortunate to be paid well for my job, but the Sterling fortune has never been something I’ve had to think twice about. The Sterling name carries weight in the medical community. My father made sure of that. So, this isn’t even scratching the surface of what I can afford.

I pay, sliding my card across the table before Hannah can protest further. She pretends to huff about it, but it’s really more like a playful pout, her lower lip jutting out just slightly, and when we exit the shop, she touches my arm, her fingers light on my bicep.

“Thank you,” she says softly, looking up at me.

I both hate and love the buzz that simple touch gives me. “It’s okay.”

But there’s something vulnerable in her eyes that makes me pause.

“Well,” she says as we start walking with her crutches, her gaze fixed on the sidewalk. “I’ve never been with somebody who’s looked after me so well.”

I glance at her profile. “Your ex never paid for anything?”

She shakes her head. “Billy.” She practically spits the name. “But you can’t believe all the gossip sites; they twist things.”