Page 23 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

Hannah Morgan suffered a broken ankle on day one.

Not the welcome she was imagining, but is the construction too much for this LA influencer?

Maybe they should’ve hired a host who’s used to the roughness out here.

Dr. Whisperer

“I thought you wanted to leave today.” The deep rumble feels like it’s somewhere in my subconscious, pulling me from sleep. How am I dreaming of Dr. Sterling now? But as the voice keeps talking, it gets louder, more insistent.

“I guess I’ll come back.”

I snap my eyes open, and his body looms near the bed, backlit by the harsh fluorescent light in the hallway bleeding through the door.

My tongue feels like sandpaper as I open my mouth to speak. When did it get so dry? I close my mouth again, trying to work up some saliva.

“I thought—”

“You thought what, Miss Morgan?” he says as he steps closer, one dark eyebrow quirked. A hint of curiosity and amusement lace his voice.

I swallow, the movement painful in my parched throat. I don’t really want to tell him, heat creeping up my neck, but the words tumble out anyway. “I thought I was dreaming.”

“Nope, I’m very real.” There’s definitely a smirk now, the corner of his mouth lifting as he moves to the side of the bed. “And don’t worry… you’re not the first patient to tell me they’ve dreamt of me.”

I can’t believe I just admitted that, but he seems more tolerable today. The frown line between his eyebrows has smoothed out a little.

“Yeah, well, I’m sure that adds to your ego,” I mutter, running my thumb against the edge of the blanket. “Does it mean I get to go home?”

“Miss Morgan, you don’t look like you’re in any state to even move.” He crosses his arms over his navy scrubs, studying me with narrowed eyes. His gaze travels from my face down to where my hands rest on the blanket. I’m suddenly aware that I probably look like absolute shit. My hair feels like a bird’s nest, and I don’t even want to think about how my makeup from yesterday has worn off. I probably have mascara smudges around my eyes, making me look like the raccoon who got me here.

As he checks my vitals, he asks, “How are you feeling?”

“You mean my head or my ankle?” The room spins a little when I try to focus too hard on his face. I have to close my eyes for a second to make it stop.

“Your ankle, Miss Morgan.” He pauses, and when I open my eyes again, his brow furrows with concern. “But what’s wrong with your head?”

I shouldn’t be surprised that he can read between the lines. He’s already proven he listens to what I’m not saying as much as what I am. “Just fuzzy. Like I’ve been on a big night out.”

“That’s from the anesthetic. You’ve never had one, so you don’t know what to expect.” His tone softens just a fraction, and he uncrosses his arms. “It’ll pass. Usually takes a while to feel more like yourself.” He slips one hand into the pocket of his scrub pants. “So, did you sleep okay last night?”

“Define ‘okay’.”

“As in, you got a couple of hours of sleep.” The ghost of a smile plays at his lips. “I’m not asking for eight solid, comfy hours.”

“Then yes,” I answer, because I did, on and off, get a couple of hours of sleep in total, broken up by being poked and prodded by the nurses checking my blood pressure, temperature, and oxygen levels. Which I’m not upset about. They were just doing their jobs. But I’m exhausted and running on fumes.

“Well, when am I going to feel good enough to leave?” I need to know the timeline. If there’s any chance I can get back on set today.

“Well…” He shifts his weight, and as a hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, the movement draws my gaze to his freshly shaved jaw. His morning aftershave is heavy in the air. It’s intoxicating… sweet, almost, with a hint of spice underneath. Maybe I’m sensitive to it because I’m lying here looking like death warmed up and in desperate need of a shower.

“I came in a little early for you, thinking you might want to run away,” he says, and there’s something almost playful in his voice. “But I’ll give you a couple more hours.”

I begrudgingly admit that this is the best decision.

My eyes drag back up to his face, and I notice something different. “Hey, you’re not wearing your glasses.”

“I mainly use them for reading.”

“I like your glasses,” I whisper, but thankfully it comes out more as a barely audible mumble. Probably not a good look, telling the doctor I think he’s attractive with glasses on.