Page 89 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

“We should get you home.”

“Probably,” she agrees, though neither of us moves right away.

During the drive to her place, she’s got her head back against the headrest, eyes half-closed, the box of leftover pie balanced on her lap. I keep my eyes on the road and my thoughts to myself, which takes more effort than it should.

I pull up outside her Airbnb, where there’s no paparazzi around, and help her inside, straight into the bathroom, then I pull down her blankets on her bed, getting it ready for her.

I'd better write my notes now before I forget. Reaching for my bag, I grab my laptop and glasses out. I couldn’t do them at my house because we ended up there longer than planned; plus, we were busy doing other activities.

I settle into the sofa, but I haven’t finished even the first paragraph of my notes when my phone starts buzzing.

Jameson: sends a picture of an article.

Jameson: Your ex and your patient.

I open it. It’s a photo from Dr. Whisperer. Hannah and Yolanda on the street, bright and centered. I’m blurred in the background.

Me: So?

Emmett: I don’t get it.

Jameson: Zoom in on the background. Zac, your face. LOL

Emmett: Oh, shit. Busted.

Me: Busted doing what, dickhead?

I’m confused. I zoom in, and there I am, taking their picture. The expression on my face isn’t the scowl I reserve for Yolanda. It’s the way I’m looking at Hannah.

Jameson: Your eyes on Hannah.

Emmett: Ohhh I see.

Me: I don’t.

Jameson: Your eyes are on her. Stop playing stupid.

I was looking at her legs in that dress. She has great legs. But I’m not saying that because they’ll read way too much into it.

Emmett: How is it going?

Jameson: She’s hot.

Me: I miss the hospital, but it’s not that bad.

Emmett: Is it because she’s hot?

I stare at the screen.

Me: No. It’s because she’s…

I stop typing, delete, and start again.

Hannah is many things. All the things that, if I said them out loud to these two, would confirm exactly what I’m trying not to confirm. That I’m in over my head. That somewhere between the cookies, the diner, and my place tonight, the line I’ve been standing behind started to feel less like a boundary and more like a suggestion.

I can’t say that. Saying it makes it real, and that makes it dangerous.

Me: A good patient.