Page 24 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

He doesn’t seem to hear me, already moving to the foot of the bed. As he carefully lifts the blanket from my injured foot, he adds, “The nurse said you did well last night, though. All your vitals were stable. I think you’ll recover nicely.”

“Yay,” I deadpan, though I’m genuinely happy. It’s just that the drugs are making everything feel distant and strange. I start to think about how I need to update my manager and see how I can get back to the show. But my thoughts vanish when his fingers brush my skin.

His touch is different today. I’m so numb I can barely feel his fingers on my skin, but I can see them moving carefully as he unwraps the bandaging. If I look closely enough, I see a tremor in his hands as they brush against my splint.

There’s no way he’s nervous. That doesn’t make sense. He’s operated on me. Why would examining my ankle make his hands shake? Or maybe it could be my eyes playing tricks on me from the anesthetic. Things are looking a little hazy right now.

Sleep tries to pull me under again. I’m fighting with everything I have to stay awake, but my eyelids are so heavy.

He tucks my foot back gently under the blanket, and I just watch him through half-closed eyes, blinking slowly.

“Well, I’ll give you a couple more hours. Maybe then you’ll be a bit more awake.” His voice sounds far away, like he’s speaking from a distance.

I try to say “okay,” but it comes out as another mumble.

I’m so exhausted.

As he turns to leave, I hear him say something else, but I can’t make out the words. I don’t even hear the door close before I’m pulled under again.

A few hours later, I blink my eyes open and check the time on the wall. Nine. Shit. My stomach drops. I haven’t let Dain know where I am or what’s happened. Panic flutters in my chest. I don’t know what to do. Surely, Candace has sorted it out for me, called production, made excuses, but I’ll definitely be there tomorrow. Rain, hail, or shine. I’ll be there, hobbling or not. I’ll be there, drowsy or not. I have to be there.

I press my palms against my temples, trying to think through the fog. Can’t he reverse this? Give me something else to help clear my head faster?

As if on cue, the door rattles. I expect it to be Sterling, but it’s not. It’s Dr. Cooper. Hope blooms in my chest at the fact that maybe she could help reverse the anesthetic.

“Hey, I wanted to check in on my favorite patient.” I catch the smile in her eyes before it reaches her lips.

I smile back, though it feels weak. Being “special” means nothing if I can’t perform. But I don’t say that. “Is that what you say to all your patients?”

“No, but you are kind of special.” She moves closer to the bed, her gaze sweeping over me with a professional eye.

“Thanks. I was actually hoping to get out of here. My head is a little clearer.”

“That’s good to hear,” she says. There’s a “but” coming; I can sense it in her tone.

“But it’ll take a good couple of days for you to feel completely back to normal. And unfortunately, you’re going to have to take pain relief that will keep your brain a little foggy.”

My heart sinks. Oh my God, Dain is going to see it as confirmation that I’m not ready for this job. I force myself to nod, holding down the anxiety crawling up my throat. “Okay. I understand.”

“I’m sorry. I’m going to prescribe you some medication. Do you have someone picking you up?”

“Yeah, I do.” It’ll be Channing.

“I’ll get the medication brought up here. When you’re ready, you’re free to go on my end, as long as you don’t have any other questions for me. Here’s my card with my number. Otherwise, take care of yourself.”

“Thanks, Dr. Cooper. You’ve been amazing.”

She gives me a friendly smile, and I watch as she walks out, closing the door behind her.

One doctor down, one to go. I take a deep breath, steeling myself. I need to get out of here today. That’s the plan. I press the bell for the nurses and try to sit up. The movement makes my head swim for a moment, and the pain in my ankle screams, but I push through it.

On the bedside table, I notice there’s food—toast, cookies, juice, and flowers. A massive, beautiful arrangement of white and pale-pink roses in a crystal vase with a white ribbon on the side table. I don’t remember seeing them before. Who are they from? I crane my neck, looking for a card, but can’t spot one anywhere. So, I leave it for now.

The nurse comes in a minute later. She’s young, maybe mid-twenties, with her dark hair pulled back into a neat ponytail.

“Hi, Miss Morgan.”

“You can call me Hannah,” I say.