Page 52 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

I scribble my signature.

“Not fancy for a celebrity.” His observation is casual, almost absentminded, but it stings.

“Wow, your compliments are strong today.” I don’t look up, focusing on the signature that definitely looks more like chicken scratch than anything elegant.

“I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just…” He shakes his head, seeming frustrated with himself. “I’m going to go call…” He leaves before finishing the sentence, and I’m left sitting there feeling oddly deflated. I take a photo of my signature and text Brooke.

Me: Sexy Sterling said my handwriting isn’t fancy for a celebrity.

Brooke: It’s messy, I agree, but who’s he to talk? I bet his is messy too.

I look at the papers he left behind and see his signature at the bottom. It’s neat. Of course it is. I take a photo and send it to her with a follow-up text.

Me: Nope, it’s neat just like him.

Brooke: Yeah, for a doctor, I’m impressed.

Me: I gotta go, he’s about to take me home. Wish me luck.

Brooke: Don’t forget to update me!

I tuck my phone away in my purse and wait. And wait. Where the hell did he go? The minutes drag by, each one stretching longer than the last. I start to wonder if he’s changed his mind, if he’s found a way out of this arrangement.

Ten minutes later, a knock jolts me from my thoughts, and it’s definitely not him. Too soft.

I see the wheelchair first, then a guy in his thirties behind it. His eyes widen at the sight of me, recognition dawning across his face. Yes, it’s me. I smile, my practiced public smile sliding into place. At least someone is excited to see me.

He wheels the chair close to the bed, his movements eager. “Hi, miss. I’ll give you a hand.”

“I’ve got it,” Sterling’s voice booms behind the orderly.

The orderly suddenly steps back, startled, and I slip a little, my balance wavering. The bed catches me from behind, but my heart hammers.

Sterling teases, “Do you know how to stay on your two feet?”

“I was fine until you scared the shit out of me.”

The orderly keeps silent, his eyes fixed on the chair, his whole body rigid. He steps behind the handles as Sterling touches my arm, his fingers wrapping easily around my bicep. They’re firm, almost possessive, as he helps me get into the chair with surprising gentleness despite his gruff demeanor. The contrast makes my head spin. Once I’m settled, he hands me my purse.

“Do you want the flowers?” He gestures to the vase on the side table.

“No, I’ll leave them for the girls.” They’ll brighten someone’s day more than they would sitting at the Airbnb.

“Who are they from?” he asks, his tone a bit colder.

It’s none of his business, but whatever. “The girls on set.”

He nods, his expression unreadable. “Let’s go then.”

He carries my crutches and walks ahead, which I don’t complain about because the view from behind is nice. Really nice. I know I shouldn’t, but where else should I look? At the orderly’s hands on the wheelchair handles? The boring hallway walls? I’m indulging myself without judgement. There’s something in the way he walks and the effortless power he exudes. Big strides as he moves with purpose, like he owns the space, his shoulders squared and confident. The Henley stretches across his back with each movement, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

Once we exit the hospital, I forget about my ogling, my fantasy shattered as flashes hit me. Two photographers and their cameras capture the moment. If I weren’t such a mess, I wouldn’t care. Plus, I’m in navy-blue hospital scrubs that make me look washed out and exhausted. But they’re still better than yesterday’s dirty clothes.

“You okay?” Sterling’s voice cuts through the clicks and the shouts from the reporters and, suddenly, he’s there, crouched in front of the wheelchair, his face close to mine, his body blocking me from the cameras.

Am I? I blink, trying to focus on his face that’s inches from mine, those intense eyes searching my features with concern that feels startlingly genuine.

“Yeah, I’m just ready to go home.”