Page 60 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

He ends the call and drops the phone to the table with more force than necessary. His hand immediately goes to squeeze the bridge of his nose as his eyes close, and his chest rises with a deep breath that he holds for a second before releasing.

Concern tightens my chest at watching him. “Who was that?” I ask.

His hand falls away from his face slowly, and his gaze meets mine. His eyes are darker now, frustrated. “Mr. Peltz.”

“Checking up on me?”

“Probably making sure I haven’t left you.”

“Because you’d do that?”

His mouth lifts slightly on one side… barely a movement, just the corner twitching upward. “Don’t tempt me.”

“You can leave, and I’ll cover for you.” And I mean it. I push myself up slightly, ignoring the twinge in my ankle. “You could go fishing. Or… I don’t know, whatever you’d rather be doing. Reading medical journals in your own home, probably.”

He snorts, and the sound is so unexpected, so genuine, that it makes my chest warm. “No chance. You fainted, remember?” His eyes drop to my ankle, then back to my face. “Plus, I’ve never met someone so clumsy before.”

The words should sting, but his tone is almost… fond? Teasing?

“I don’t mean to be.” And I don’t. It’s not like I wake up thinking, today. I’m going to see a raccoon and trip upstairs.

He holds my gaze, something softer flickering in his eyes, a warmth that wasn’t there a moment ago. “I never said you were.”

Suddenly, the air between us feels thicker.

“Then why don’t you go?” I press, wanting to know the real reason he won’t leave. “I’m fine. I can manage for a few hours before bed.”

“I can’t.” His gaze drops to the wood of the table, turning completely ice cold.

“Why?”

“I can’t go against Mr. Peltz’s orders.” The words come out controlled. There’s something underneath them, something he’s not saying.

“Why not?” I lean forward, despite my ankle’s protest. “Zac, what’s going on? Why would Mr. Peltz order you to stay with me? I’m not dying. It’s a broken ankle.”

He removes his glasses, rises from his chair abruptly, and closes his laptop shut with a snap. “I’m heading to the store. Tell me what you need.”

He’s shutting down, building walls so fast I can practically see them going up. His shoulders are rigid again, his lips pressed into a flat line.

I could push… I want to push, but I don’t get the feeling he’ll open up. He’s the type to pull away more when cornered, to retreat behind that professional mask. Instead, giving him space and letting him come to me in his own time seems better. I’ve worked with enough difficult personalities to understand people, to know when to advance and when to wait.

“You don’t need to do a full shop for me,” I say gently, backing off. “Really, I can order—”

“I need a week’s worth,” he cuts me off. “I don’t like going every day.”

A week. A reminder that he’s here every day for weeks. My stomach flips at that thought.

He moves to my kitchen, his tall frame filling the small space. He looks through the drawers, like he’s done this before, like he’s used to being in control, knowing exactly what he needs.

“What are you looking for?”

“Paper and pen.”

I remember seeing it when I toured the place.

“Left drawer. Bottom one.” I point from across the sofa, not that he’s looking at me. His focus is entirely on the task now, shutting me out. And I hate how his doing that. I wish he could trust me and talk to me.

He finds what he’s looking for, then starts scribbling things down as he moves to the fridge, opening it to assess the empty shelves. He shakes his head slightly, and I feel embarrassed, like he’s judging my inability to adult properly.