Page 17 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

Pausing at the door, he looks back over his shoulder. “Dr. Sterling.”

“Thank you, Dr. Sterling,” I say, even though I’m still annoyed with him.

He nods once, and then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

Chapter 7

Zac

She asked for my name.

I walk down the corridor as I replay her voice, soft but clear, cutting through the professional distance I tried to maintain.

She wanted to know me.

The realization hits me again, and I briefly close my eyes and shake my head, disgusted with myself. A simple greeting, that’s all it would’ve taken. “Hi, I’m Dr. Sterling.” Basic professionalism. The kind of introduction I’ve given a thousand times without thinking. And I couldn’t even manage that.

Why?

I don’t know.

Except I do know. The second I walked into that room and saw her sitting on the bed, her leg elevated, her face clear of pain, my brain short-circuited. She looked up at me with big blue eyes, and I forgot every word I was supposed to say.

My hand clenches as I force myself to keep moving. The pen in my grip shakes slightly. The X-rays are still vivid in my mind: a clean fracture of the fibula, just above the ankle. Not the worst break I’ve seen, but bad enough. She’ll need surgery to set it properly, a plate and screws to stabilize the bone. Six to eight weeks of recovery, at minimum. Longer if she doesn’t follow post-op protocol, which, given how she argues with me about staying, seems likely.

By the time I reach the nurses’ station, their hushed whispers die down. But I didn’t miss the conversation…

“She’s stunning.”

“Her face is flawless.”

“And she was so nice to everyone. Not stuck-up at all.”

My pulse rises. I plant both palms on the counter, the clipboard clattering as I set it down harder than necessary. Three pairs of eyes dart away from me. Roslyn, the charge nurse, and two others whose names I should probably know by now. Suddenly, they’re all fascinated by their computer screens, fingers flying over keyboards like they’ve got urgent charting to do.

I should say something. I should tell them she’s stubborn. Warn them about what to expect.

But explaining that to them would only prove I care… and I don’t.

I shouldn’t.

Roslyn glances up at me, one eyebrow raised. “You’re doing the surgery tonight, Dr. Sterling?”

“Yes.” The word comes out clipped, not how I intended.

“I thought you were off at six.”

“Change of plans.” I flip open the chart, pretending to review notes I’ve already memorized. Fractured fibula. Surgical repair. Standard procedure. I’ve done it dozens of times. There’s no reason my hands should feel unsteady, no reason my heart should be racing.

“VIP,” one of the nurses murmurs, not quite under her breath.

I don’t respond. I shouldn’t be staying back to perform surgery on a reality show host, but thanks to Mr. Peltz, here I am, flipping through her chart again like I’ll find some detail I missed, some clinical reason to justify the knot in my chest and the way I can’t stop replaying the moment she winced when I touched her ankle, gentle as I could, and she bit her lip to keep herself from crying out.

Because if there’s one thing the nurses got right, it’s that she’s beautiful.

They didn’t use that exact word, but that’s what I thought the moment I stepped into her room. High cheekbones, her hair in soft but messy waves, and plush lips that curved into something between a smile and a challenge when she asked my name.

But as her eyes met mine, I wasn’t Dr. Sterling, the guy on his last warning, the legacy trying to outrun his father’s shadow.