Page 22 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

“When will I be able to talk to her?” she asks, sounding relieved.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“She told me not to come down.” Mrs. Morgan gives a soft, exasperated laugh. “Told me she’ll be back hosting the show within days, that I’d fly down for nothing.”

A smile stretches across my face. I can picture Hannah saying exactly that, probably with that same stubborn set to her mouth I saw earlier, insisting she’s fine while her ankle is broken. “I’d talk to her in the morning, Mrs. Morgan.”

I don’t want to tell her mom what to do. Hannah’s an adult, and it’s not my place. But I also don’t want to upset Hannah by encouraging her mother to ignore her wishes. My response is neutral, so I can ease her mind without overstepping.

“Good idea. Thanks for calling, Doctor. I really appreciate it. Have a good night.”

“You too.”

I hang up and sit back in my chair. Her mother isn’t what I expected. In my experience, when a patient calls their parent instead of a partner, there’s usually drama, like helicopter parents, demanding family members, people who question every medical decision. But Mrs. Morgan was humble, respectful, caring. The kind of mother who raised a daughter who says “I trust you” to a surgeon she just met.

Mrs. Morgan’s words replay in my head. “She told me she’ll be back hosting the show.”

Hosting. Not competing. She’s the host, not a contestant.

My mind reels as I process what that means. Reality TV host. Someone whose life is scrutinized.

I shouldn’t care.

But my fingers are already moving, unlocking my phone before I’ve consciously decided to do it. I open the browser and type her name into the search bar.

Hannah Morgan.

Articles flood the screen. Entertainment news, interview clips, red carpet photos. I scroll through, telling myself I’m just being thorough, that knowing my patient’s public profile is reasonable, given her career demands.

Then I see a photo that makes my fingers tighten around the phone.

Hannah in a tight black dress, smiling at the camera, her arm around a man with dark hair. He looks about thirty-five, with handsome actor looks. They seem natural together.

My chest tightens as I read an article posted six months ago. It says they called it quits after one year of dating. Relief floods through me, and I immediately feel guilty. She’s not mine; I have no right to feel like this about her.

I read through the article, my thumb scrolling compulsively. The articles confirm the break-up was mutual, both of them focusing on their careers, and they’re still friends.

I then type in the search bar… Hannah Morgan’s current boyfriend.

Nothing comes up except speculation articles. There are whispers in one article that she’d make a good Bachelorette.

There’s no way I could compete with a group of men all vying for her attention.

After it’s clear she’s, in fact, single, I close my phone and put it down on my desk, running my hand through my hair. What the fuck am I doing? I’m a forty-five-year-old orthopedic surgeon googling my patient. This is inappropriate, unprofessional, and completely unlike me.

I stand abruptly, grabbing her file and the completed surgical notes. She’ll have been wheeled to her private room by now.

I make my way to the surgical floor.

I should go home. I have another full day tomorrow, and I’m already planning to be here at seven. I need sleep. But I can’t stop myself from checking on her one last time. Just one glimpse, to make sure she’s settled, that her vitals are stable, that the nursing staff has everything they need for her overnight care. That’s all this is.

It’s what I tell myself as I turn down the hallway toward her room, my pulse thudding harder with each step.

Just checking on a patient… nothing more.

Chapter 10

Hannah