Page 54 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

I’m injured, not helpless.

His gaze shifts to me, one eyebrow quirked, as if to say, Are you sure about that? “Give me a break,” I say, but I can’t help but laugh, breaking the tension.

“I’ll be a few minutes, and I’ll help you out.”

I don’t bother arguing because, honestly, it’ll be nice to have a guy to help who isn’t tangled up in a camera angle.

I fish my key from my purse and hold it out for him. He takes it and climbs out of the car. I watch him walk up to the front door with his head down. The way he did at the hospital, never once posing for the camera—heck, he didn’t even look at them. All he did was keep his head down or check on me. Not once did he indulge in it. He isn’t helping me for the cameras or the publicity. But I wonder if they’re paying him to do this. Surely, they are. Nobody would agree to this kind of arrangement out of the goodness of their heart.

He comes to my door and offers me a hand, his palm up, waiting. “Are you getting paid for this?”

His gaze meets mine, direct and unflinching. “Yes.”

I nod, swallowing back the weird disappointment that lodges in my throat. Of course he is. This is a job, nothing more.

I hop up on one leg, wobbling slightly, and he grabs the crutch from beside me. “Can you help me? My underarms are still killing me.”

He slides his hand around my waist without hesitation, and I suddenly wonder if this was a good idea. With his body flush against mine, side by side, the solid warmth of him spreads through my thin scrub top. His touch is firm on my waist, possessive almost, as my hand snakes around his back and onto his shoulder, gripping the firm muscle there. The Henley is soft under my palm, and beneath it, I can feel the shift and flex with each small movement. It takes everything I have to focus on hopping to the door.

What was I thinking?

“Can you take me to my bedroom?”

His body stiffens at my request.

“I want to grab a change of clothes before showering. I’ll use my crutches after,” I quickly clarify.

“Okay, I’ll help you. But first, have you had painkillers?” His voice is back to professional.

“No. I didn’t want them on an empty stomach.”

The last time I did, I ended up in hospital. I’d rather not repeat that.

“Understandable.” He nods, approval in the simple gesture.

We enter the bedroom I’ve called mine, and he helps me sit on the unmade bed, his hands careful, almost gentle. He looks around, taking in the space—my clothes draped over the chair, my mug and lines to memorize stacked on the nightstand, the general lived-in chaos of my temporary life. I resist the urge to apologize for it.

“Do you want me to get the clothes out and put them in the bathroom?”

“So you can see my underwear? No thanks,” I joke, but his face tightens, a muscle in his jaw jumping.

“I didn’t... I was offering to help.”

“I’m joking. Jeez, can you not joke?”

He runs a hand down the back of his neck. “I do. I’m just used to it with my friends.”

“You can do it the same with me,” I offer, wanting to ease whatever tension I’ve created.

“You’re nothing like them.” He snorts, but there’s no humor in it. The heated gaze that follows makes flutters swarm low in my belly. The way he looks at me, like I’m something dangerous, makes my breath catch.

I need an icy shower. Now. Not just to clean off, but to cool down this inappropriate heat building between us.

“I’ll shower now, so do whatever you need to do until I get out.” I break eye contact, needing the space, the distance.

“Okay. Call out if you need me.”

I get up, balancing carefully as I find something comfortable to wear, tossing each item on the bed as I go.